Life was, thankfully, quite uneventful in the following weeks. As I’m saying this, I’m thinking of that alleged Chinese curse, “may you live in interesting times”. Ulrike and I had resumed our sexual play, and we were enjoying ourselves.

Despite Ulrike’s role as initiatrice, I made an interesting innovation. One evening, we were playing under covers. She was on her stomach and I was caressing her back, kissing and rubbing my face on her slightly plumpy derrière. Her legs were parted, perhaps as an invitation. My hand went to her vulva and I inserted my thumb into her vagina, with my other fingers on her vulva and clitoris. I started rubbing and then pressed frankly towards her navel; I knew she had a sensitive spot there. I however did not expect her to climax on the spot, after less than 10 seconds of stimulation. Ulrike was actually disappointed to climax so soon, without having enjoyed more build-up and stimulation. I later learned about premature ejaculation in males, and maybe this is similar: pleasure stops too soon.

This was the occasion for Ulrike to teach me that the place I had pressed upon (and which she had taught me to press upon in previous occasions) was called the Gräfenberg spot. Hilde, a nurse active in family planning, liked to study the physiological basis of sexuality, and she had passed her knowledge to her lover. However, none of Ulrike’s former partners had pressed on that spot with the thumb in this position. She thanked me for the experience but invited me, when I would try it again, to be more progressive.

I was on my period when I left for the weekend at my parents’. When I came back, I felt very much in need of Ulrike. I was in bed with her, panties and thick pad. Desire trumped embarrassment and I led her fingers to my clitoris under my panties. She began feeling me. Was I losing my mind? I eventually pushed her fingers downwards, toward my bloody vagina, which had eased from the almost daily fingering that Ulrike practiced on it. Her finger penetrated me, and she brought me to climax. She then pulled up my pad and panties, and went to the bathroom to wash her hands. To my utter shame, some blood had gone on the sheets. “Next time we’ll put a towel under you.” I was amazed that I had done something that, a few months before, I would have considered dirty, disgusting, shameful and even perverted, and that she had taken it so matter-of-factly.

When it came to her period, Ulrike was wearing a tampon, which enabled clean external play. This time, however, she asked if I wanted her to remove it. Why not. She had obviously planned for it, for she had a little wrapper to dispose of the used tampon. She invited me to wet my finger with saliva before inserting it, for she would be a bit dry. Instead of sucking on it myself, as I think she expected, I had her suck on it. I then penetrated her and started my usual routine of fingering the clitoris and probing her spot. She eventually climaxed. After composing herself, she inserted a new tampon. We went together to wash our hands.

With all this talk about climaxing, you may think, dear reader, that each of our sexual romps ended in orgasm for the both of us. This would be boisting. We had our days where tiredness or worries precluded that goal. Yet, even then, I found sexual play to be very enjoyable. Ah, the pleasures of a warm behind to kiss, an engorged clitoris to tease…

My studies were going well, as well as my side business as a baby-sitter. More families requested my services, which was a good thing since the Kreckels stopped for a few weeks: Peter, the older boy (6 years old) was to undergo a little surgery (“no nothing grave at all”, she answered my worried look) and her mom wanted to deal with him herself. A good thing about this business, from my point of view at least, was that it, along with the price of the train, was good argument for not visiting my parents every week-end. So I sat the Zimmers’ kids one Friday evening.

The accidental discovery of Frau Merkel’s diaphragm had roused my curiosity of the sexual and intimate practices of the people around me. I had gotten into the practice of inspecting storage spaces in bathrooms or “water closets”, as long as I had some plausible valid reason for doing so. For instance, I was looking for children’s shampoo, for mouthwash because the kid complained of soreness in the mouth, etc.

At the Zweiligers’, I discovered a strange bulb with a thick, slightly curved nozzle with little holes. At first, I thought it was another device to give enemas; but the nozzle felt too thick for that. I then realized it must be for the other place, at least for non virgins. I noticed a faint smell of vinegar, and then that there was a bottle of vinegar close by. So that was for cleaning the vagina with some vinegar solution. Why, I wondered. Perhaps for cleaning out semen after marital activities? Perhaps to clean out menstrual blood before those activities? I did not however dare ask Ulrike about it; discovering one unusual item by accident in a bathroom was one thing, discovering a second one would have betrayed my indiscretion.

The Bauers paid me handsomely to sit for their two kids as they were leaving for the week-end for an emergency. I had been strongly recommended by Ulrike, who was considered in the neighbourhood as a woman of the strongest propriety. Furthermore, word-of-mouth by other parents was that I was caring but did not let children get away with nonsense. The Bauers had three children. The oldest could take care of herself, but the two others needed attention. Frau Bauer had told me to make sure that the middle one, Andrea, had regular bowel movements, for she tended to “withhold”, and that if I had doubt that she had one on Saturday I was to give her a glycerin suppository in the evening and make sure she “went”. Thus, in the evening, I asked Andrea if she had been poo-poo during the day. She made a face,and answered that she had “been” in the morning. Maybe I was a bit unconvinced, due to her tone… or maybe I wanted to play her a little harmless trick. I answered “it’s twice a day, I’m going to give you a suppository as your mother instructed”. Andrea’s face grew longer, and I could see her ponder whether to oppose me or to accept her fate. She decided on the second. Frau Bauer had told me where the suppositories were, and I had the amusing surprise to find not only children’s suppositories there, but also adults’. Were the adult ones for the older daughter? For Frau Bauer? For Herr Bauer? But I had other fish to fry. I sat on Andrea’s bed and invited her to undo her skirt and panties, which she did reluctantly. Then I had her lay across my lap for the introduction of the medicine, and then she was able to rise again and pull her panties up. Frau Bauer had recommended me, if I used this treatment, to have the child wait for at least fifteen minutes before going to the toilet, and so I did, while I attended to washing her little brother. I recalled that when I was a child, my mother had at times asked to see my “output”, so to speak, if I had bowel trouble, and so I instructed Andrea not to flush after going. Well, it seemed that despite her assurance that she did not need to go to the toilet, Andrea did need it…

The Kreckels again had me sit for their two boys, on two successive weeks. The first time, when bathing Hans and watching Peter wash, I thought something was amiss, but could not point out what. The second time, it became obvious to me. Peter’s penis used to have the appearance of some sausage with skin wrapped tight around it. Well, the same was true of the penises of the other boys I have bathed, but his skin really closed on the tip tightly. Well, that skin was now gone, and in its place one saw his pink glans (I had looked up schemata on male anatomy). I had assumed the “little surgery” was tonsillectomy or something similar, but I had been mistaken. Peter saw me staring at his piddler and blushed with embarrassment. I hastily handed him a dry towel. I was puzzled. Why did the Kreckels had their boy undergo such surgery? I had heard about it only in the context of religion, but the Kreckels were Christians, not Jews (nor, God forbid, Muslims, which my family considered to be cruel savages; not that she considered Jews much better, but since the War, antisemitic discourse had to be toned down). When Frau Kreckler came back, I ponder broaching the subject. Matter-of-factly, I asked her

“By the way, last week, I forgot to ask if Peter’s surgery had been ok.

— Oh indeed no issues. Did he talk about it?

— No it’s just that, well, you know, while I made sure he washed…

— Oh indeed. Well, don’t you think it is so much cleaner and easy to wash now? Poor Peter could not retract his skin. He probably would have got terrible infections later on. Maybe we should have Hans done as well.”

Knowing Frau Kreckel’s obsession of cleanliness, I could see how these surgeries made sense to her. I nodded in agreement (not that I had a particular opinion on the matter, but it’s good commercial practice to agree with one’s regular clients).