Cougar and Her Five Virginal Cubs

Chapter Four - The Introduction

One day, shortly after Anthony's naked sighting of her, Kathleen walked through the park. Out of character for her to be there, in our little domain, it was shocking to see her walking through the park, our park. Maybe, we wouldn't have been so surprised by the sight of her had she been walking Barky, but she was alone. The somewhat good Catholics that we were, always feeling guilty, we looked at one another, while wondering why she was here walking through the park alone.

I suddenly felt guilty about Anthony supposedly seeing her naked and about talking about her being naked. With bad foreboding washing over me, I suspected she had a reason for being there. Maybe she heard and/or saw the five of us peeping at her, when she climbed the fence that morning to walk barking, while flashing us her panties. Maybe her routinely flashing her panties to us was, indeed, perhaps inadvertent, and now she was going to confront us with her indignation, along with her Irish temper. Suddenly, I was sick to my stomach. For sure, I didn't want her confronting my mother, especially not telling my father, that his son is a pervert.

Even though she lived across from the park and had every right to be there, walking through the park was something she never did the entire time she lived there. Normally, when she walked to the store to buy her groceries, she walked around the exterior of the park, staying on the sidewalk to get from her house to the store and back, probably to avoid us bunch of perverts staring at her. This day, was different. This day, she sought us out. This day, I'll never forget for as long as I live because this was the beginning of a sexual adventurous journey, a rite to passage road, that we all willingly and happily took with her.

"Hi," she said with a wave of her little hand, while walking over to us. "I'm Kathleen," she said with a smile that made my heart melt, when I realized just how beautiful she was up close. "I live over there," she said turning to point to her apartment windows. We didn't even turn to acknowledge where she was pointing, as we all intimately knew where she lived. "I have the little dog," she said looking at our stunned faces, as if trying to explain something in a foreign language. "You may have seen me walking him in the cemetery."

"Yeah, yeah," said Ralph, "sure, sure, that barking Beagle. I think I remember you, now. I thought you looked familiar," he said with a sly grin.

Maybe if you lifted your skirt, along with your leg to show us your panties, we'd remember better, who you were, I thought to myself, while thinking of her creamy, white thighs, round, firm ass, and bright white, bikini panties.

"That's his name," she said with a little laugh.

"What's his name? Beagle?" Ralph gave her a look of confusion, as if thinking why someone would name a Beagle, Beagle.

"No, Barky," she said laughing. "His name is Barky. He's been barking, since the first day I got him from the dog pound, so I figured that was a good name for him."

"I'm Ralph, the brains of this group," he said with a laugh. "That skinny, little kid over there is Joey, the good looking one is Freddie, the Italian looking one is Anthony, and Stephen is the lawyer and wannabe detective of the group," said Ralph introducing all of us to her.

"Hi, I'm Kathleen," she said smiling, while making eye contact with each of us and shaking hands with everyone.

Strange that she shook hands with us all, I've never shaken hands with a woman before. I remember she had really soft hands, especially after comparing her hands to my rough and calloused hands from playing baseball and lifting weights. When shaking hands with her, I felt as if I was shaking hands with my teacher or my aunt, even though I never shook hands with my teacher or my aunt. She was so much older than us, but there was something special about her. Her blue eyes were piercing in the way that Paul Newman's eyes came through the screen, when he played against Elizabeth Taylor in the movie, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

She was pretty, prettier than any teacher or aunt that any of us had, and so much prettier up close, instead of from the distance we usually see her from, when watching her climb over the cemetery fence to flash us her panties. Moreover, she had freckles. Too focused on watching her flash us her panties than looking at her pretty face, I never noticed how beautiful she was, and she was. With the flash of her panties holding my interest, sexual and otherwise, I never realized how pretty she was, that is, until now. I don't know what it is about freckles, but there's something sexy about a woman with freckles.

I knew she wanted something and I looked at her waiting for her to tell us what it was she wanted. Hoping for the best, while expecting the worst, I figured she'd call us all perverts for watching her climb over the fence to walk her dog. Yet, justifying my feeling of guilt, if she didn't want us to see her panties, all she had to do was to turn away from us and climb the fence with her right leg, instead of her left. Then, I figured that maybe she was here because she wanted to see which one of us peeped on her last night. Maybe Anthony was telling the truth after all. Maybe Anthony did see her naked. Maybe, after she was done being embarrassed, she was outraged and wanted to give us all a piece of her mind.

"I need someone to help me paint," she said making eye contact with me, before briefly glancing at the others. "Is anyone interested in making twenty bucks?"

She looked at all of us, in the way that a drill sergeant would look down a line of pitiful recruits or a prison guard would look at a bunch of new prisoners. For someone who looked so pretty and acted so nice, for some reason, I suspected that she had a dark side. Hoping I was wrong about her, I hoped her dark side was a sexy side, instead. Being that I was still a virgin, I didn't know which. Certainly, I couldn't tell a dark side from a sexy side of a woman, unless she hit me in the back of the head with a baseball bat. Even then, I'd question her meaning, while wondering about her intent.

Nonetheless, even with the distraction of her standing in front of me, temporarily quelling my sexual lust for her, the offer of earning a quick twenty dollars reverberated through my horny brain. At a time when a brand new '68, albeit a stripped Chevy Impala station wagon cost my Dad a few dollars over $2,800 and my Dad was making $150 a week working at the Post Office, twenty bucks for a few hours work was a lot of money back then. I remember looking at my friends and none of them answering her.

No doubt, taking in by her beauty, as much as I was, we all just stared at her. Obviously stunned by her presence and her voluptuous body, this was the first time we had seen her close up. This was the first time we ever saw her face, as we were always staring at her legs and in between her legs at her panties. She was a very good looking woman and she had tits, big tits, a rack, actually, definitely a full C cup. So preoccupied with her flashing us her panties, how in the Hell did we miss that she had big tits, too?

If I was to describe her now, I remember she had blue eyes, auburn hair, and freckles. The more that I looked at her, the prettier she became. She reminded me of someone, but who? Haley Mills? Tuesday Welds? Ann Margret? Maybe. I remember it really bothering me that I couldn't figure out, who it was she looked like and who it was she reminded me of, but she looked vaguely familiar, as if I had met her before or seen her somewhere before, but when and where?

"What about you?" She stared right at me, as if I was the only one there. "What's your name, again?"

I melted under her stare. Immediately, I was in love. Definitely, I was in lust. At that point, I would have painted for free, so long as I could stare back at her, in the way that she was staring at me.

"Freddie," I said trying my best not to stare at her big tits. "My name is Freddie."

"Well, Freddie," she said with a smile that made me want to confess to her that I was deeply, madly, and instantly in love with her. "Do you want to make twenty bucks?"

People were always picking me for things. I was a good looking kid back then, the best looking one of the bunch, which was the reason, no doubt, why she picked me. Everyone told me that I looked a little like a cross between Ricky Nelson and Clint Walker because, broader in the shoulders than my friends, I wasn't a skinny little thing like Ricky Nelson. Where all my friends were 100% Italian and looked every bit of their heritage, I looked more like my Dad, who was English and migrated here from the mid-west, when he was stationed in Charlestown, across the harbor from Boston, during World War II. After spending time in Boston, he met my Mom at a USO dance and he never returned home to Kansas and to the family farm.

Besides, my friends never volunteered for anything. Even if she offered to pay them one hundred bucks to paint, they'd never volunteer. They were all too lazy. Moreover, their parents would kill them, if they went into a stranger's house, even after being invited, especially if she was a woman, who lived alone. A time just after the Boston Strangler had been caught, with suspicions still running high, she could be a serial killer for all we knew. Definitely, I was the nicest one of the bunch of those goofs anyway. Truth be told, she was better off choosing me to help her paint her apartment than picking any one of them.

"Go ahead, you go," said my friend Stephen looking at me to wink at me, while giving me a nudge in the ribs. "You're the artist in the group. You're good at painting," he smiled, while giving me that look, which read that he wanted me to go, so that I could tell him everything that happened later. "He's a good painter," he said nodding his head to Kathleen. "He'll do a good job for you."

There was no way I could turn down twenty bucks and he knew it, especially after giving me that look, you know the look, the one where your friend stares at you, nods his head, and gives you the wink. With twenty bucks, at twenty-five cents a string or movie, I could bowl 80 strings of candlepin bowling or watch 40 movies. At fifty cents a seat, I could sit in the bleachers at Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox lose 40 games or at seventy-five cents a seat, I could comfortably lounge in the grandstands for 30 games.

All of my friends had money, their Dad's had better jobs than my Dad or owned their own businesses. A time, when employers weren't hiring teenagers without experience, the only jobs we could get were as a busboy, a stock clerk, and a mail clerk. All those jobs paid minimum wage. With the minimum wage, back then, at $1.60 an hour, twenty dollars was more money than I could earn in a day. After taking out taxes, I'd have to work two, full, eight hour days to net $20.00.

"Sure, lady, I'll help you. When do I start?"

I figured she'd say tomorrow, or hopefully the week end, or even next week to give me some time to masturbate over the visualization of helping her to paint her walls. I wondered if she'd paint, while wearing a miniskirt. I imagined all the up skirts she'd give me, when climbing the ladder or bending at the waist to dip her brush. I hoped she'd wear something low cut to give me some down blouse views, while giving me up skirt ones, too.

"Kathleen, please call me Kathleen," she said with a smile. "You'd make me feel like my mother, if you called me lady. Only, don't call me Kathy or Kate. My name is Kathleen."

"Okay, Kathleen, when do I start with the painting?"

"Well," she said looking down at her watch and back up at me. Fortunately, she had pretty blue eyes, the kind of eyes that I couldn't help yourself from staring at them and at her, which helped me from staring at her breasts. "What are you doing now?"

"Now?"

I figured I had a few hours to kill. I had just graduated from high school and, since I wouldn't be going to college, I didn't have to find a job, until after the summer. It was the first year of the draft lottery and with my draft number 306 out of a possible 365, and the army only drafting up to 180, I had scored a high enough number that guaranteed me of not going to Viet Nam, unless I was dumb enough to enlist in the Marines.

Different than today with financial aid, there were no college loans back then. Unless I went to a state school to become a teacher, I could only go to college, if I were rich or if I were bright enough to get a scholarship. Suffice to say that I wasn't rich enough to afford college or smart enough to win a scholarship. None of the kids from the neighborhood went to college, unless they went to night school, while working a full-time job during the day or if they found a job, where their employer sent them to a job related school and paid for their education. Then, there were the gung-ho dumb asses that joined the Marines figuring that they'd go to college under the G. I. Bill, after they returned home from Viet Nam. Only too many of my friends didn't return home alive and the ones, who did return home were too fucked up to do anything but drink and get stoned. School was the last thing on their fried minds.

To be continued...