(If this story ends up in the Romance category, it would be a guy's concept of romance, so ladies, just bare with me here - I'm doing the best I can.)
*
I hate Christmas. Is that so wrong? I hate the stupid music, and the greedy children, and the traffic jams that begin on Black Friday and extend through New Years. And Christmas trees? What is that all about? Down here in the desert, if you put up a Christmas tree, five days later it's a bone-dry skeleton surrounded by a pile of brown needles.
For a guy who hates the holidays, getting roped into helping a new neighbor with her Christmas tree is not a good way to strike up a friendship.
"Hi," she said, flashing me a smile that would have even melted Scrooge's heart. "I just moved in next door, and I was wondering if I could borrow a saw so I can cut the end off my Christmas tree? Also, if you have a drill? Henry always used to drill a couple of holes in the bottom of the tree so it could suck up the water from the basin at the bottom of the tree-holder."
"Well, why not have Henry do it?" I asked, in a futile attempt to blow her off. I had already guessed why Henry wouldn't be doing it - a middle-aged women moves into the duplex next door, she's got a teenager with her, but no dad? Obviously, she drove her husband away by being a helpless and clingy ditz, and by gaining twenty pounds since their wedding day. (Just a wild guess.)
"Henry ran off with a younger woman," she said, looking away. That's when it hit me: I'm a judgmental asshole. I hate Christmas. I hate kids. I hate middle-aged women who don't stay in shape. Do I have a purpose in life, other than to ridicule others? Apparently not.
"All men are idiots," I said, hoping to redeem myself. In that instant, I noticed she had a really pretty mouth, with soft pillowy lips that would feel nice in a kiss. Her body looked comfy, her smile deep, and she exuded a quiet confidence tinged with insecurity - the perfect combination. All in all, this lady was definitely worth a trial run, especially since her teenaged daughter was such sweet eye candy.
"Does that mean you're going to help me with my tree?" she asked, her green eyes twinkling like holiday lights.
"Yep," I said, feeling suddenly powerful and strong, as if I was this lady's very own personal Super-Santa. "I'm Blake."
"I'm Morgan," she beamed, taking my hand. Her touch was warm, firm, but at the same time there was an element of sensuality that reminded me of how long it had been since I'd had any serious face time with a woman. (We won't go into that right now, but it had been a while.)
She continued: "I love this neighborhood. Everyone seems so friendly."
"Really? I hadn't noticed," I said, momentarily forgetting about my sudden transformation from asshole to nice guy.
"You're funny," she said, cocking her head sideways. In that moment, I had to admit, she was sort of cute - maybe even cute enough to be a cheerleader in her younger days. Perhaps reading my mind, she asked: "Is there a Mrs. Blake?"
Sensing an opening, I took a quick jab at flattery. "If there was, do you think I'd be standing out here on my front steps, ignoring Mrs. Blake so I could talk to the most beautiful woman in the world?"
"Shut up," she giggled, giving my forearm a squeeze. Her tousled hair, her freckled cheeks, the curve of her neck disappearing into her red V-neck sweater, her cuteness wasn't enough to turn her into the most beautiful woman in the world, but it was good enough to turn her into the most beautiful woman I'd had a conversation with lately, other than that hot barrista down at Starbucks.
"I'll get my tools and be right over," I said, suddenly feeling useful and appreciated for the first time since my divorce.
*****
"Here's a pair of gloves," I said, surveying her back porch. I saw cardboard boxes scattered about, an old rusty ten-speed bike, and a treadmill. The treadmill was a good sign, and suddenly I had a vision of Morgan all sweaty and out of breath on her treadmill, her wet tank top sticking to her chest, her hard puckered nipples poking at the straining fabric...
"You're so thoughtful, Blake," she grinned, pulling the gloves over her delicate fingers. Looking at her fingers, I couldn't help but wonder if she ever resorted to finger-fucking herself when she couldn't get to sleep at night, tossing and turning, wishing she had a big stiff dick between her legs. I could be that big stiff dick between her legs if I played my cards right.
I propped the butt end of the tree up on a cinderblock and commenced to cutting while she held it in place. "Try to keep the tree from rotating," I said, pretending not to notice that when she was bent over, I could peek down into the gap of her V-neck sweater and see quivering cleavage.
"You're so good at this," she beamed, gazing at me like a dog who's master has just arrived home after being gone all day.
"It's a guy thing," I said, watching the top of her right boob ripple with the vibrations of the saw. Suddenly inspired by the swish-swish sound of the saw cutting through the tree, I found myself whistling "Winter Wonderland". Shocked at this temporary moral failing, I stopped immediately, and concentrated on my task: Drilling. The holes. Drilling the holes ruined the view down her sweater, but it did give me the opportunity to shove my drill in and out of the butt end of the tree a few times, as if my drill was having sex with it. (Yeah, I know, only a guy would think of that.)
With the tree suitably defiled, I dragged it into the house while she held the door open. Squeezing past her in the doorway, I noticed she smelled really nice, in a rich, aromatic sort of way, and for some unknown reason, "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire" came to mind. I shook my head in disgust. I'm supposed to hate Christmas music, fer cryin' out loud.
We managed to prop the tree up in its cheap metal holder without wrecking the drapes or breaking any windows, and I felt a strange sense of accomplishment. It was gratifying, and yet perplexing. Was I losing my Scrooge gene? What was it about this woman that was turning me into a soft-hearted wimp singing Christmas carols in my head? And where was her hot teenaged daughter, anyway? She was the one and only reason I was even over here, dicking around with a stupid Christmas tree.
"Hold it steady while I check if for level," I said, resigned to my Super-Santa fate. I directed her as she stood there, her arm outstretched, her sweater riding up, revealing the top of her white panties peaking out from her loose jeans. "A little to the left," I commanded. She complied, showing me yet another inch of her bare midriff, and I was suddenly intrigued. Her skin looked warm, soft, unblemished. Her panties, on the other hand, presented a dilemma: Do party girls wear high-waisted panties? I don't think so, although I do get a vicarious thrill out of pulling down a pair of high-waisted panties when the opportunity arises. It's like the difference between climbing Mount Everest and taking a walk in the park. One is too easy, the other is the accomplishment of a lifetime.
Tearing myself away from fantasizing about stripping my divorcee neighbor naked and eating her Christmas cookies, I studied the tree. Satisfied that it was suitably vertical, I cranked down the clamps and congratulated myself (in my mind) for a job well done.
"I love it!" Morgan cried, clapping her hands together like a kid.
Standing there next to her, looking around at the painted block walls and the ratty brown carpet of her dreary duplex, I was reminded of that first Christmas with my first wife all those years ago. We lived week-to-week back then, furnishing our apartment with junk from the swap meet, eating beans or "hamburger surprise" every night. Was this Morgan's life? The worn out couch and plastic lawn chairs in the living room seemed to be saying so.
Morgan turned to me, looking a little overwhelmed. "Thanks so much Blake." She seemed to be on the verge of tears. "It's my first Christmas...."
She collapsed into my arms, gripping me like she was drowning at sea and I was her own personal life buoy. I held her for a moment, waiting for the sobbing to stop, and suddenly, "Silent Night" was running through my head. I could feel my steely resolve melting like icicles in the sun. The warmth of her body pressed against mine, her soft breasts, her rippled tummy, her mound rubbing against the bulge in my pants, it reminded me of what Christmas is all about - the spirt of giving, or in my case, giving me a hard-on.
"I'm sorry," she whimpered, her face buried in my chest, "it's just that it's been so long..."
By this time my hand was touching the small of her back, inching up under her sweater. Her skin was soft, warm, inviting.
"Morgan?" I asked, inhaling the pine bough smell of her hair, or perhaps it was the pine bough smell of the tree - I was suffering from sensory overload at that particular moment.
"Yes?" she said, in a small, pitiful voice.
"It's been a long time for me too."
"Let's not talk about it," she whispered. "Just hold me."
By this time, her hands had found their way up under the back of my shirt. She clamped her body tighter against mine, my dick pulsating against her soft tummy, my hands sliding up her back, clear to her bra. She gasped.
"Blake?"
The look on her face said it all. Our lips met, tentatively at first, like teenagers who don't yet know how to make out. Then the probing started, and in no time, I was lost in a world of hot breath and spit. I drove my tongue deeper into her mouth. She gurgled. I gasped, grinding my throbbing dick against her luscious body. Then she slid her hand down inside the back of my jeans and grabbed my ass.
Fumbling with both hands, I managed to unclip her bra. Meanwhile, she was unbuttoning the top of my jeans, and a moment later, she had my hard-on in her hands. Feeling like a kid at Christmas, frantic to tear the wrapping off of the biggest present under the tree, I jerked her sweater up so I could get to her tits.
"Are you safe?" she asked, kneeling in front of me while I pulled her sweater off over her head.
