He had never wanted to be a "dirty old man" -- especially since he wasn't even 30 yet -- but she was pushing the idea on him. He'd spent his masturbation-time with thoughts of her the previous two weeks -- and usually that time was dedicated to fantasy-girls he'd never meet.
"Dirty old man" wasn't a man he man he wanted to be. But it was hard to fight the urge.
On the other side of town, Carrie was having similar thoughts about the man who was 10 years older, and 100-years more experienced than her. She had learned all she could about him; and felt she knew him like the back of her hand. Now she just wanted to feel him like she was feeling the front of her hand as she played in her panties at night.
Wade was the locally famous writer, which meant very little to him. Two of his novels had won some acclaim -- and one found its way as a made-for-cable television movie, so he was financially set for the time-being.
He was 28 and being urged to move to Los Angeles or back to New York to get involved in the up-and-coming writers circle, but he was content in Michigan for the time-being. He didn't enjoy the party-writing scene of LA and the pompous-writing scene of NYC.
And New York reminded Wade of his girlfriend -- who had passed away of cancer three years earlier.
So most nights his party and pompous scene was his house, hot tub and a bottle of Jack Daniel's.
Wade had gone to the local high school to promote writing when he first met 18-year-old Carrie. She had asked several intelligent questions about the profession. Most of the other kids just wanting to know about the Hollywood stars he had met when his second manuscript was turned into a screenplay and then into a movie.
He wasn't much on the idea of celebrity.
Carrie had impressed him with her questions about the chances of being published, how long it took to write a book and what inspired certain characters.
Wade gave the classroom of seniors his e-mail address -- and within two days, Carrie was sending him notes about her desires to be a writer as well. Even in just the letters she sent him, he knew she had the ability -- now all she needed was the luck he'd had. She had the skills and emotions and sensuality. For two weeks, the e-mails came on a regular basis -- steadily growing more brave and hinting of sexuality.
Sexuality. Something he'd thought about very little in the previous two years. Masturbation was just an exercise in clearing the prostate -- not an erotic experience as much as a giving into the need.
But here it was again. Feeling sexual about another person. A young woman who flirted heavily and made him feel 18 again -- that age where everything was tabula-rasa -- a blank slate. Where love was possible, sex was crazy and life was based on passions.
Carrie loved the fact that he'd responded to all of her e-mails. To all her flirtations, he had flirted back. The sexual innuendoes were laced like shoestrings in their more recent writings. She wrote about her loving when her pie-filling was warm; he responded by saying that was his favorite as well. He wrote about his pen running out of ink; she responded noting she would love to refill it -- and inspire him to drain his ink, everyday.
She'd tried to find out all she could about Wade since they'd first met. He was 28, his birthday was June 28, he was single and had two novels published. Wade also had numerous short stories in magazines and won an award for a piece on cancer survivors the previous year.
She'd passed his house numerous times in her gray Ford Tempo. She had his two novels on the passenger seat, a book of her writings and an excuse in her brain for pulling up to his home. Autographs. And to show off some of her writing -- erotic poetry.
Of course, she thought, he'd only believe that if he was deaf, blind and unable to smell her perfume. Her voice quivered as she spoke aloud to herself. "Hi, Wade. Hello, Wade. I want you, Wade. Is that okay?" she said to herself in her car.
And he'd have to be beyond legally blind to see what she was wearing. Tight, hip-hugging white shorts, a sleeveless, button-up red shirt that was losing a battle to keep her 34C breasts enclosed. Lucky for the shirt, her chest was also held in check by a lace white bra. Under her shorts, Carrie wore a new pink thong she'd
bought a few hours earlier with Wade in mind. They were already moist as she drove into his driveway. Fantasies of the man filled her head as she thought of him filling her body with his, and her soul with his kiss.
He came to the door just moments after her fist rapped on it -- Wade had been in his living room watching ESPN's Pardon The Interruption, one of few programs he enjoyed on a regular basis.
"Oh, hi," he stammered seeing the 18-year-old on his porch with his novels and another folder.
"Hi. I mean, hello, Mr., um, Wade."
"How are you doing, Carrie?"
"Um, good. I was wondering if you could sign these for me?"
"Sure. Of course. No problem. Can't say they'll be worth anything more ... but um, come on in."
He briefly wondered if his neighbors had seen the girl walk into his house, but he didn't care. She was 18 and he was a respectful adult. He wasn't doing anything illegal. Just helping another writer. Albeit a youthful writer.
"Please, sit down," he pointed to a couch as Michael Wilbon and Tony Kornheiser debated football on the television.
"I wouldn't have thought you were much into sports, Wade," Carrie said. "Your novels are so much more ... intelligent." She didn't mention the love scenes he wrote in his first novel which were written so realistically that they made her wet just reading. She felt the lovemaking in her head as she read, and smiled as the novel's characters laughed in the afterglow -- like she thought it was supposed to be. The writer didn't seem to be a typical guy, but here he was -- watching typical guy TV. Sports.
He laughed. "Carrie, sports are intelligent. I'm not a stat freak -- but I like to know what is going on in sports. It's another part of life -- like what's going on in the news or on Oprah or MTV. I think to be a writer, you have to want to learn about as much as you can." He wanted to teach her as much as he could about life. He preferred learning by traveling, experiencing and talking with people who had life-experiences, but some television programming gave him insight he otherwise would never have.
She looked at his body as he sat down and wrote a note on the inside cover of the first book. His dark brown hair had just been cut a few days earlier. His darker eyes focused as the Sharpie pen glided on the novel. He was about six-feet tall and worked out regularly. He was wearing a Columbia University T-shirt and Nike shorts.
"You caught me in lounging mode," he explained, looking back up to her. "You look and smell very nice, by the way. You have a date tonight?"
"Hopefully."
"I hope you have fun." He thought he knew what she was indicating, but he didn't want to assume. She was 10-years-younger. He felt a bit like the main character of "Beautiful Girls." Wanting a much-younger girl, and feeling guilty for that want.
"I do, too," Carrie said. Butterflies flew in formation inside her stomach. She didn't know what to do to take the conversation to the next level. She'd had sex before -- but just with a boyfriend who was a bit clumsy about emotions and physical love. She had much better orgasms by herself than with her exboyfriend. Something told her an older, smarter guy would take her elsewhere.
"Would you read a few things I've written?" she asked.
