Preface: I have always believed you should love a person, or at least, like them, before engaging in sexual intercourse. On one occasion however, I learned the rich rewards of carnal animosity.
"Hi. This is Laureen. Remember me?" the voice on the phone chirped.
Although it had been a good five years since I last saw her, it took me about a millisecond to make the connection. The name instantly summoned up the image of a tall, rather thin, curly-headed blond in a dress that exposed a great deal of decent leg. Laureen had attended a vocational school where one of the courses taught people how to build stringed instruments. She had enrolled and by the end of the school year, had built a guitar... almost. Unfortunately, she was unable to finish it within the allotted time limit. Before being playable, the guitar first required a few crucial operations performed on it. A mutual friend had suggested that Laureen hire me do the work, since he knew I was competent to complete it. He explained the whole situation to me over the phone and I accepted the project. He dropped off the unfinished instrument the next day.
A couple of weeks later, the work had been completed and I gave her a call. The day Laureen came to pick it up, my friend, Dan, happened to be visiting. She strummed a few chords while sitting on the couch, finally able to play her creation for the first time.
"It's a pretty nice sounding guitar, considering it's your first," I told her.
She seemed quite pleased with it. As she focused on her fingers, Dan and I focused on the view. We ogled her long legs, nicely displayed in a short skirt made shorter by the act of sitting. I almost laughed out loud when Dan mimed stuffing his tongue back into his head with his fingers.
After paying me for my work, Laureen left. We watched from the window, enjoying one final glimpse as she walked to her car. Before getting there, however, she dropped her keys and bent over to reveal flowered panties that stretched tightly across her bulbous ass. For some reason, I suspected she knew we were watching. She sat down in the driver's seat and swung her right leg into the car while leaving her left foot on the pavement-- just long enough for us to grab a good look at her camel toe.
As the car pulled away Dan confessed, "If the show had been any longer I'd be in your bathroom right now."
"Stay out of my bathroom," I advised.
A few weeks later I received an email from Laureen thanking me again for the good job I did on her guitar. She said she loved being able to tell people that "I built it all by myself". I wrote back thanking her for thanking me (?!) and that I thought she was a lovely woman.
Five years later Ms. Legs was on the phone.
"Yes, I remember you," I replied.
"Do you still do guitar work?" she asked.
"Yes I do", I answered, feeling that there may be reason to live after all. "What do you have?"
"Nothing major, I think my guitar just needs a little adjustment," she answered. "It's getting a kind of hard to play."
"Sure, I can take a look at it."
We agreed on a day we both had free and made a date that I could examine her instrument.
At the appointed time, I happened to see her car pull up and watched as she approached my door. I don't believe I would have recognized her. She was still reasonably attractive, but her hair was now dark and she had put on a bit of weight in five years. She was wearing a longer dress this time, displaying a pair of rather chubby knees. Don't get me wrong, I like women with some meat on their bones. It was just that the change was rather striking.
The guitar work was an easy ten minute job that was performed while she waited. Afterward she asked what she owed me.
I said, "It was nothing, no charge."
"Won't you please let me give you something?" she insisted.
"You could have a drink with me," I smiled.
"Sure," she smiled in return.
It was a pleasant day. We sat on the deck with our drinks, exchanging small talk. I asked her if she had built any other instruments since graduating. I was not surprised to hear she hadn't. Building a guitar is a long, complex project and she had come to me for a fairly easy adjustment. Again, Laureen said she really loved impressing people with the fact that she had built the guitar. She went on to add that she had moved to Kentucky after graduation and was in the area only for another week visiting friends and family.
"I never forgot your email where you said that I was a lovely woman. That was very nice, thank you." We had another drink as our talk turned less superficial and a bit flirty. I showed her my new digital camera and took a few photos of her. She seemed to enjoy posing for me and at one point, pulled the straps of her dress down to bare her shoulders. It exposed a little cleavage as well. Feeling the drinks, she shared a little story about meeting a couple of delivery men at her front gate one day, wearing only a t-shirt and nothing else. She said it was pretty short and barely covered the goods. "After I turned to walk into the house, I could feel their eyes all over my ass," she recounted with a naughty twinkle in her eye.
Hmm... a tease. I believe I felt something below my belt move.
Laureen said she had decided to go back to college and get her Ph.D. She had been out of college for quite a few years and I asked what prompted her return. With a wicked gleam in her eye she explained, "I want to get a very important job somewhere so I can order lots of people around and make the men under me squirm."
What a noble motivation to seek higher learning, I thought sarcastically. This girl had some issues.
My good sense told me to get this woman the hell out of my house, but my extremities said, "not so fast Einstein, we have needs too." As with other men (of the male persuasion), I find that once the love lizard is awakened it's difficult to get him back into the cage.
Back in the kitchen, while I made our third drink, she said, "I really wish you would take something for your work."
In my head, Mr. Johnson whispered, "A blow job! A blow job!"
"I'll take a hug, if you can spare one," I replied, thinking that this might be a good starting point.
