It was one of those mornings when nothing went right. The kids were cross. My husband and I had a stupid argument. And by the time the house was silent — just little housewife me — I was on a razor’s edge. The one good thing about the house in that moment was that the kitchen was clean. I rested my hands on the sink and inhaled the cool air coming in through the open window above it. It felt so good on the damp skin just above my open collar.
So good, in fact, that I unbuttoned my shirt the rest of the way down. The rayon print blouse fell from my arms and landed on the floor. Birds chirped outside and I was able to give up the anger and frustration a little. The smell of flowers outside made my head feel a little lighter. There was still a bite in the air. It made its way through my bra, bringing my nipples to stiff attention.
Without even thinking about it, I pulled down the straps and let them and the cups hang free. Breasts that had fed two children, several years ago, still had some bounce to them. The deep rose-colored nipples my husband had loved once upon a time stood out like eraser heads. I cupped the pale mounds with arms crossed, pulling at them between outstretched fingers. This was what I needed to clear my head and set my day on a better path.
I moaned as I paid attention to breasts that hadn’t been touched like this for… Weeks? Months? Nothing much more than a quick squeeze and maybe a lick or two on Saturday nights. The sensation went straight between my legs. I whimpered at the growing dampness. With quick movements, I shoved down my pedal pushers and panties covered in tiny rosettes. My untrimmed, untamed bush was a riot of dark brown, soft, damp curls.
I lay down on the kitchen mat right there in front of the sink and slid my fingers between fleshy, pink lips. I needed to come and it needed to happen now. One hand clutching my breast in near desperation and the other swirling around the button my mother had warned me about, I moaned loudly. I came right there on my kitchen floor, bra around my stomach, panties around my ankles. It wasn’t ideal, but as I lay there, my hands exploring stretch marks and blemishes, I realized nothing in this world was ideal, but you had to take pleasure where you could.
I heard the front door open and close. “Honey, I’m home.” He came into the kitchen and before he could explain that he’d returned home to apologize, he just stood there like the big, dumb, lovable goof he was.
I stood, a smile on my lips, and cast off my few remaining clothes. I stalked across our kitchen floor like a prowling tigress. I grabbed him by his tie and kissed him like I hadn’t since our honeymoon. My mouth devoured his and my fingers started plucking buttons. Soon, I had him mostly naked on our hardwood floor, riding him like I had my stick horse when I was a kid. We would spend the rest of that day in a blissful haze.
I’d like to say our marriage was perfect after that, but as I learned on that strange morning, sometimes a girl has to take care of herself and find joy where she can. That got us through the eventual sexual revolution and everything that followed. I like to think of it as my own mini-coup.