Fifty on the inside, twenty on the outside, Jack had his clock rolled back by a genie. Follow along: He's done with his gigolo gig, and is ready for spontaneous, lusty flings on equal terms, and he knows how to make them happen. Wouldn't you go a bit wild too?
TAGS: Younger man, older woman, oral sex, hairy pussy, caught, casual sex, missionary, orgasm, milf, sex at work
MADISON
Yoga was kicking my ass. I was taking a day off to give my stretch pains time to heal, when, in the Publix grocery, I ran into the instructor whose "beginner" yoga class had done this to me.
Yeah, I had only taken the lithe, fit dirty-blonde young lady's class once. Or any yoga class at all, for that matter. My "day off" was day two, all right? I'm not ashamed to say it. Let's see you do the Boat Pose or seven kinds of forward bends without hurting yourself on the first try!
I know she saw me by the leafy-green vegetables, but could tell she was compartmentalizing me off from her shopping trip, keeping her bright, heterochromatic eyes on her products. What happens in the studio stays in the studio? Probably a necessary habit, in a field which seemed to have at least a twenty times ratio of women to men. A creeper could probably cause a lot of difficulties for a yoga teacher, and she didn't know me but as a first-time-ever drop-in noob.
I wouldn't have had this kind of insight when I was twenty the first time, but with the maturity I had acquired in the decades since then, I didn't take it personally.
Instead, I minded my own business but put on a little act. I exaggerated my discomfort, moving gingerly and rubbing my poor hamstrings and obliques. I didn't look to see if she was noticing, I just did my own shopping and didn't try to get her attention.
The next day, when I did show up for beginner-yoga class number two, she asked, like she had at the beginning of the other class too, whether any of the students had injuries or discomfort she should know about. After letting a couple of women briefly discuss their carpal-tunnel syndrome and lower back pain with Madison, I sheepishly mumbled that I was a little sore, myself.
Jackpot.
I took it that the other ladies were regulars and that Madison didn't really need to give them too much direction, just concise reminders how they could modify the postures to accommodate their needs. I, on the other hand, had the teacher's attention and presence for most of the 90-minute session. While she floated around the room coaching the twelve or fifteen women in the class on the moves, she visited my mat for every one of the twenty or twenty-five postures.
From her place alongside my mat, she would remind everyone not to push themselves too hard if they were new, while touching me, giving me corrections and tactile feedback to keep me from straining too much. "Go slow, there's no rush to do the full posture."
Looking around the room, it seemed to me that most students were taking about three minutes to get into the full posture, but I felt like it would take me three months. Having a young-again body didn't mean it could automatically flex like a cobra, or a fish, or any of the other poetic shapes she named!
The first time she guided me with her hands, she asked first about touching me. After I unselfconsciously said, "Oh, of course," and thanked her after receiving her corrections, she didn't ask again.
I could get used to this.
TWO DAYS EARLIER
I listened to the wind in the standing rigging, and carefully felt for any sense of instability. My 42 foot sailboat had been out of the water on the hard for more than a month, while I refitted her to my own specifications. The boatyard let me live on her in the meantime, even providing power. Not bad for a boyo on a budget.
The forecast was for a sustained gale out of the north. There would almost certainly be gusts up to maybe as much as 60 knots of wind, and I had foam earplugs and noise-canceling headphones ready to go, so that the coming buckets of rain shotgunning down onto the boat, the potential hailstones, and the unearthly shrieking of the wind in the shrouds wouldn't drive me bonkers while I cocooned down below.
For now the jackstands were holding my boat as solidly as ever. I took that as a good sign, and mentally attaboyed myself for hunkering down here instead of getting a room for the duration of the storm. For one thing, I had had enough of other people's hotels, timeshares and condos recently, and wasn't fired up to procure my own, even for a night or two.
Besides, I hadn't earned any actual cash money for the sexy services I had rendered at those swanky accommodations, so, it really didn't hurt the funds balance either to sleep in my own berth. My in-kind compensation was almost complete and I'd be able to get replacement identifications with my new appearance soon, but I was living on my share of the cash proceeds of asset liquidations due to my recent divorce.
Meanwhile, staying on board meant I could continue making progress on boat projects. Good, because my boat insurance would let me cruise to the Bahamas and tropical parts beyond beginning in just a few weeks, as hurricane season officially ended. Doing my own boat work was like paying myself anywhere from forty to a hundred bucks an hour instead of siphoning the cruising fund away.
One of my latest projects was to install air conditioning in the saloon and skipper's cabin. Six weeks in to inhabiting this what's-old-is-new body of mine, I was reminded every single day what a drag it was to be unable to feel comfortably cool most of the time. Even in a mature body this had never completely gone away, but now my hormonal makeup had me running at a higher metabolism level than I had in years, and most of the time I couldn't shed body heat fast enough.
By day, the Saint Augustine, Florida sun greenhoused the boat's interior viciously, and outside was no better, even in the shade. In the sun? Forget it. I just about wanted to die sometimes. The Caribbean sun would be even more intense than Florida, but after this upgrade, it would be a lot easier to take, knowing I could enjoy the open water's more pronounced breezes, or at least find comfort below, or dive off into the water at virtually any moment. I was thinking about installing some insulation under the decks and coachroof too.
More than once, Livia in the yard's office had seen me catting my way back home to my boat, in the mid-to-late morning after my "dates". So when I stopped in there to ask her who I should talk to about materials for the insulation project, the expression on her fair but dusky face made me want to find something to tease
her
about.
Understand, I use "dates" as a term of art, here. Those had been strictly professional commitments. Dr. Vu, plastic surgeon, had pimped me out to her clients in return for giving me a paper trail, documenting why I looked the way I did when I applied for a replacement driver's license, to do away with the old pudgier, balder picture.
Livia's shit-eating grin looked like a cat's face stuffed with canary. I mean, no complaints. I can take a joke and it looked cute as hell on her. I knew she was almost old enough to be new-Jack's mother, or old-Jack's daughter, but the dimples she was rocking surprised me, because there wasn't a hint of wrinkle marking where they materialized. Damn, she had good skin. A tall order for anyone over 30 in Florida, what with the subtropical sun.
I still wondered about her ancestry. Mixed Puerto Rican? Maybe white-part-Cuban?
I played dumb but I let her tell that that's what I was doing. "What do you look so chipper about today?" I asked innocently. When she played dumb back and idly twisted herself side to side on one foot, other toe down and heel up, knee coyly bent, and said, "Mm, nooo-thing!" I winked knowingly and got on with my business.
She pulled back her dark, wavy hair and intercommed the workshop for Bradley, the yard foreman. I got a couple of recommendations from him for my project, and set off to call some home improvement stores from my boat to see who carried the materials I was after.
I could see myself hooking up with Livia, but maybe not until I got out of the yard. No need to foul the nest. I had asked her how she kept herself so fit. Quote, "for a twenty eight year old," I naively said, knowing she was well into her thirties.
I had two motives for asking this. At any rate, given the shapeliness of her backside and tone of her shoulders, I shouldn't have been surprised to learn she was a yoga... person.
Yogi? Yogina? I'd look into this. The Google and I would spend some quality time below decks together over the next 36 hours, while the storm came and went.
Knowing first-hand what would happen to me over the next thirty years, I had decided to prioritize maintaining my fitness. I didn't think I could realistically avoid
all
the aches, pains and inflexibility which my body had accrued the first time, but I was positive I could reach 50 a second time in much, much better shape than I had on my last go.
I still didn't know how this wish worked. Would I age all over again, or was I twenty forever, now? Or would I wake up tomorrow with the carriage turned back into a pumpkin? I didn't know, but neglecting a second chance just wasn't going to happen.
The same went for my sex life. Pursuing my second motive, I picked out the yoga studio which I thought was least likely to be exclusively attended by seniors. Florida life. It was near the college rather than the condo quarter, and had the youngest instructors, according to the pictures and bios on the studio's website.
I was done with my ten-date commitment to Dr. Vu and Madam Myra's clients, and I was ready to meet some women who weren't paying for my company or surgically altered, for better or for worse.
There were only two bits of trouble caused by the storm. In the middle of the night, I had heard the aluminum ladder I used to climb aboard the boat clattering to the ground with a series of bangs. I cursed as I realized I'd probably be jumping down off the topsides in the morning. And the lashing rain had made its way into the boat through leaks I hadn't noticed or prioritized fixing before, so I marked the areas of intrusion for later sealing, and borrowed a dehumidifier from the yard. I repositioned the ladder, climbed it, and came down it again with the main halyard in hand. I tied that to the humidifier, winched it up on deck, plugged it in and left it running in the saloon, and off I went.
At the end of my second beginners-yoga class, the enticing instructor Madison who had coached me so attentively turned the lights way down and offered blankets to people for the corpse-pose resting period to close out the session. Me, I wanted no blanket and asked if it would be OK to take my sweaty shirt right off instead.
Madison asked the class whether anyone would have any problem with that. Just in case, I suppose. Nobody did, so she nodded approval to me. After I got my shirt over my head, I saw her moving around with blankets and draping them over the people who has raised their hands for one. I closed my eyes, laid back on my thin, rented yoga mat in the prescribed supine death posture, and started sensing my insides.
After a few breaths, each a bit longer and deeper than the last, I felt Madison's presence by my side. She moved her mouth close to my ear, and asked if I would let her put something under my knees, quietly enough that she wouldn't disturb any of the other resting students in the hushed, dim room. I cooperated and she slid one of the blankets, folded to a generous thickness, under my knees for me.
When I relaxed down onto it again, it was an improvement over the flat plane of the floor. She promised, explaining softly in my ear, that it would enhance the recovery period and I should have less pain after the class this time. I opened my eyes and looked into hers, one sea-blue, one amber-brown, and mouthed, "Thanks." She nodded sympathetically, patted my deltoid warmly, and left me to rest in corpse pose.
So far, so good. Soft tissue damage can take time to make itself known, but during and after the first class, I had felt the muscle pulls right away. This time, I was feeling all right after "waking up" and cleaning up my gear. I stacked my blanket on the shelves, waiting my turn among the crowd of other women who had carried their own over there too, and smiling unselfconsciously at three or four who I made eye contact with before my blanket was stowed.
Then I picked up my shirt off my yoga mat and pulled it back on, pretending not to notice the looks my bare upper body was getting. It was pretty fit looking, slim but with a measure of the wedge-shaped taper which in-shape athletic guys develop. I had been a climber in my youth, and the mysterious transformation had restored that physique.
I waved good-bye to the instructor and left the studio room. I stopped at the front desk to return my rented yoga mat and pick up a new one of my own from their retail selection. The girl at the register grinned cheerfully, observing, "I guess you'll be coming back regularly, then, huh? Do you know about class passes? Ten for the price of seven."
