Shane, my precocious brindle lab pup, dashed off of his leash and he sprinted, happily panting, towards the object of his desire. The Doggie Play Park, half-full this Spring afternoon with canines in full playground mode and mood, had become his personal Mecca.
I stood on the perimeter, watching, as the various breeds went through their curious introductory ritual of sniffing each others' private parts, which usually isn't socially acceptable until at least the third date in our human contacts. I sipped my bottled water and inhaled the unique aromas that only an urban dog park can evoke, and gazed at the ominous storm clouds gathering over the Delaware River to the southeast.
I did have to admit that this area of Fairmount Park in the shadow of Philadelphia's world-famous Art Museum that had been ordered cordoned off strictly for dog activities was one of the few altruistic and citizen-friendly acts that Philly's municipal government had ever enacted. (Try NOT to get a parking ticket in this city when you visit, I dare ya, it's not possible, such is the Parking Authority's zeal, the only functional entity in Philly's mostly corrupt government.)
After all, any city that allows a statue of a fictitious movie pugilist (Rocky Balboa) next to the steps of the symbol of its testament to classical arts will never be known for its appreciation of true culture. But, I let my curmudgeonly thoughts drift away and focused back to simply enjoying the dozen or so merry dogs at play, sharing sticks and tennis balls.
A border collie, one eye black and the other white, trotted up to me to pay his salutations, or so I imagined. I bent to pet his shaggy mane as he sniffed my sandals tentatively, but before I could reach his head, he lifted one leg and emitted a short burst of pee directly onto my toes before yipping mischievously and sprinting away to join his pals. Yuk.
It is difficult to exude any shred of dignity when dog pee is running between your toes, and more so when you hear the delighted giggles of a woman's voice behind you. "Oh, Remy, bad boy, BAD boy," I heard her say in a European accent with a less than sincere disciplinary tone, trying unsuccessfully to stifle her laughter.
I was inclined to be pissed, literally, until I heard the sing-song delightful cadence within that voice. I turned to see a woman in her early forties covering her mouth with her hands, her very pretty face a disarming blush of pink, light salt-and-pepper curls dangling down onto her shoulders, her chest heaving in suppressed giggles beneath a tight brown T-shirt, taut nipples poking through the cotton fabric. Why did my eyes stop THERE, just what is it about a woman's erect nipples that we men cannot even pretend to ignore?
She jogged up to me, firm breasts bouncing under the T-shirt, and before I could even react, much less speak, she knelt in front of me with a rag and began to clean off my sandal-clad foot, mumbling dolefully in French. "Oh, oh, je suis si si desole!"
She looked up at me, her head just inches from my now slightly stiffening crotch (was Pavlov's dog around here anywhere?), and smiled the sexiest smile, her green eyes dancing. "I am so, so sorry, sir, I am so embarrassed, he has never done that before. Please forgive me?"
She smiled. I melted. "And forgive Remy, too, sil vous plait?"
Now, I don't know about the rest of you male readers out there, but believe me, it is not hard to forgive a beautiful, mature French woman with great tits and sexy gray hair who is cleaning your feet while on her knees with her mouth positioned centimeters from your crotch. As for the dog's verdict, well, the jury's still out.
I looked down at her and thought of running my fingers through that incredibly sexy, disheveled mane of hair of hers. Why don't more women just let their hair naturally turn color? If they only knew how erotically exciting most men my age (fifty-one) find naturally graying hair on a woman. (Or was I perhaps just biased because her head was hovering next to my stirring cock? Hmmmmm. The chicken or the egg?)
She stood up after apparently being satisfied that I was devoid of collie pee, and wadded the rag into a ball. Her sparkling, sensational green eyes blazed into mine as she stood a little too close. Not that I minded.
"The least I can do is introduce myself to a man who was so kind and patient after my dog relieved himself on your feet." She giggled again, and extended her hand. "My name is Genevieve."
I took her hand lightly in my own and as a crackle of thunder roared overhead, I felt a tingle of electricity from just the mere first touch of her skin.
Ten minutes later, the park had become empty due to the torrential shower pouring down from the increasingly angry skies. Except Genevieve and I found shelter in a small cove beneath a huge oak tree, with Remy and Shane hunkered down in the weeds and brush, two wet dogs rolling around, oblivious to the fact that their owners had begun to engage in a long, slow, deep kiss in the sudden solutitude of the urban park.
As the rain cascaded down around us, we remained sequestered under the haven of the century-old tree's branches, and our kisses became more urgent, hungry, impassioned. Genevieve's hips began to slowly sway and grind into my own, and I took her cue and reached my hand beneath her tight shirt and tweaked her nipple with my index finger and thumb, and then switched to the other nipple and I felt her tiny palm snake onto my impossibly stiff shaft.
She leaned her head back and her eyes bore into mine with lust. "Mmmm, tres grand, tres agreable," she murmured as she stroked me with fervor, hidden from view though the heavily-traveled Benjamin Franklin Parkway was only fifty yards away. "It feels huge."
She stared at me pleadingly. "It has been a very long time for me," she explained bashfully. I nodded, still tweaking her nipples, exchanging fingertips over each one as she moaned lightly. "I live just a few blocks from here. Do you have some time to perhaps come home with me?"
Well, hold on, lemme check my schedule. Yep, seems that I do have some free time. Imagine that.
The rain had abated enough for us to walk briskly to her stately row home on the quaint city block of Twentieth Street, between Parrish and Brown Streets, and we walked hand-in-hand while holding the two happy pooches tightly with our other hand.
On the way, Genevieve quickly provided a up-to-date biography which included the fact that she was married to a French stock broker who traveled extensively, and was away for weeks at a time, while investing in a harvest of mistresses abroad. Genevieve had been faithful, yet lonely, she explained. I pressed my fingertip to her lips in a gentle shushing motion as we reached her door.
"No further explanation is necessary, beautiful Genevieve. He is not here now. We are alone in the world today. Just us."
We navigated the steps of her brownstone home and she let the dogs loose, and they dashed to the kitchen, where she shut the door. I remained by the front door and pushed it closed behind me.
She looked at me, again almost bashfully, and said softly, "I am very, very wet," before bringing her arms to her T-shirt and pulling it over her head, exposing her sizable breasts on an otherwise slim, lithe frame.
