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In which a routine marriage is revived by the vagrancies of the weather and the attentions of a good neighbor.

That fateful Sunday started off with the same old routine. We’d been married for just three years, Michelle and I, but that was enough for us to settle into that comfortable routine. Work was routine, play was routine, life was routine. Worst of all our sex life was routine. So, following the old Sunday morning routine, I pecked my wife’s cheek and drove off to the golf course.

This Sunday, however, did not live up to its namesake. That worthy was hiding behind a mass of low lying clouds. Nothing to stop an afternoon of golfing fun, however. But after an hour of whacking a ball around the fairways those clouds had turned ominous and soon the heavens opened up. The more sensible among us broke for the shelter of the clubhouse while a few diehards squinted into the storm, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge its presence.

The rain wouldn’t go away. It didn’t look like it was ever going away. It just, continued to fall hard, determined no doubt to drown the world and all its creatures. So I cursed Nature and the rotten luck she had dumped on me and decided to go home. Not too long after that momentous decision I found myself pulling into our driveway. A lot earlier than I had planned to. All I had to look forward to was the rest of the day, spent with my loving but routine wife.

Cursing the weather one more time I let myself in the front door. And heard voices. Oh great, I thought, visitors. The day was just getting better and better. What next? An atom bomb? Worse! It was, Jeff, one half of the sweet as apple pie couple that lived next door. Five minutes with those two would guarantee a place in heaven and a mouthful of cavities. Even routine ol’ Michelle would be in dire need of rescuing by now, I thought.

But better her than me. Grinning to myself I half-turned on my way back out. That’s when she giggled. I froze in my tracks. It was the same giggle I’d heard all those years ago. The nervous half-laugh that she laughed the first time I seduced her. Cautiously and silently (thanks to the sound of the falling rain) I shut the door, removed my shoes and padded over to the dining room door.

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I was in the window seat of a Piedmont 737, taxiing out at Washington National that morning. My destination was New Orleans with a change of planes in Atlanta. As we passed the transient ramp in front of Butler Aviation, I saw my old airplane. It had been repainted, but bore the same numbers along each side of the fuselage. The sight of it brought back a memory from the 1960s that marked the highlight of my brief career in commercial aviation.

Officially, the airplane’s registration number — and radio call sign — was N-5558B. But to my two partners and me — and to the tower crew at her home airport in Opa Locka, Florida — Beech Travelair N-5558B was “Triple Nickel 8-Ball.” She was a outside business venture of three lawyers — my two partners and me — who shared a criminal-law practice in Miami, and a love of flying. Sherlock — the name my father, an Arthur Conan Doyle fan, gave me — earned the law firm some early publicity, and we were doing well enough to afford to buy Triple Nickel 8-Ball. Our aviation business involved flying bags of bank checks from Miami International Airport to Atlanta Hartsfield Airport where they were taken by van to the Federal Reserve Depository for processing. The income was predictable; but the flying wasn’t — particularly in the summer when the Florida thunderstorms topped out at about 40,000 feet.

What we admitted, to everyone but the I.R.S., was that our money-losing business was just an excuse to fly and hang around the airport’s Fixed Base Operation trading lies with the other pilots and would-be pilots that inhabited the pilots’ lounge.

There was a flying school there — a collection of Cessna 150’s, young instructors with their eyes set on the airlines, and students from the local area. Late afternoon usually found a fair sprinkling of women in the pilots’ lounge; some of them students, but mostly the girl-friends of the students and instructors. They all knew about our operation, and with suitable hints, could wrangle a ride in Triple-Nickel-8-Ball on our Miami-Atlanta-Miami trip when we wanted the company.

A few weeks before, the female “regulars” in the lounge had jokingly announced formation of a local chapter of the “mile-high” club — and that subject had replaced discussion of instrument-approaches and engine overhaul prices. As I understood it, the rules were simple: sex above 5280 feet, unaided by co- (or auto) pilot. The novelty of the topic wore off after a while; but one day a female student showed up with a small pendant hanging from her neck on a gold chain: a set of small gold wings with a cloisonne’ panel in the center, bearing the numbers “5280.” A second, and then third, pendant soon appeared on other necks. Although none of us had the nerve to ask, it appeared that the mile-high club was more than talk.

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When I walked into the bar, I didn’t notice her at first. I sat in a booth in a dark corner and ordered a drink from the waitress.

The waitress returned with my drink, and when I went to pay her for it, she said it had already been taken care of by the blonde at the end of the bar. I looked, and there was Sandy, sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. God, she was gorgeous! Wearing a white blouse, short black skirt, and black fishnet stockings, she sat with her legs crossed, and I could see far up her skirt. She was, without a doubt, the best looking woman in the place.

Sandy smiled at me, and, as she walked over to my table, I couldn’t help but notice her nipples, erect against the soft white silk of her low cut blouse, and the slow swaying of her breasts. She stood in front of me and asked if she could sit with me. “Sure”, I said, and she slid into the booth with me.

She told me that she was a receptionist in the hotel, and that she had just gotten off work a few minutes before. She said I looked like the kind of man she’d like to spend some time with, as she traced patterns on the inside of my thigh with her long nails. As she stroked my leg, her firm, warm breast pressed against my arm with urgency.

Sandy looked me in the eyes, and said she had a room upstairs and she’d like to take me there. She stood, took me by the hand, and led me out of the bar to the elevator. Arm in arm, the warmth of her body and the scent of her perfume were really getting to me! My cock was straining against the front of my pants, my balls tight and full.

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My throat was dry as I approached the door to the clinic. I wondered what it would be like, would it be cold and clinical or warm and sensual, would there be a lot of people around, would I be alone, what would it be like.

I opened the door, and stepped inside, I was in a reception area that was empty except for a receptionist. I hesitated a moment and then she looked up from her work and asked me if she could help me. I told her my name and she looked in a book and said that the doctor would be with me shortly and would I please have a seat. I sat down and picked up a magazine and leafed aimlessly through it, my mine racing on what lay ahead, I could hear soft music playing over the speakers, and the air was heavy with the usual scent of a doctors office. As my mind wondered I was startled to hear my name being called… I looked up and a young lady in the white uniform of a nurse was holding the door open and asking me to follow her. I stood, took a deep breath and followed her down a hall, walking past several examination rooms, finally she stopped, told me to go in,and sit on the table. She took my blood pressure, asked me a few questions about my past [tag]medical[/tag] history, then said the doctor would be in shortly.

I sat there for what seemed like the longest time, when finally I heard a soft knock at the door, the door opened and in stepped a young man, in his early thirties. He introduced himself as Dr. Snyder, we exchanged a few pleasantries and then he asked me what I knew about the research they were doing, I said not much, just that the ad had alluded to research into feminine sexuality. He said that was correct insofar as it went. He said more specifically they were doing research into various methods of women achieving orgasm, and measuring the speed, intensity, and subjective feelings the woman was experiencing during the buildup to [tag]orgasm[/tag] and during the actual orgasm. He went onto explain that the various methods they would be comparing were [tag]masturbation[/tag] by the subject, masturbation using a vibrator, induced by the doctor using clitoral massage, plus a new method they were testing called [tag]electro-stimulation[/tag]. He must have seen my reaction when he mentioned electro-stimulation, because he said, ” I can see you have a question about electro-stimulation.” I said yes, and that I had never heard of it before. He said it held great promise in their studies so far it appeared to be a very pleasant and efficient way to induce an orgasm. He told me that if I decided to proceed, he would explain it in greater detail to me at that time.

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“What’s wrong?” she asked.

She had caught me in a private pity party. I was staring out of my apartment window, looking at the playground across the street. I was looking at the kids playing on the equipment, and I had singled out two boys in particular. One was around eight years old, the other was around four. The exact ages of my sons.

“Nothing you can really help with,” I said, “just missing my boys, is all.” I turned away from the window. Missing my boys. Missing my family. Missing my income. I shook my head. This was the chain of images that tempted me to consider the Solution of Messrs Smith and Wesson in the past. In that moment I was truly grateful my lady was with me.

“I know you miss them,” she said quietly. “I’ve met them, remember? They’re great kids. I miss them, too.” What a pair we were: she could not have children for medical reasons, and because of my divorce I could literally not afford to have any more. And we both liked my kids. Hell, we both liked kids, period.

“You love them, you send them cards, you buy them presents at Christmas and on their birthdays. And you spend as much time with them as you can when you do see them. What can you do if she won’t let them come? You know she always pulls this when you two fight about money.” She tilted her head and thought for a moment. Then she said, quietly, “Why don’t you tell me what really bothers you about the situation?”

I thought for a minute. “It comes down to this: I’ve lost everything I’ve ever had. I’ve lost my house, I’ve lost my kids, I’ve lost half my income, I’ve lost my credit rating, and I’ve lost my self respect.” I thought for another few seconds, “By the time I’m finished paying child support, I’ll be five years away from retirement. I won’t be able to retire, not when I have to hand my ex-wife half my paycheck for the next umpteen years!” I felt robbed. It had been two years since the divorce, and still I could not let the anger go. I was a senior engineer, and my take home pay was the same as a starting teacher. And it was not going to get better for a very long time, if ever.

“So,” she continued quietly, “the divorce robbed you of everything?” She touched my hand, took it in hers, and squeezed it.

I shook my head and smiled. “It did give me a few things, I’ll have to admit.” I chuckled. “Like a few grey hairs…”

She ran her other hand lightly up my other arm, and across my chest. “Anything else?” she said, her eyes sparkling.

“If you’re trying to use sex to get me into a jolly mood,” I said, “you are very close to succeeding.”

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