“Sex at twenty-two was idyllic. Sex at twenty-two wasn’t college sex at eighteen which carried with it a freight of insecurities, nerve endings, and shame. Sex at twenty-two wasn’t self-sex at twelve, which was just about being quiet and discreet in your narrow bed and thinking how strange it was that you could feel this way just by doing this. Sex at twenty-two wasn’t, either, sex at fifty-two, which, when it took place all those decades later in the middle of the Jacobson-Boyd’s lengthy marriage, could be a sudden, pleasing surprise that awakened one of them from sleep.
But sex at twenty-two, well, that was really something, Jules thought, and Dennis apparently thought so too. Both of their bodies were still perfect, or perfect enough; they would come to see this later on, though they couldn’t see it at the time. Self-conscious, dying with embarrassment, but so excited, they stripped to their skin for each other for the first time standing beside the loft bed in his apartment that day.”
Meg Wolitzer, The Interestings, p. 72