That spring I was 37, married, in a rut and feeling urges to do crazy stuff like when I’d been a young hellcat.

My husband, Harry, was a decent man, but our sex life was a pale imitation of what it once had been. I was halfway expecting him to start his own midlife crisis — maybe buy a flashy sports car or have an affair with a college girl. I don’t think I would have minded either of those things, not with how I was feeling.

Harry was away for a weekend seminar. We’d had a halfhearted fuck the night before he’d left. Then I was alone in our empty house, with Saturday night creeping in. Fifteen years ago that would have meant going out and having a wild time.

I stood in front of our bathroom’s full-length mirror and stripped. I gave my nearly middle-aged body a thorough... Read More