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It’s not that I plan these activities; it’s that I get horny at the most inconvenient times, and have had to learn ways to relieve myself. I’ve devised a regular routine for the beach, where the sun and sand and salty waves invariably start my own inner salt sizzling. I simply gather the sand into a large mound beneath my blanket, lie on my belly with a book in front of me, reading. Meanwhile, my pelvis grinds against my hidden sand castle with minimal movements, and I come within minutes. People saunter by, and to my knowledge no one has ever noticed—but there’s always the added excitement that they might.

In movie theaters, I play a young woman variation on the “dirty-old-man-in-the-raincoat” routine by placing a coat or sweater over my lap, under which my hands are busy. Not in porno houses, either, (gross) but at movies rated PG through R, where families and couples flock for an evening’s wholesome entertainment. My favorite theater has a balcony, where I can stretch out my legs on the ledge in front of me and arch my back so my pelvis grinds against my fist. It helps when the movie has some steamy scenes, but it’s not altogether necessary; the idea that a man across the aisle might be watching me out of the corner of his eye is enough to move my orgasm along. (Naturally, I’ve trained myself to stifle any moans.)

Perhaps the most unusual and exciting backdrop for my secret “perversion” was a huge sculpture garden, a weekend tourist attraction where I was employed as assistant director. Since I was often completely alone during the week, I was free to wander around the magnificent grounds with, quite literally, the birds and the bees as my only company. On hot days I’d go skinny dipping in the fresh water pool, then dry off by lying on one of the stone terraces.

In the center of the garden was a huge monolith, a phallic-shaped slab of gleaming bluestone that fairly screamed for female worship. When I lay down within its shadow, I could practically feel the thing throb and pulse. I longed to climb up and impale myself on the biggest, hardest cock I’d ever seen. Much as I tried to control myself—after all, anyone could have driven up to the gates at any time—I always found my legs opening while I gazed up at the monstrous erection. Eventually my fingers found their way down south.

Sometimes I’d turn onto my belly and hump the stones from a position of abject worship, while cupping my breasts as an offering to the phallic symbol. I imagined drumbeats in the distance, and naked brown bodies dancing across the terraces.

I was never caught in the act, but I guess I always hoped that some young Adonis might wander onto the property, be seized with the same sense of awestruck lust, and screw me madly upon the hot shiny stones. Instead, for company, I had the birds as they chirped noisily, singing my praises as I came, like an ancient goddess performing a fertility rite.

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