What did it mean ... in retrospect, what did it mean? I had thought about that all day. Friendship for sure, it wasn't just any pussy squirming against her face, it was my pussy and it mattered to me that it was her face, her tongue, her groans, her cum that covered me from hair to breasts.
So is it transferable? That was my conundrum. In breaking the inertia was I opening a Pandora's box of other's, was I turning lesbian? Well, we'll see but whatever, I've changed, I feel more sophisticated, more experienced, more aware, more modern, more hip — it had more to do with my enlightening than any sexual awakening. I had been liberated from, not the fear of an unknown but the unknown itself, liberated in the most delightful way ... with a friend who in all respects is closer to me now than either of us thought imaginable.
I hate to cheapen the experience but it seemed a lot like when I first smoked weed ... I enjoyed it, I broke through the barrier, I had done something overtly illegal, I had joined a crowd I admired, I would never be a pothead but a liberated consumer, ya, count me in. Maybe that's what all this means, I'm merely a liberated consumer in this, too.
And I thought about us, physically. She has unfortunate breasts, small, muscular, uninteresting but fantastic nipples, dark, excitable, alluring. I am the exact opposite, wonderful breasts, medium sized, perfect for my frame but my nipples are innies and at the best of times they show indifference. She has a roll of fat around her waist, she loses on that one, too, I don't but she has a truly delightful pussy in a shroud of thick black hair that stretches across her lower belly like a vail. I, alas, have hair like the beard on that guy on Skoo-be-doo, long and shaggy hiding what? Hiding now what I know is a dramatically uninteresting vulva absent of all the fascinating complexity of her's, which is positively dripping with labia, soft and sexy and I knew anxious to open. I am jealous.
I have a lot more questions of course, a whole lot more questions, all centring on an obvious question: can a normal, heterosexual woman choose to live in a homosexual relationship? And can it be fulfilling? And, as importantly, can it be sustained?
If you look on life in absolute black and whites the answer has to be no, it can't be fulfilling and no, it surely can't be sustainable, definitely not. If, however, you're more nuanced in your views, more enlightened and more adventuresome, the answer might very well be, sure, why not? And if you are a big assed, big busted homely-looking girl being seduced by a superbly beautiful if somewhat anti-social black woman with attitude and a lust for big asses and big tits, you might say, why not ... like you might say that same why not while looking at a second frosted donut, tasty but not good for you.
But what is? Writing sexual fiction about your workmates hardly qualifies, nor does hiding out in an over-sized condo supplied and furnished by your long dead parents. I think I would have looked at myself with my big tits and ass as a flighty fetish to her, never possibly sustainable until the brain-wave of the buy-a-mate entered my head.
Big ass and big tits, OK, that might lure her in but it would never hold her. But big ass, big tits and big bucks? Countless thousands of reasons to stick around? That could, money is the universal, fail-safe quid pro quo because whenever it begins to falter you can simply turn the spigot a little, sweeten the supply. Money is control where tits and ass are only allure.
There is a strangeness to this, of course there is. Jeffs don't usually want to hang out with Mutts, never mind be ravished by them. And that's what's happening. Three times, all with my clothes on.
She took the first one lying down, on her back first, then on her front where I pinned her down while she recovered. The second one took a lot longer and included hand fighting but I weigh more and she wanted it more, wanted my lips and mouth and fingers and was thrilled that they would not only go everywhere but linger there, edging — I've written a lot about edging, I'd be writing a lot more about it, the power over another human is enrapturing. The third time was all about my insistence, my domination, it was taking for me, her on all fours, edging for myself, long spells in forbidden places taking ownership, sending messages, breaking barriers, feeling the lust spread through me ... like what? Like nothing I have ever felt before. I will be a better writer.
Brian Lawson, I could hit him with a balled up piece of paper, is of medium height and slender, wears colourful ties, often with whimsical themes and looks like the dutiful grandson beside Kino Hamoto, an attractive, dignified grandmother as they take the elevator down from his tiny fourth floor apartment. When the doors opened the drama began: Brian's parents, who were supposed to be in town tomorrow, we're precisely one day early.
Brian hid his shock, a shock that would linger after a brief, awkward introduction and a brief Hamoto goodbye kiss on the blushing cheek.
Curious, uncertain looks on the way up became quickly clarified in the apartment where mum helped the son change the bedding while becoming acutely aware that the kiss hadn't been the polite peck of two parting friends. The sheets reeked of sex.
"She's my age. What are you doing?"
I took the sheets from her swirled them quickly in a tight bundle and forced them into a bag like I was hiding evidence.
"What are you doing?" She repeated, this time more insistently.
"I'm living my life, you live yours."
"That's no way to talk," the dad had been an unengaged spectator in the tiny space.
I got the clean sheets from under the bed that I had expected to use tomorrow morning and got busy hoping to avoid an answer. No chance. When I finished with the sheets I sat them down on the small sofa and sat on the bed looking at them expectantly.
I met her in a coffee shop, I explained. We connected. That was four months ago. We're seeing each other.
"She's sixty, at least ... you're 27."
It was the grace that attracted me, the way she moved the thuggish mug to her thin well-painted lips, a movement so impeccably elegant I couldn't take my eyes off her ... it was the reason I put the umbrella over her when I followed her out into the rain. Her smile weakened me, her thanks emboldened me to ask — I had never done anything like this before, or even thought it, would she have dinner with me? Her Japanese eyes searched mine for meaning and might have found it. Yes, she would. We made plans, tomorrow night.
A brief encounter can offer a blueprint to your brain, I was discovering that. Under that umbrella I could now more clearly see the future and more clearly understand the past. It all became so stunningly obvious; my whole life came into focus; everything now made sense. I didn't second guess, didn't need to, my erection told me all I needed to know.
It was in my fingers in five minutes as I lay on my bed, my pants and underwear, in my haste, not quite fully off my left leg, the mug, heavy, solid, elegantly rising to her lips, her mouth opening ... and my orgasm landing on my shirt, high on my shirt. My erection didn't abate, I was imagining her now with her blouse off, her shoulders healthy but slightly shrunken, her bra straps barely creasing. I imagined them, small, delicate, healthy, the nipples as perfect as her face, as perfect as her body, as perfect as the delicate pussy resting in immaculately clean underwear, white, cotton, practical.
I kissed her lips for my second orgasm, her underwear for my third. The fourth I had that night as I held her in my arms, here, in this bed where I had my fifth and sixth during the night and my seventh before going to work.
I am a Gerontophile, I looked it up. I have a fetish for older women, I guess I've always known that without knowing it ... my aunts, the neighbour's grandmother but old women everywhere brought joy to me and often erections that never made sense. But it made sense under that umbrella, it all made sense and it explained fully why I've never dated, why I'm never interested, why I've been so aloof, so unengaged, so unexcited.
But I am now, like a little puppy and she smiled across from me perhaps recognizing it, recognizing my ... what could it be? Adoration?
She asked me up, a small apartment but much bigger than mine and neater and cleaner and she stood in front of me and touched my face. "Are we both lonely?"
I could have let loose, god knows I wanted to but I remembered that mug travelling to her lips and I didn't want to be it — rough, heavy, crude. I held her delicately, knowing my erection was pressing against her hip. She led me to the couch. I groaned when her lips touched mine. "Wait," she said, quickly dealing with my belt and zipper and then her lips came back on mine as delicate and as knowing as her fingers ... her tongue touched mine, thin, narrow, wet, willing and every doubt of myself I've ever had was erased as the old hand with the slight webbing of blue veins stroked me to ecstasy.
"It's not much," she grinned, looking at it on her fingers and on my shirt.
I told her about yesterday, about what happened under the umbrella, about what I did when I left her, time and time and time again on my bed.
She laughed, we laughed.
"I'd like to visit that bed."
"I'd like to visit your's."
"Yes," she smiled, then she got up to make us tea and I watched, all the movements, the trim body, wonderfully preserved. I did up my pants because it would have been crude not to but not bothering to tuck my shirt back in. I would be staying.
When she brought my tea over I gently put my hands on her hips and caressed them, feeling her age and energy.
"This is nice," she smiled.
I leaned forward and again put both hands on her hips moving them up and down a few times feeling the intimacy. A grin appeared on her perfect face, her breasts swelled and swelled even more when my hands went down her hips, down her thighs, past her skirt and up her legs on naked skin.
Her hands went into my hair, her fingers combing ... then tightening, pulling; I followed the hint and got to my feet and walked behind her to her bedroom where she sat me down and stepped back the two paces allowable and looked at me with stern calm beauty. This was about me, not her; she had read me, knew my fetish, if that's what it is, a Pavlovian response to her ageing beauty which she now slowly exposed, first with a slow removal of her shirt.
It's her gentle, rhythmic movements, like life is a tea ceremony: her long delicate fingers with fluid dexterity, the three buttons pinched open, her neck exposed, the hints of a cleavage and then the bra, white with impossibly thin straps, the cups not full, the material was more covering than holding; her midriff pale and slightly yellow with a few black spots that seem to glow; the fingers at the skirt now, her look still stern, determined but proud. I felt faint, over-come with desire, my chest constricted, my breath faltered; the skirt, grey, sensible, was loose around her thin waist, I could see the top of her white panties and then it was falling and the full figure emerged, life-worn, experienced, knowing and my sobbing started, involuntarily I started sobbing uncontrollably my hand reaching out to her, "Please, I must have you," I said through my anguish.
She quickly took the two paces over, sat down beside me, an arm around me. "Yes."
She fell back at my touch, my face pressed into her belly, my tears soaking my cheeks as I breath in her scent, tasted her salt, my hands encircling her narrow waist imprisoning her in an inescapable grip as she combed my hair again and purred the word 'yes.'
A life can be enriched beyond all understanding, I knew that now — the desire I had heard so much about but never experienced flooded into me nourishing a bold act of unquenchable lust: my face pressed down hard travelling across her panties to her sex, my tongue dragging, my senses begging for every nuance, the heat, the scent, the taste, I bit, wanting her in my mouth, bit down and from the sides, not hard just wanting it and then I was up, my mouth on her's and she was cleaning me with her hand, rubbing my cum on the spread, her arms around me, her grip tight as if to try to still me.
I didn't try to hide who I've become, I know that when I look at her it is with puppy adoration, I just can't help it and don't even try.
My mother peered over her glasses, judgmental, sensorial. "Are you in love?" She was looking at Kino, I was an open book. I threw my hand up to stop her. "Let me answer ... I don't want her equivocations, qualifications, obfuscation, l love this woman, love everything about her. Yes, it's her age but it's everything else, too, her mannerisms, her movements, the way she'll pose for me ..."
"Pose for you?"
"She doesn't always want sex ... she'll pose for me at the stove or sink or while we watch TV."
Dad has never been a talker. "You never pose for me," he said to his wife.
"I'd pose for you, you've never ask me to."
"So do I love her? Obviously and absolutely."
"And I love him. He asked me to marry him, I said no, under no circumstances will I marry him — this ageism thing, that's going to have a breaking point."
