How does a forty-nine-year-old, good-looking woman end up in bed on a Saturday night alone masturbating?

Divorce.

Pam Street still lived in the four-bedroom home where she’d resided for the last twenty years, attended the same church, worked out in the same athletic club and shopped in the same stores. After the divorce, her circle of girlfriends shrank, dramatically. She no longer received invitations to parties or other group events. Maybe they thought I was looking for some able-bodied man to bed. They feared that it could be their man.

Since her divorce two years ago from John Street, Pam had had sex three times with two different men. All three times were less satisfying than her nights alone in bed after a long, hot bath, two glasses of wine, and a slow jazz CD playing in the background.

Sex had been a healthy part of her life since her eighteenth birthday. For a woman approaching fifty, she was still attractive. Her breasts did sag a little. It wasn’t because of age; the causes were their size, 34C, and giving birth twenty-four years ago. She stood five-six; her waist measured thirty inches. Her black hair just brushed her shoulders. She had achieved firm muscles which framed her body by going to the gym and playing tennis four days a week, religiously, since her divorce.
Pam possessed two different outfits for her private sessions. If she felt the desire just before bedtime, she dressed in her white silk slip. Her instrument of choice was her small, white pocket rocket. She liked the feeling of silk when it rubbed against her hardened nipples, creating small, static shocks. The hum of the battery-operated toy relaxed her to sleep.

If the desire had simmered most of the day and her sexual tension was high, her uniform consisted of her black silk nightie, black garter belt, and black stockings. On a black night, she pulled out the big boy, the black electrical wand massager with the rotating head. The whining of the electric vibrator and the background music transported her to a state of ecstasy as her body throbbed with sexual pleasure.

Her black outfit had been a part of her sexual fantasies since college. She’d never worn it with a man, not even her husband. The feel of her body in the nylon and silk excited her, stimulating the body hairs that they snagged. She couldn’t explain it, and feared trying to explain it to a partner. There were things you kept to yourself for your alone times.

She wasn’t an inserter, just a dipper. She began her journeys with lubricated fingers, but they weren’t enough to push her over the crest. As her body tensed, she pulled out the vibrator. Just before the explosion, she dipped the tip into the opening and pushed slightly upward against her P-spot—Pam’s special spot. The amount of pressure depended on her level of arousal. Being alone in her bedroom allowed her moans and screams to go unrestrained. And she screamed as the waves of passion flowed through her body.