Pt I
I was one of those young guys who always dropped pencils in class, dreamed about hiding in the girls locker room at the pool, and thought about sex 25 hours a day. Did I do anything about it? Never! I had no line, no guts, and was incredibly shy. Even in the Air Force, I ran from sure things, twice. Once in a girl's apartment in Minnesota, my arriving to take her roller skating while she was still showering was followed by her coming into the living room in a fur coat, plopping herself down on the opposite end of the couch, and demurely opening the coat for my approval. I clearly remember thinking, while I was running down the stairs from her apartment, that she was beautiful and I was very dumb. A couple of years later I went to fix a phone for a young officers wife at a base in Louisiana. While I was checking the lightening protector at the bottom of the basement stairs, she sat on the top step. Legs open. Robe mostly open. A crystal clear, absolute, bona fide invitation. By then, at least, I was no longer a virgin. But did I accept the offering. No! True to form, cussing myself out all the way, I left the house and went back to the telephone central office and my private misery.
Even after 16 years of marriage, when widowed, I couldn't initiate a sexual situation with a woman. By offering my house for parties, Parents Without Partners at least afforded me the opportunity to meet people in a situation where everyone came to me. That, at least, got me to know some women. Some of them even wanted to date me (bless this new morality) and broached the subject when it became clear that I seemed incapable of asking them. One of them, after a couple of dates, asked me if I wanted to make love to her. I did and I did.
Once started, I am a good lover. I'm caring, slow, very attentive, and work very hard to satisfy (and get a lot of satisfaction in return.) And where I can comfortably talk to ten or a hundred people, about any topic, I can't talk intelligently to one woman in whom I am sexually interested. Besides the world of business, where I am a fairly senior company manager who never appears shy or tongue tied, I was also a very popular discussion leader in PWP; especially if the evenings topic contained sexual overtones. And, of course, in a singles club full of people who are struggling with dramatic personal/social changes, via divorce or the death of a mate, every topic is fraught with overtones of some type. People found me to be open, frank, informative (I believe), and always packed the discussions in which I was scheduled to be the moderator. But, one on one . . .?
Anyway, that was when I was about 36. I was married again for ten years and then my wife and I decided to separate while we were still friends. The first time there was an opportunity for me to recover youthful losses there was Herpes (not only a good excuse to keep it in my shorts, but a very scary disease.) Then in my 46th year a second chance; except for AIDS. But, I'm not cut out for celibacy, so some degree of risk must be taken.
In my avocation as a part time Handyman, mostly for older people, I have built up a nice clientele by referral. People know that I charge reasonably, do good work, and can be trusted with the keys to the house. Now, although I have not met too many women around my age (50) who have fit into my mental profile of delectable, I also am old enough to know that very young women are nice to look at but better lovers require some aging. Here it comes.
Pt II
The work I had been doing for a sixty-three year old lady in Anaheim was the type where progress is slow because of the difficulty in recreating crown and chair rail molding that no one has made in fifty years. So the effort on that and other tasks had been going on for months. Periodically, while working in the house, the lady's divorced daughter would come over to visit her. If I was working in a room where it was convenient, they would often include me in their conversations. So, the daughter and I were not strangers.
For the last three weeks of June, the owner went on an extended bus tour with a lot of other elderly people from her "club", leaving me the key so I could continue my work. Knowing she would not be home for that length of time, I had planned on doing some of the really messy work when I didn't have to worry about constantly cleaning as I went along.
Arriving at the house at about 8:00 on that first Saturday, I dragged in the oak paneling and started back out for the plaster board when Pam (THE thirty-two year old daughter) enters the dining room area with one towel wrapped around her body, toweling her hair with another. I stared. She yelped. I left saying I would wait in the back yard until she was dressed. During the ten minutes that that took, I went through more fantasies in my mind than this essay has room to relate. But most of them focused on my favorite subject; tasting her to confirm my belief that she would taste very good when she was reqady to be loved. Even in my limited experience, I'm amazed at the number of women who do not seem to know that a simple soapy wash cloth applied diligently to every luscious fold and crevice, front and back, can be the prelude to long duration pleasure. I always form an opinion of how women I find desirable will taste. Being me, however, I almost never get to find out if my guess is correct. But since I had decided that Pam would taste good, my fantasies revolved around at least a half hour of carefully determining if I was right. By the time Pam was dressed I had myself thoroughly convinced that two tries would be required; once before we made love, and once after she came the first time. The change in the texture of a women's lubrication after she comes, and the marked increase in glucose, absolutely fascinates me.
Letting me know she was dressed, my work began, and the talk. Subject to subject, as idle conversations always go. She finally commented that she had decided to stay over at her mothers so that we could visit while I was working and she wouldn't feel so alone on another weekend. She just hadn't anticipated such an early arrival on my part. During lunch break there was an item on the news station of the radio in which Dr. Joyce Brothers stated that a recent survey showed that 65% of the women polled felt that their sexual relationships were unfulfilling. I commented that that was a shame. Pam said that she felt that the fault rested squarely on the shoulders of the men involved. I admitted that there was probably an appreciable percentage of cases where that was true, but that she shouldn't dismiss the fact that many women contribute significantly in a number of ways also, enlightenment on matters sexual being the most prevalent.
That theme pretty much prevailed during the rest of the day. At times I launched into my old PWP lead role of John teaching the masses. We touched on style, variety, communication, patience, hygiene, mood, all in a very cool, detached manner. In fact I was anything but cool and detached. By then my most earnest goal was to be attached to this beautiful women. Face first and then cock first. By now I new her well enough that I wanted to "communicate" with her. In my mind, long-duration lovemaking is my way of demonstrating to a woman I feel strongly about how much I care about her. There are no words that can replace the actions of caring lovers making love to each other. That is communicating on a level which leaves no doubts.
Finally I finished my work, cleaned up, said good-bye, went home.
Pt III
On the following Saturday morning I woke up fantasizing about Pam. Would she be there again? Should I arrive at nine so as not to "catch" her again? Should I arrive at eight to be predictably consistent? How could I convince her to change into nylons and a garter belt, a skirt and blouse, with no panties or bra, and get up on the top of a ladder while I held it for her from below? Could I get her to spill something in her lap and then offer to lick it clean for her? Would she think it was too obvious if I brought in my Polaroid camera to take the "after" pictures before I was even finished with my work? Those kind of thoughts continued all through the drive to her mother's house. How I kept from being killed on the Riverside Freeway that morning is a wonder. All I could see in front of me was what I imagined her body would look like; as the towel fell slowly to the floor; as we lay reverse to each other, her over me, sucking each others nipples as we moved toward the real treats; as she crawled lithely across the bed on all fours, back arched, ass high, pussy lips slightly open and inviting. Finally I pulled into the driveway, put on my tool pouch, grabbed some other tools I might need, and let myself in the back door.
The shower was running. It was 8:00 exactly. This had to be an invitation, didn't it? Quietly I walked through the living room, into the hall, and found the bathroom door slightly open. A definite invitation, right? Having painted that bathroom five weeks before I knew that you could only get an oblique view of the bath tub from the door. But the new shower doors I had installed were three-section sliders; one is a mirror, one is patterned, and one is clear glass. She was primarily behind the worst two and the clear one was spotted and kind of steamy. But eventually she moved back to the clear one so that the water would hit the lower part of her body as she rinsed off. I was quaking with sexual energy. What I could see was gorgeous. She sort of pushed her hips forward as she obviously rinsed her pussy. Then she turned her back to the shower (and me), thrust her ass out and wiped soap out of the crevice of her ass. In the few brief seconds of viewing her I could have been whipped by any kitten I was so shaky and weak kneed. I ducked back toward the living room before she turned off the shower, banging my damn hammer on a parsons table in the hall.
Now my primary problem was to be in a not-too-obvious location if she repeated the towel on the body routine so that I could look at her longer before we "discovered" each other and went on to the "yelp!" bit. Since I had to remove the base molding by the step into the kitchen, I crouched down there and watched the archway from the hallway. Sure enough, here she came. Towel and all (or towel and nothing else). She didn't see me right away and walked over toward the window. When she lifted the bottom of the blinds to look out in the driveway she bent down, the towel crept up in the back, I began to salivate. Knowing I had to do something I pried out on the molding (now with my back to her), it groaned after 65 years of not moving, she yelped, I jumped up and stared. BUT I DIDN'T RUN OUT OF THE HOUSE. I also didn't move. Just stared. Pam had to walk somewhat toward me to get back to the hallway and she did, slowly. She stopped about eight feet from me and asked me why I was staring at her. Because you're beautiful was my horse reply. She said she thought I would have sense enough to arrive later after having this same thing happen the previous week. My thought was to be consistent was my response. Well, replied she, if you're waiting for the towel to come loose you have a long wait. I didn't say anything. I was too busy willing the towel to do just that. Well say something, John, she finally blurted. I barely got out some statement about the longer we stood there the longer I got to look at her and dream. Off she went. DAMN. How come tons of men would have done or said something worthwhile, and I get her to leave the room. My sergeant used to call me Dip Shit. He probably knew how I would turn out.
Slowly I went back to work. About twenty minutes later she came back into the room and walked up behind me. Before I could turn around she said, "I owe you an apology, John. My game didn't turn out the way I thought it would. I shouldn't have tried it. I'm old enough to know better."
Now I turned around and looked up at her from my position on the floor. She was in a pale blue buffed cotton robe that reached down to her ankles. "I'm not good at boy/girl games, Pam," I explained, "but you are truly beautiful."
"Well, I was going to prove to myself that you were not like your words, but just like any other man who will jump at the chance for a quick piece and then be gone. This was all a set-up. I even left the bathroom door ajar for you."
