When I decide to do something, I do it quickly and efficiently. I arranged visas, booked my ticket, and organized my private life to leave Holland.

There was only one last thing to do before boarding the plane. I had to say good-bye to my lovely Helga, who was now eight and one half months’ pregnant.

When I went to see her for the last time, she was standing there in a nightie, and nothing was more exciting to me than to see that big belly sticking out, and those beautiful breasts.

“Helga,” I said, “please let me touch your belly and suck your nipples, because they are so beautiful.”

She hesitated at first, now not because of modesty but because her husband, whom I could not stand, might walk in. He didn’t care much for me, and the feeling was mutual. Maybe it was jealousy, but I found him a real bore.

His name was De Boer, which means farmer, and it suited him perfectly. He had already gone into her mail and found the love letters I sent her from all over Europe. Looking back, I guess she thought I was simply foolish, because she never even replied. However, on this last visit she agreed to let me have my wish and touch her, and she lifted up her nightie.

I gently lowered my mouth around the nipples, and a trace of milk escaped, and the loving feeling was still there, except this time I didn’t feel I wanted to screw her. I felt an entirely pure kind of love.

I couldn’t believe that after five years I was finally sucking and caressing those divine breasts and Helga was letting me. In all the experience and sex I have had in the intervening time, this is still the most precious moment I can remember.

I think I was just about to tell her how I loved her when a red-faced and furious De Boer stormed in and ordered me out of his house.

“If I ever catch her here again, I’ll throw you both out,” he screamed at his wife.

A few days later my family and friends bade me a tearful farewell on my flight to South Africa, and everyone was crying, including me.

“Come back to us,” my mother said through her tears, but even then I knew I never would.

The only thing that tied me to Holland besides my parents, believe it or not, was Helga, and that was an impossible dream.

The flight from Amsterdam to Johannesburg promised to be very long but not necessarily dull. I was seated alongside an attractive Italian businessman with a divine sense of humor and a cultured manner. During dinner, served immediately after takeoff, we enjoyed a spirited conversation, discovering we shared a mutual interest in classical music, among other things.

He was such a charming person that, by the time the stewardess removed our trays, I already wanted to go down on him. A lot of acrobatic skill was required to accomplish this feat without being observed. The way we finally did it was to cover me to the tip of my head with a light blanket while I pretended to be getting my vanity bag from under his window seat. Doing it got us so turned on that we wanted to make love all the way. But first, we had to be patient until the girls handed out blankets and pillows, dimmed the cabin lights, and everyone was settled down.

As soon as the coast was clear we removed the arm-rests from the seats, squeezed down together under the blanket, he facing my back spoon-fashion, and proceeded to make love. We had to be very quiet, and, we soon discovered, very careful, because a couple of times he became overamorous and I almost fell down between the seats.

We made a game of doing it between the stewardesses walking up the aisle to answer call lights and the passengers walking sleepily to the lavatory. The challenge of making love 30,000 feet in the air made it even more exciting.

It was rather like herrings in a can, to tell you the truth, and very uncomfortable, but, even so, by the time we flew into daybreak we had managed to make love three times. As breakfast was served, we got up, stiff and sticky, and finally stretched our cramped legs.

The rest of the trip I spent sprucing up to meet my stepsister and her husband, Jan, whom I had seen only once before, and that was when Mona had traced my father down in Amsterdam while she was there from South Africa on her honeymoon.

Like me, Mona was born in Indonesia, but her mother, formerly a beautiful Russian ballerina, took her away from there after the divorce, and she and my father completely lost much.

At the time I met them I remember thinking what a lovely person she was and how handsome was her husband. Even as a fourteen-year-old virgin I had the tingling desire to make love to him someday. Jan was a mining engineer of French Huguenot descent, tall, well built, with dark curly hair. He was a true Afrikaner, stubbornly assertive and proud of his masculinity.

Both of them were at Johannesburg airport to meet me, and it was a happy reunion with lots of hugging, kissing, and laughing. Mona was just as dear as I remembered, and Jan was even more handsome.

Also there to meet me was a girl named Deenie, whom I had never met before but had corresponded with through a lesbian friend in Amsterdam. She recognized me from a photo I had sent, and she walked straight over and introduced herself to me and my relatives.

Deenie worked for KLM, the Dutch airline, and we exchanged telephone numbers, agreed to meet when I was settled in, and Mona, Jan, and I set out for my new home.

After a half-hour drive we arrived at a magnificent two-story white house in an exclusive outer suburb of Johannesburg. The building was set in sprawling lawns which made a vast playground for my niece, eight, and two nephews, seven and six, and two huge dogs, a Great Dane and a German shepherd.

To one side was a luxurious swimming pool, the other a three-car garage, and in back was a chicken farm, Mona’s pet project, which she ran with the aid of some of their servants.

Life was easy in the gorgeous South African sunshine, and the family treated me like royalty. I was not allowed to lift a finger around the house, and the days were spent lazing by the pool, working on my suntan.

But the nights were often empty. There is no television in South Africa because of what people say is a deliberate government policy to contain apartheid, so if they didn’t invite a neighbor couple over for dinner, there was little else to do. During the first couple of weeks I would sit in the living room, listening to classical records, being baby-sitter, while my sister and her husband attended some formal dinner or other function. The eerie silence would be punctuated only by the shrill chirp of crickets or an occasional bird, and the only stirring would be when the wind caught the diaphanous curtains.

At these times, the realization I was the only adult in this big lonely house would make me feel melancholy and homesick, and to kill time I wrote long, long letters to my family and friends.

I was also acutely feeling the absence of a strong male body to caress me and, to put it bluntly, satisfy my sexual cravings. In Amsterdam I was used to regular sex at least once a week and twice on weekends, with my steady boyfriend and all of a sudden I was deprived.

The urge to have a lover was really getting to me – forget about masturbation, since that was something I rarely ever did – but there didn’t seem to be any unattached males around except for the servants, whom I wouldn’t consider quite apart from the fact there is a penalty of nine months’ imprisonment in South Africa for crossing that kind of a color line.

Now, this is bizarre, and I know it’s bizarre, but it did happen, and I’d be a moral fraud to completely ignore it.

One day as I was lying by the pool thinking I would go ape out of horniness. I became aware of the big German shepherd lying restless by my side. This dog had embarrassed me the first five days after my arrival by following me everywhere and sniffing at my legs. He apparently had a nose for sex so at this point, where I could no longer be choosy, I decided that – bizarre or not – my first South African lover would have to be him.