Wasn’t there someone out there who would talk to her, confide in her, support her own quest for an identity? Wasn’t there at least one man, somewhere, who could listen, not just talk, and respect her for her opinions, not just her face and body? Sometimes, Jenny thought, she felt so lonely, so used, and so abused! And so many of her friends who were in relationships said the same thing. Married or single, she thought with increasing ardor, it’s still the same: we’re just maids for hire. No, worse! We’re unpaid maids who double as the cook, cleaning-girl and laundry-wench. Maybe, if we’re lucky, a quick fuck once in a while, but only when he felt like it! ‘Well,’ Jenny thought, as the Dylan tune sprang to mind, ‘the times they are a changing, and so am I.’ As Jenny and her companions ventured timidly into the front hallway, eyeing the richly papered walls and Australian hardwood parquet floors, they looked in vain among the swirl of costumed guests for the host or hostess. Strolling. I heard your voice, “Let’s go to my room, I’m on a higher floor,” followed by what I thought was a female voice, “okay.” I frowned in confusion. Then I heard only the scuffling sounds of fabric. I sat up fully on the bed, stared at the phone. A loud gasp escaped my mouth as I heard you again, a good several minutes later, “Here we are…….God, I’ve forgotten how hot you are.” I brought my fist up to my mouth and bit down on it; my heart was pounding hard. My chest constricted, then I started breathing again, hard. I heard her murmuring. I realized you were kissing. I had not previously ever conceived so vividly the stripping, peeling away, tearing off, and strewing of clothes as I listened to the rustling sounds of fabric, crash of belt buckle, parting of the teeth down the zipper, the fall of shoes, and the clink of your cufflinks. I was shaking all over and I hugged myself to steady the tremors that ripped through my body and heart. My arms pressed against my nipples, which beaded.
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