I can't remember the last time I woke up with such a raging hardon. Amanda would have been so pleased, especially after I had told her that it was from dreaming about her. Unfortunately I couldn't tell her because of that idiot who thought STOP meant 'squeal tires on pavement.' Seven witnesses saw him roar through the stop sign, and he had the nerve to claim that she didn't know how to drive. My only consolation was that he got ten years without possibility of parole.
Amanda and I were married for thirty years, and together for two more before we were wed. Those thirty-two years were filled with bliss, children, grandchildren, passion, and, yes, sex. We were no different from today's crop of twenty-somethings; we, too, thought that people died below the waist at thirty. Hell, that's when we shifted into high gear. While the kids were in school, we fucked ourselves silly almost every day. We got involved in swinging. Once we swapped with five couples in one afternoon. Two or three times a month, we split up. She would go pick up guys in a bar while I went to a massage parlor or a whore house. Every madam in town knew me.
All this probably makes you wonder how we had time for all that fucking. We invested heavily in rental housing -- single family homes, townhouses, condos, duplexes. A property manager ran them for us. I quit my engineering job on my thirtieth birthday. People who wanted to sell us a property often bought me a prostitute to influence the deal. Once a realtor bought Amanda a gigolo; it was the only time sex actually was a factor in getting us to buy. When that punk ran her down, we had a hundred thirty-two rental units. Yes, life was good to us.
Initially I was in so much shock that I wanted nothing to do with sex. The couples we had been involved with in swinging with visited me constantly, always offering me the wife so I could get off. They meant well, and I genuinely appreciated the offers, but I couldn't do it. Half the pleasure we had gotten from swapping came from watching each other with different partners. Swinging was something we did as a couple. After a few weeks, our old friends got the message and backed off.
About a year and a half after Amanda's death, I was driving down 14th Street on my way home after closing on yet another property. I was stopped for a red light when someone tapped on my window. It was a very attractive young woman, probably in her mid-twenties. Her breasts were barely covered by her thin blouse which did not hide the fact that she was braless. Her skirt looked more like a wide belt. I opened the window expecting her to ask for directions to someplace. "Hi, Honey," she said in a high rasping voice while chewing on a hunk of gum. "Looking for a date?"
It took a moment for me to realize that she was a streetwalker. "I really hadn't thought about it," I said.
"We could have a good time together," she said chomping on her gum. "This is a pretty fancy car. I don't think I've ever ridden in one before, or been ridden in one, if you catch my drift."
I had never been with a street whore before; I had never even considered it. This girl reminded me of all the others I had driven past over the years. She had a great body. Her breasts were probably D-cup size and firm. They didn't sag or rest on her ribs like many large ones did. A waspish waist and gently flaring hips complemented her boobs. Her makeup was unnecessarily heavy. She smiled as she spoke, but there was sadness in her eyes. I was about to turn her away, but her weary eyes tugged at my heart and reminded me of my own sorrow. "Hop in," I said. "I'll give you a spin around the block." She ran around to the passenger side while I pressed the button to unlock the door.
"You aren't a cop, are you?" she asked as she buckled the seat belt.
"No, no, just a lonely widower."
"A widower?"
"My wife was killed in a car accident."
"Oh, that's terrible. I'm so sorry about your loss. You must miss her a lot."
"Yes, I do. I suppose we should discuss business."
"How does a hundred sound? And, no, I don't take credit cards. I'm sick of that fuckin' joke."
"What do I get for my money?"
"You get to fuck me. Anything else is extra."
"Okay. Do you have a place to go to?"
"There's a crib a couple blocks up the street for twenty bucks, or we can use the back seat in an alley."
