At 18, I was the frustrated second-string catcher on my high school baseball team, sitting in the dugout, getting little playing time, feeling underrated.

Coach had a young wife I’ll call Cynthia. The first things I noticed about her were her bronze tan and her dark rock-’n’-roll-styled hair. I was infatuated, but I didn’t dream that she would be the one who gave me my pussy baptism, as my pals and I called it back in the day when we were fumbling in the dark in search of elusive manhood.

Cynthia often accompanied Coach to games. She sat in the stands in either a light summer dress or shorts and a sleeveless blouse. She became the object of dirty jokes by all of us. Our preoccupation with the female anatomy had us all boasting of what we would do with her if we ever got the chance.