The Summer of '79

It's evening now. Six hours since we cremated Fred, and two hours since Eric brought me home from the reception. He's a good boy, everything we could have wanted in a son. It seems amazing to think he'll turn 40 next year, to me he'll always be my little boy. Fred loved him dearly too; he never said anything, ever, but over the years, I've sometimes wondered whether he questioned, in his mind, how a second generation blond Norwegian and a leggy Boston Irish redhead could have produced a kid with black hair and Hispanic skin tone. My one, very brief, discretion in more than 45 years of marriage.

God it was hot that summer, must have been in the high 80s that particular August day. We'd just moved to California for Fred's job, and I was really feeling it, missing the cool breeze off Lake Michigan I'd so taken for granted before in our pokey little cottage. With the old, faltering a/c in our new apartment I felt hot and clammy in just a sleeveless cotton blouse, thong panties, tennis skirt, all white, and bare feet. The bangs of my short Shirley MacLaine cut stuck to my forehead, and my blouse adhered to my skin, my nipples poking through it. For once I was happy that summer to only have A-cup boobs and not have to don a bra.

Fred and I were going through a rough patch around that time, not that that's any excuse for what happened. We'd wed six years earlier, when I was 32 and he was 38, just six months after meeting, his second marriage, my first; that's not to say I'd been an on-the-shelf spinster before I met him, I'd had my fun. We never talked about whether we wanted kids, I guess we just both assumed it would happen but, well, it didn't. We'd been happy in our little Milwaukee suburb, but then the Bureau transferred Fred to the Santa Clara field office, and when the Bureau says go you go. Okay it was a promotion, a good one, but it meant leaving my cosy home, and my friends, and the job I was happy in.

We'd been in SC three weeks, none of the local dental surgeons were in immediate need of a trained nurse-receptionist, and with no car yet I was pretty much stuck in the apartment all day. Our immediate neighbours were a grouchy old foreign lady who smelled of cat pee and a yuppie couple who seemed to leave at dawn and return at midnight every day. That morning Fred and I had had the I-earn-enough-for-both-of-us argument again and when the entry buzzer sounded I'd just spent two minutes screeching and wrenching at the door of the loaded washing machine which had decided it didn't feel like unlocking right now. Incoherent with rage, wild-eyed, red-faced and wreathed in sweat I stomped to the front door and snapped "What?"

After a couple of seconds pause a hesitant male voice said "Is that Mrs Kathleen Nordstrom? I'm from Consolidated General, I have some insurance papers for you to review...if now's a good time for you?"

Wordlessly I buzzed him in. Pushing my sticky hair back off my forehead (which I realised late had made it look like a cockatoo's crown), and asking myself why the freaking company couldn't make a freaking appointment, I counted to five to give the guy time to climb the stairs then dragged the door open - to the most beautiful man I had ever seen.

He was like a kind of Latino Omar Sharif, a couple of inches shorter than me, probably ten years younger, black hair, business cut but think and wavy, flashing dark eyes, neat mustache, sensuous lips and the whitest of white teeth. He was wearing a tan three-piece suit and a wide tie in muted tones, but the top button of his white shirt was undone, revealing a few curls of chest hair. I didn't understand why but my gut lurched as I just stood there staring open-mouthed at him like a goofball. Maybe he'd already sensed the impact his appearance had had on me but his smile widened and after a few seconds he asked, "May I, erm, come in?"

Feeling flushed with embarrassment as well as the heat now, I led him into the lounge, apologised for the crappy a/c and asked if he'd like a drink; in response he asked for an orange juice. In the kitchen I splashed a little water on my face, asking myself why I was behaving like a crazy lady. I poured us each an OJ and tipped a splash of vodka into mine to try and calm myself - maybe a little too much vodka. (God, I can feel myself heating up now just thinking back to that day, for the first time in years.)

When I returned to the lounge I found Daniel, as he'd introduced himself, comfortably seated on the couch in his shirt sleeves and vest, an attaché case open at his feet and a sheaf of papers in his lap. I couldn't help but notice that he checked me out head to foot, his eyes lingering briefly on my legs, which were pretty shapely in those days. He said he'd like to talk me through the insurance schedule and I lowered myself onto the couch beside him, leaving a decent few inches between us. As I sat my little skirt rode up slightly and I self-consciously tugged it down.

We chatted for about 20 minutes, Daniel making little jokes as he worked through the pages, openly flirting with me, and by the time we finished the few inches had somehow disappeared, and I could feel the material of his pants leg resting against my bare thigh, his hear radiating through the cloth. I looked up to find his face inches from mine, his eyes locked on mine. We were so close I could actually smell mint and a hint of orange on his breath. Our eyes still locked, he rested his hand on my leg, just above my knee, which could have been an innocent gesture, and said softly "Well, Kathy, that's it...unless you need anything else from me." The thumb on my bare skin started to stroke in a small circle, over and over, causing my flesh to goosepimple.

I knew I should brush his hand away and stand: my brain was screaming at me to do so, and I tried, I really did, but my arms refused to move. My entire body felt frozen stiff, yet at the same time on fire, as the hand inched up my thigh and slipped under the hem of my skirt. I swallowed hard and, finally finding some resolve, I mumbled, "Look, I think you'd better..."

Just what I thought he'd better do at that moment neither of us ever found out, because Daniel leaned onto me, forcing me into a semi-recumbent position, and pressed his lips onto mine, his tongue racing into my gasping mouth. At the same time his wandering hand cupped my snatch, a finger pressing through my panties and running the length of my gash. I tried to press my hands to his chest to push him away but they somehow missed and circled his back, pulling him more firmly onto me. The hand under my skirt scooped my legs up onto the couch and then he was on top of me, , his tongue exploring my mouth, a hand slipping inside my blouse to cup one of my little tits, and a rock-hard bulge throbbing against my soaking panties.

With both hands Daniel gripped my blouse and ripped it open, a button pinging off somewhere, and his mouth switched onto one of my pink berry nipples, his fingers stroking and tweaking the other one. Even as I gasped "No, I can't, we mustn't" I let him lift my ass to pull down my panties, and lift one of my legs onto the back of the couch. Then he slipped onto his knees on the floor and his head pressed between my legs.

Oh my god, I was in ecstasy as Daniel's tongue licked and probed my snatch, his fingers pulling my pussy lips wide apart. Fred had never been the most adventurous lover and the last guy who'd done this to me, more than ten years before, was strictly amateur compared to Daniel. I'd never in my life felt such wild, extreme arousal, and when he started nibbling and licking my clit, fucking me with several fingers, I thought I might actually lose my mind as I screamed my joy. The series of orgasms I enjoyed, my hips gyrating, Daniel's mouth riding me like a bucking bronco, was so intense it wouldn't have surprised me if my cervix had burst out of my body, or I'd started to run inside out. He kept on licking at me, his hands gripping my thighs so hard her left red marks, until I finally sank back, panting hard, into the couch. Then he was on top of me again, his hands massaging my boobs, his tongue down my throat as I sucked my own rich. Sweet nectar off it.

As Daniel stood I just lay there, thighs still wide apart, with no feelings of guilt, shamelessly displaying my hairy, sticky twat to him as he kicked off his shoes, ripped off his tie and dropped his pants and boxers. My eyes widened when I saw his stiff cock; Fred had nothing to be ashamed of but, Christ, this guy was built like a freaking bull - it looked almost as long and thick as my goddamn forearm. Still dressed from the waist up and wearing his socks, he fell back onto me and, with no preamble, slid his first few inches into me. He gave me a second or two to get accustomed to it then gave me the rest of it, screwing me in a fast, steady rhythm. I wrapped my legs around him, locking my ankles behind him, and gripped his shoulders, gasping and gurgling as he hammered at me with all his strength. At first I thrust back at him but I couldn't match his pace and I just sank back and let him pound at me, his eyes closed, his breath coming in deep gasps. I had never felt so stretched and filled.

I don't know how long he lasted - I know I came several times - before finally, with a bellow, he buried his dick in me to the hilt and I felt a physical jolt as his load torpedoed into me. He sank down on top of me and we lay holding each other and kissing for a few minutes, my sweat soaking into his shirt, our legs entwined, before he rose, wiped his cock dry with my panties and went to the bathroom. I simply lay, still entirely exposed, and watched him dress. He slipped my soiled panties into the pocket of his jacket, placed his business card between two of my toes and, blowing me a kiss, murmured "So long Kathy, you know where I am if you want me."

After I heard the entry door click shut I fell asleep, probably for a couple of hours. I awoke to realise with shock that Fred would be home in about a half-hour. In a blur of panic I rushed around washing our glasses, sponging the cushions of the sofa and showering. As I scrubbed hard at my vag I felt hot tears of shame trickling down my cheeks. I was just towelling myself dry as Fred came through the front door. Too weary to cook I ordered in Chinese. I was felt consumed by guilt, and I was still sore from the rough pounding Daniel had given me, but Fred and I made love that night. When, a few weeks later, my doctor confirmed I was pregnant Fred was delighted, but I had no doubt whose baby was growing inside of me.

I never contacted Daniel again, though god knows I wanted to. I actually saw him a year or so later: I was at the mall and saw him walking towards me, carrying a grocery bag in his arms. My heart was pounding, and I readied myself to greet him, but he walked past apparently without even recognising me; his eyes passed across my face but there wasn't even a twitch, no suggestion that we'd ever met. I felt so, so deflated for a while after that.

Fred and I had a loving marriage bringing up Eric, of whom we were both so proud. In the week since he died I've missed my husband deeply, and I always will; but I suspect it's memories of my Mexican bull that are going to give me physical and emotional release in the years ahead of me.