Wham Bam Than You Ma'am

Divorced and still single, I have my two elementary-school-age children each Wednesday evening and every other weekend, and my social life, what little of it there is, pretty much revolves around them. Though I'm horny as the devil all the time, I'm just not interested in a relationship, and don't really have time for one if I were. I had the kids for the Labor Day weekend, and we planned to watch a video together Saturday night. We're watching all the James Bond movies in the order in which they were released, and View to a Kill—Roger Moore's final 007 film—was on tap.

Having spent the entire day in the blazing hot sun doing yard work and barbecuing, then fixing dinner and cleaning up the kitchen, I just wanted to relax with my kids, watch the movie, and drink a few cold beers. But there were no beers, cold or otherwise, in the house. There are times when you want beer, and there are times when you need beer. I needed beer!

I noticed the previous renters had not "been kind to rewind" the video, so I popped it into the VCR to rewind and told the kids, who were already in their pajamas, to wait for me to go get some beer and that I would be right back in about 10-15 minutes. "OK, daddy, hurry back. It's already 8:11, and the movie's two hours and eleven minutes long," said my daughter, knowing that her little brother generally konks out by ten-thirty.

I zoomed out the driveway, caught every light green, and pulled into the grocery parking lot. Checking my watch as I scurried inside, I saw it was 8:14 PM. I was making excellent time, and figured I'd be back home in ten minutes, no problem, so I made like Carl Lewis back to the beer, grabbed two sixes of Pete's Wicked Ale, and zig-zagged like a tailback to the express check-out line. Superb: The checker was already bagging up a couple ladies' items, and the next person—a goofy-looking 7-foot-tall dude with a bow tie—had only a carton of ice cream. Then I'd be checked out and outa there. It was 8:16 PM.

I looked around. The other lines were long. Were there always this many people shopping at this time of night? I felt fortunate to be in such a short line, and looked forward to being out of there and back home with Bond and beer and kids in just a few minutes.

Then I looked behind me. Ohmygod! Down at the end of the soft drink aisle was a girl with long blonde hair bending down getting a 2-liter Pepsi. What a beauty! What a booty! She had on some tight, low-slung bell-bottoms, and I could not only see the tops of her luscious, fleshy buns, but also the first inch of her crack. She stood up with a giant bag of frozen Totinos pizza rolls swinging in her other hand and walked right in my direction. Short, probably in her early 20s, and with thick, curly blonde hair ¾ the way down her back, she had on a crisp white cotton halter top knotted in tan cleavage over a deep belly button centered in a sexy, bare midriff. Your basic piece of ass.

As she made her way toward me, I heard the lady in my line, who should have been out the door by now, arguing with the checker. "I don't wont them, and I either wont them big ones or my money back!" The checker explained that it was the store's policy to not accept returns of personal care items. I turned around to see what all the fuss was about. The middle-aged lady was wagging her index finger at the checker, and the older woman with her—who looked to be her mother—stood silently there in supportive defiance, lips pooched out with her arms folded tightly across her chest, the tops of her massive brown breasts spilling out over her forearms.

I felt something soft against my arm and spun around. The blonde was behind me in line, and her hair was lightly brushing me as she reached for a Cosmopolitan magazine. Wow, she looked even better up close. I knew I did not know her, yet her face seemed somehow familiar: utterly flawless skin; large, hazel eyes; a pixie nose; very full, slightly flared lips (what I call blow-job lips); and a gently rounded chin. Where had I seen that face before? Then it hit me: she bore an uncanny resemblance to Tanya Roberts, the Bond girl in the very film I was to watch that night! Or had my horniness, combined with extended solar exposure and charcoal fumes, caused me to perceive any good-looking girl as familiar?

Whatever, but there was no doubt the young girl before me was an absolute piece of ass. My eyes wandered down her smooth neck to her cleavage. I could now see that the décolletage was created by a strapless "wonder" bra doing its job on her B-cup breasts. And a wonderful job it was doing, indeed; yet I yearned to free them from restraint.

Gazing further downwards, I visually retraced the vortex of her navel, imagining my tongue swirling in ever-smaller circles until I slurped it deep into the vagina-like cavity. The fade lines in the crotch of her jeans rode over a protruding mons and labial flesh below to converge like vectors in a complex equation with a delightfully simple solution: pussy. I would certainly like to "mount" a scientific expedition there, I chuckled to myself.

My eyes roamed on down her slender legs to cute little bright pink painted toes peaking out the sandals below the cuff of her bell-bottoms.

The condensation dripping off my beer bottles onto my leg snapped me back to the task at hand, and I pried my eyes away to turn back toward the customers who had the line stalled. "I ain't leaving this stow lessin I git them big uns or my money back!" Time: 8:24 PM. Should I take my chances and get in another line or stay put? I scanned the other lines, and then saw young blondie, looking frustrated but too short to see over the magazine rack, look up at me.

"As usual, the line I 'm in is the one not moving. I have that effect on lines, so I take full responsibility," I said to her. While she said, "No, blame me. I'm the one who always brings the line to a screeching halt," I noticed she had the Cosmo open to the article 10 Tricks to Drive Your Man Wild in Bed, or something like that. Anyway, we started talking, and I liked that she was not shy, not to mention her preference in reading material.

No, not shy at all, for when I said I did not know exactly what the problem in our line was, she said, "The lady accidentally got a box of regular rubbers instead of the magnums she intended. She bought them, but realized her mistake before leaving the register. She wants the large size or her money back, but the store's policy is to not refund or exchange that kind of product. Since she never opened them or even left the store with them, she thinks the store should make an exception, and I agree."

Just then, the lady, extremely angry, veritably screamed, "Them rubbas won't fit my mane. He gotta big old cock!" holding her hands up about a foot apart. We cracked up laughing, as did everyone toward the front of the store, and I found my hand touching the side of young blondie's bare waist, looking down at her jiggling cleavage at very close range, as she leaned into me and looked up with those giant blue-gray eyes. She felt GREAT. She looked GREAT. I felt GREAT—momentarily—then TERRIBLE.

What the hell am I doing? I asked myself. I've got a ten- and seven-year-old back at home alone waiting on me to get back to watch a video, I'm already late, and I'm hitting on a chick half my age. Get your goddam beer and get home to your kids ASAP, you motherfucking derelict! So, I slowly caressed my hand around young blondie's waist across her tummy and navel as I pulled away and told her I was jumping ship to another line.

She stayed in the same line for a while longer, until the store manager the checker had been paging finally showed up and got into a further haggle with the lady, then young blondie switched into the line between me and the original line. We exchanged looks and a few more words. At first, my line was moving slowly but surely, then I heard the dreaded words on the intercom, "Price check on lane six!" I was in lane six. By then, young blondie's line started moving quite rapidly, so I switched to her line right behind her just before a frowning lady with a full basket barreled up behind me.

Again, young blondie and I started chatting. I told her I came for COLD beer, but by now it was approaching room temperature. She said, likewise, her Totinos, once frozen, were now practically ready to eat. Once again, we were getting along just marvelously. Every time she'd turn her head, the wonderful scent of her hair wafted into my nose, and, now standing behind her, I could see that she had a beautiful tattoo of a butterfly on her left shoulder. I commented about her hair being so lovely, and she said she had just washed it and took especially good care of it, as it was "After all, the only hair I have—on my entire body." Mmmmmm. When I mentioned I liked her tattoo, she thanked me and said she had another one "hidden, well, not ALWAYS hidden." Mmmmmmm.

This chick was turning me on—at the worst possible time, no less. At this point, there was only one basket, albeit overflowing, in front of us. As the checker raked item after item across the scanner, one of the two fat women with that cart kept going back for more food—Little Debbie's, a stack of frozen pies, two whole cakes, a vat of ice cream. Again and again, she'd go back for more. She was filling the basket up nearly as fast as the checker could ring them up!

Young blondie said that maybe this trip to the store had not been a total waste of time after all, as she had learned a new shopping strategy: Come with a friend, have the friend get in line with an empty basket immediately, then go back and forth through the store and fill up the basket with everything you need. By the time the basket is full, you and your friend have made it through the line to the checker. The way she told this so matter-of-factly, had me and everyone within earshot laughing, except, of course, the two fat ladies in front of us, who shot us several dirty looks.

I scanned the lines again to see how we were progressing. The super-tall, goofy dude with the bow tie, the guy who had been in front of me in the original "express" line, had switched to the longest line of all, yet he was heading out the door with his ice cream. Obviously, he had made a good decision.

At long last, young blondie was up to the register and set her Totinos and Pepsi on the belt. I could now see what the problem was. This checkout guy was moving at a snail's pace. While he slowly scanned her two items, from her tiny purse she moved aside a small flip phone and pulled out a thick stack of bills folded in half. She fanned them, and plucked a one hundred dollar bill to make her small purchase. In fact, all the bills were 100s! At this time, I also noticed that her auto key remote had the big slanting "L" logo on it--Lexus. Now that was odd--a young girl like her with that much cash in large bills and who drove a luxury car--extremely odd, indeed.

Maybe it was because this paradoxical information had me momentarily befuddled, or maybe it was because I was conflicted about my kids waiting at home alone to watch the movie, but I barely mustered a half smile and said nothing to young blondie when she picked up her bag, looked back at me, smiled, and said, "Well, bye for now," and then turned and glided toward the door like a leopard.

I looked back over my shoulder to the "express" line. The lady and the store manager were STILL haggling about the prophylactics. "We gone be here all night 'til I git my money or the big rubbas!" she said for the umteenth time. Hell, I had three Trojan Large condoms in my waist pack, and I seriously thought about handing them over to her!

The notion of sex refocused my attention back to young blondie, and I looked up just as she disappeared through the automatic door into the darkness outside. It was only then that I finally realized that I had to catch her and make THE MOVE. I mean, I could be with my kids for the rest of the weekend, but how many times in a lifetime do you meet a certified piece of ass who obviously likes you, only to let her get away?

Second question: how long does it take to ring up two six-packs of beer and make change from a twenty? An incredibly long time, in this particularly time-sensitive case. Because the checker was not paying attention and yacking with a co-worker, he dropped my change into the crack in the belt, saying to the sacker. "There was your favorite customer again, Darrel. Wooeee!" "You show said it right, Isaiah. She be the hottest ho in midtown! Ow!"

"Gentlemen," I interrupted, "Forget about the lost change, forget about a sack, and give me my beer immediately, because I gotta go get that girl!" And with that I snatched the Wicked Ale from Darrel's hands and literally ran out the door.

I scanned the parking lot for long blonde hair. Nothing. I jumped up on top of the line of nested shopping baskets for a better view. Zilch. With my encyclopedic knowledge of autos, my mind rapidly flashed mental images of all Lexus models while my eyes searched the lot. No match, not a single Lexus in the whole lot. Damn, damn, damn! Where on Earth could young blondie have disappeared to so quickly?

Since I'm totally anal about my own car, I had parked it, as usual, way around the side of the grocery building 40 yards from the nearest other vehicle. Cursing myself out loud for not seizing the moment as I made my way to my car, I lit a cig and cracked open a barely cool beer with the Swiss Army Knife on my key chain. Oh shit, it was 8:44; I'd already been gone over half an hour. Gotta get back to my kids.

Just as I slipped the key in the ignition, I saw exhaust fumes billowing from the other side of the dumpster—the one place I could not see when I scanned the lot—so I jumped out to see what kind of car it was—a Lexus LS 400!!!

It was idling, and, from the rear, I could see that there was no one in the driver's seat, but the dark outline of someone in the front passenger seat was just barely visible. That would just have to be young blondie, so I gleefully ran up to the window only to see that it was a dog-faced old fat bitty with that you-come-one-step-closer-and-I'll-pepper-spray-your-face grimace. My repeated apologies did nothing to allay her fears, as she hissed something about security, so I scooted back to my car and raised the beer high to empty the last swallow.

It's a good thing I did that before getting back in my car, for it caused me to gaze well beyond the bounds of the grocery parking lot. Across the major thoroughfare on the far sidewalk was none other than young blondie striding along!!! In addition to her grocery bag in one hand, she now had a bag of Dunkin' Donuts in the other. Well, maybe she didn't have the most nutritious diet, but I now assimilated what had happened. She was ON FOOT--not driving--and must have taken a sharp right out the grocery door around the nearby corner of the building and thus out of sight and then walked across the street to the donut shop.

As this came together in my mind, I set a new human land speed record for the 40-yard-across-six-lanes-of-Saturday-night-traffic dash—horns blaring and people saying unseemly things about my mother—to make a beeline to young blondie. She was already laughing at all the commotion I caused before I got to her and, with sweat pouring off my brow, said, "I thought I'd lost you and am so glad I found you. You are incredibly beautiful and sexy. I am extremely hot for you and feel that the only viable option is to extinguish our fire right now."

Her response could not have been more definitive. "Right now? Well, I live only four doors up this side street. We COULD do it right now, but it would be a lot more comfortable at my place. I can wait five minutes; how 'bout you? By the way, my name's Raquel; what's yours?"

And so I took the bag of Totino's and Pepsi, grabbed her hand, and we raced back across the busy street together and got into my car (After all, that's where my beer was!) where I borrowed her cell phone and called home. It was 8:49, and my daughter answered on the first ring. "Honey, Dad's run into a friend at the grocery, and we're going to spend some time together. Why don't y'all each get a big bowl of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food ice cream out of the freezer and just go ahead and watch the movie without me. I'll be home before it's over. OK?"

My daughter seemed a little bit disappointed, and once again, I felt TERRIBLE, but I had made a decision and would see it through. I calculated I would need to be home no later than 11:00 PM if they started the movie immediately and saw it through with no pauses.

Raquel heard the whole phone conversation and saw the ennui in my countenance. "You must be as horny as me to do that, but I'll make the next two hours well worth it, so long as you do your part," Raquel assured me, as she slipped her hand up my shorts and squeezed my cock to full attention. "Mmmmm, nice and hard and thick."

I pulled out of the lot and she went on, "Listen, you seem like a really nice man who knows how to treat a woman like a lady, but I want to tell you up front that I'm not interested in a relationship. I'm a full-time student on academic scholarship with a part-time job, so I have to keep my grades up and, frankly, don't have time for a relationship. I dated the same guy all through high school but when he moved away for college, I quickly learned that a long-distance relationship just does not work for me. I mean, what's the point of having a boyfriend if I've got to wait until Thanksgiving Break to have sex? It broke his heart when I broke that off. I just started college here in town a month ago and found myself going out with this senior right away. We were only on like our fifth date when he asked to marry me! It only took me about another nanosecond to end that."

So, she was even younger than I thought, about 18, maybe 19. Like me, she didn't have the inclination or time for a steady squeeze, but judging from the squeeze on my dick, she knew what she was doing in the sexual relations department and wanted adventure. Perfect.

I pulled into her driveway behind a brand new IS 300 SportCross with the drive-out tag still on it. OK, so there's the Lexus. We went inside the duplex, and she disappeared into the kitchen with the junk food and beer. I heard the microwave humming and sat down on the couch. I noticed a stack of mail on the side table. Her unusual last name was the same as the CEO of a major company headquartered in town. I had interviewed for a job with him less than a year ago, and I realized Raquel must be his daughter. Well, well, small world.

Anyway, her being his daughter would explain the Lexus and all the cash, but I remember he was big on the work ethic, so that would account for her having the part-time job despite the scholarship and Daddy's money. Further, though she really did resemble the Bond girl in the video my kids were watching, her familiarity was probably more attributable to photos I must have seen of her in his office when I interviewed. I vowed to definitely NOT mention that I had met her father, who was the same age as I and, come to think of it, acted and even looked a lot like me. Remembering Freud, I thought she might have what he calls an Elektra Complex—the female corollary to the Oedipus Complex—in which a girl subconsciously wants to have sex with her father and so seeks out men similar to him. Intriguing notion.

Then Raquel appeared, naked, in the doorway, holding a steaming plate of Totino's in one hand and two beers in the other. "The rest of the beers are in the icebox getting colder, I'm getting hotter, and why do you still have your clothes on?"

I have never shucked my clothes so fast, but as I did, I could not take my eyes off her. Free of the push-up bra, she had gorgeous little boobs that swooped down, then out and turned dramatically up. Centered in incongruously broad areolas for B-cup tits were pointy little red nipples, turned somewhat upward, that resembled a baby's fingertips. I was pleasantly reminded that small breasts could be every bit as good as big ones and the old adage, "Big tits does not a beautiful woman make."