“Not in graphic detail. I am her mother,” my mother said. “The sixties were an uncontrolled, changing, revolutionary time.”

“And amidst all that,” Aunt Camellia said, “we had to dance. We had to celebrate. And we had to get angry at what was going on.” She raised her fist and shook it.

“We had to sing,” my mother said. “And find ourselves. Find ourselves within a society that had repressed women. We had to find our place and our role and what we wanted, not what we were told to want.”

“We had to grow and learn and change and think,” Aunt Iris said. “We had to break barriers. We had to deal with men who wanted to keep us down, to keep us in traditional roles that would smother us, keep us from becoming who we wanted to become.”

“I never knew this,” I said, as they chatted on about Vietnam. Marches they participated in. Civil rights. Social issues.

“We learned about our sexuality during that time,” Aunt Iris said. “We finally talked about that taboo subject. Who controlled our bodies? Us, or a man who had control over us? We learned we weren’t bad girls for liking sex. So many of us had been raised in a puritanical era that said if you had sex before marriage you were a slut. It was very damaging, misogynistic, and cruel.”

“It led to women feeling horrible about themselves,” Aunt Camellia said. “Me included, when I was younger.”

“So I shed my fear of sex,” Aunt Iris said. “And I walked away from the ‘good girl rules’ of sex, which were written by patronizing, paternalistic men who lived by a double standard. Being a ‘good girl’ was so dreary, so dull. By the way, I’m not going to tell you which band leader I slept with during a three-day concert even if you beg.”

“Who was it? I’ll beg!” I said. “Totally willing to beg.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because I’m curious. I shouldn’t be. But I am. I want to know.”

She raised her eyebrows at me, then she tilted her head and looked proud of herself. She told me whom she’d slept with.

“You’re kidding.” I leaned forward. He was famous.

“No. I did. It was fun. He wanted to see me again.”

“Did you?”

“No. Because the next night there was another band, and I slept with another man in that band.”

“Who?” My gosh. What was going on here?

“Why should I tell you?” Aunt Iris asked, one eyebrow lifting.

“Same reason. I’m curious.”

She told me.

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Why do you keep asking me if I’m kidding? Do you think I’m lying, young woman?” She tsked. Then she grinned, then tried not to grin, then grinned again.

“Romantic memories,” Aunt Camellia gushed.

“I think it was lustful memories,” my mother said.

“Romance. Lust. Whatever.” Aunt Iris moved a hand back and forth. “I’m glad I have them.”

“Those memories are delicious,” Aunt Camellia said. “I still get a kick out of my love affairs here and there.”