Confessions of a Slut

Conventional wisdom says that women over forty years old have trouble finding sex partners. Well, I'm not Miss America and I found sex over forty. A lot of sex. I had twice as many sex partners in my forties as in my thirties. To toot my own horn a bit, I went from being an ugly ducking as a young woman to an attractive swan as a middle-aged woman. Praise the Lord, there is justice in life. If you wait long enough for it -- and work hard enough to get it. I work hard.

When I was forty six I went back to my home town of Kansas City for a visit and there, at a reunion of college buddies, I re-met a man I had not seen for twenty-seven years. Away back in Chapter One, if your recall, I mentioned a wonderful one-night stand I had when I was nineteen. That was John. But we were both cheating -- and we both had attacks of conscience and we didn't repeat the experience.

So suddenly, and by accident, I met this wonderful man again. John was happily married; he had two children, a dog named Spot, and a good job. It sounded like what Republicans call "family values" -- and was very appealing despite the different trajectory of my own life. I didn't tell him I was a recovering alcoholic nor allude to sex experiences with more than one hundred men.

The words pouring out of John. The idyllic marriage had a problem. He told me his wife had multiple sclerosis and as he talked I realized that sex in their marriage had become impossible. He was tied to his home and his needful wife, celibate through loyalty and the demands on his time of a job and his children.

He had no self-pity. It was a frank talk between people who had once been intimate and recaptured that intimacy. When we parted that day, however, his last words were what I wanted to hear. "It was so good to see you again, Becky. Can we meet again? For lunch? Or...uhh...more?"

"I'd love too," I answered without hesitation, "but it has to be soon. I have to go back to work in Thailand in a week." I worked overseas for the State Department as an accountant. "When can we meet? I paused. "For more." My conscience didn't bother me in the slightest. John needed me and I needed to be needed.

His voice lowered and he said confidentially, "How about this Thursday afternoon? Do you want me to arrange something....for more?"

"No need for you to arrange anything," I answered. I'm staying at the Westin downtown, Room three forty seven. Two p.m.?" I pecked him on the cheek and he grinned crookedly, as if he were out of practice at smiling.

I pondered my strategy for our meeting in my hotel room. First was a shower and a trim -- naked pussies were not yet in vogue. Next, clothing. I didn't want to come across as slutty by meeting him in lingerie or fuck-me shoes. Better to appear casual and relaxed and I chose a flowery loose fitting knee-length dress with a scoop neck and spaghetti straps. Every time I wore that dress a man untied the straps. It was old reliable. Bra or no bra? No bra. My boobs were big and firm and my dress permitted the display of a areola with the slightest shrug of my shoulder or slip of the strap. I chose bangs for my thick black hair to cover my worst feature: my face. Well, it wasn't that bad. In fact my face looked pretty good in comparison with some of my previously glamorous, but aging friends. I completed my preparations by applying a subtle perfume.

It was a wonderful afternoon. We talked more than we fucked and that became the pattern for our encounters over the next five years. Whenever I was home from Thailand -- and I made a point to get home every few months -- we met for a stolen afternoon or two, me for sex with a man I loved, he for sex and a release from his onerous home life. Soon -- and my affair with John was a factor -- I quit my job with the State Department abroad to accept a consulting position in Washington. I began to meet him in Kansas City once a month.

Now, let's get on to my favorite position. It's nothing unique or kinky, but it suits the relaxed sex of two old lovers with limited time and a need to talk as well as have sex. The talk begins as we quickly undress, catching up with each other's lives and discussing the most mundane things: the health of my mother, his teen-age daughter's school play, etc.

We lie naked on the bed and kiss, our bodies entwined. Then, I turn over on my back, with one knee bent, and he comes at me from the side, at a right angle, his legs beneath mine and his penis finding my vagina beneath my bended knee. We don't even stop talking as he enters me -- "How did your daughter do in her soccer game?" He pushes forward to get deeper penetration, and I gasp with pleasure. Then, he relaxes and he falls back on his side and his penis slips out of me -- which causes me to utter an even bigger gasp.

The wonders of this position is that we can talk and our hands are free. I feel his penis with a hand and move it inside and outside me, giving myself a clitoral massage. At the same time his hands can rub breasts and my vagina and manipulate his penis to touch me where he knows a touch will do the most good. Neither of us is in any hurry to cum. He has reached an age in which one shot is all you get -- and we both want a good one.

So there we lie, for a half hour or more, talking and feeling each other. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in our conversation that he will go limp. That's good. I like to make him rise again. Sometimes, he will surprise me by suddenly putting his head between my legs and making me cum -- very quickly -- with his mouth. I have to make sure that he doesn't cum prematurely, so I am slow and gentle with my hands, and sparing in the use of my mouth.

We communicate with a nod when it is time for the finale. Sometimes, at this point, he climbs on top of me and we fuck hard. Missionary, all things considered, brings me to a harder and more satisfying climax than anything else. Sometimes, we continue in the relaxed mode without changing position, my hand guiding and holding him inside me and massaging my clitoris as he hunches up over my legs seeking the deep, not finding it, but climaxing in exquisite agony just inside or outside me and spilling cum all over my pubic areas. I like to watch his penis twitching up and down as cum spurts out. I then cum by stroking his wet, half-limp penis with my hand, rubbing it up and down my slit and over my clitoris -- a quiet and almost gentle climax that gives me a sense of well-being rather than huge waves of pleasure.

That's the way we do it. It's a friendly adult fuck, casual and familiar, with no frantic passion but an enduring affection. Sometimes he will answer my last question while I am still in the spasms of orgasm. "Her team won. Three to two."

I had found the love of my life. He was married and had burdensome family responsibilities, but I treasured our time together. I continued to have sex with other men between our encounters, but John was what I had lacked for my whole life -- a man I could love with all my heart. Romance had found me at last.