It was 1980, when punk rock was still a little new, and before New Wave surged onto the radio in my home town. Weeks before the summer,
Insatiable
was released to theaters, but of course not in that conservative suburban town, and I didn't hear about it until a year later from another freshman at my college. It was my first summer after high school, out in Contra Costa County, California, where it was hot every summer, and girls my age were dating college guys, and I wasn't one, yet. That summer, I had another graduation of equal significance.
I loved the naked pictures in my dad's skin mags, smuggled out from his nightstand and hidden in my room inside the Auto & Driver and Mad magazine issues on my bookshelf. They all featured young women, all of tantalizing legal age, with big hair and bigger tits, thick black bushes on most, even the blondes. Their hot bodies drove me to multiple hot jack-off sessions late at night, or early in the morning, or after school, or any time my still virgin prick awoke to the thought of being plunged into the pussy or mouth, or even just the palms of some willing girl, any girl at all. Still denied access to the sexy young bodies of women my age, I masturbated three or four times daily, well past simply eager to experience the real thing.
The local swimming pool, where we all joined the swim team, was an incredible hangout, where we practiced daily during the spring and summer months. This would be my last year competing, since I had turned eighteen in March. The pool was where we laughed and played and splashed around, eager, maybe even desperate, to get the attention of the opposite sex. The PA occasionally bawled out helpful hints, like "No running!" or "We're looking for a lost towel" and other announcements, both vital and banal.
The odor of tanning preparations and coconut butter warming on well-sunned backs and legs, mixed with the chemical undertone of the chlorine at the pool and the aroma of hot dogs cooking at the little snack shack, were the smells of my summers for several years. It was my summer home from the time I could swim, up through high school.
As I grew older, I noticed other things. The moms often caught our eyes, women in their late twenties with younger children, up through the thirties with kids almost my age, and a very small number just past their thirties, most of whose offspring were my friends and classmates. Here, covered by their bikinis and one-pieces, they lay under the hot California sun, baking themselves from May through mid-September, turning golden brown. I developed a covert eye for the prettiest of them, their full breasts, comforting and deep cleavage, and gorgeous rounded rear ends an attraction that I didn't tell my friends, who lusted after the ones nearer our age. I wondered how hot I would find these older women later in life, when I was dating or maybe married to one of them.
The hottest of the moms, before the term MILF was uttered fifteen years later in an infamous sex comedy, was Olivia, my best friend Jack's mom. Short but compact, her breasts were full, buttocks firm and round, belly flatter than any other mom at the pool. Long black hair, dark as midnight and as glossy as the photos we all wanted of her, draped down to her waist, clinging to her back whenever she climbed out of the water, head back and eyes closed, aware, we were sure, of the effect she had on all males taking in the incredible vista she presented. Once or twice, I masturbated to the mental image of her in a centerfold, smiling wistfully at the camera, secure in the knowledge every man wanted her, and every woman was jealous.
She was muscular, solid, and worked out at a small gym in the shopping district. She even showered there, and every one of us but Jack dreamed of peering into that stall while she soaped her magnificent tits, beautiful round ass and a pussy that, unseen, had to be something out of our wettest dreams. Olivia's natural skin tone was a deep olive, a legacy from the Italian side of her family, and the sun bronzed it to the color of dark wood, but supple and sleek, and we guessed it was probably silken to the touch.
Even after birthing two kids, she wore a bikini, black with purple, white and copper geometric shapes adorning the fabric concealing her breasts and pussy. Her breasts were full and large, and the size of her nipples, and how thick and luxurious the bush covering her pussy was, provided ample fodder for locker room chatter, and private jack-off sessions. She exuded sex the same way some women wore perfume.
Jack took his share of ribbing good-naturedly, knowing that his mom was the Hottest Mom, a title that she never knew about but was unlikely to ever lose. We wondered out loud if she had breast-fed him; he told us he didn't remember, and nobody pressed the issue. Having a hot mother didn't seem to make him uncomfortable, but he told us it pissed off his father, who lived in nearby Orinda with his new trophy wife, barely older than we were; they fucked nightly, or at least every other week when Jack and his little sister Carla stayed over.
Jack was working towards his scouting badges, eager to cap it all off before he entered the senior year I had just completed. Carla was growing into her mom's looks, but was only fourteen, still the annoying kid sister all of us juniors and seniors avoided. Jack spent a lot of time camping with the other scouts, and a few of my friends were scouts, too, leaving for weekends in the woods, studying their woodcraft, and maybe hoping to find girls skinny-dipping in a nearby lake.
To earn money during the last two years of high school, I had taken to doing odd jobs, mainly cutting old branches down and pruning trees and bushes, then bagging the detritus for the garbage man to haul away every Thursday morning. Mowing was a big part of it during the cooler months, but very little in the way of grass bothered to peek out from the dry ground and endure the regular hundred-plus temperatures of our summer months. I earned good money, and the occasional tip. One time, one of the fathers paid me a whole twenty for restaining their fence. Good money, like I said.
My mom called me downstairs from my room, the Monday after school ended, itself the week after Memorial Day, and I pulled on my pajama bottoms. I'd been sleeping, and my morning wood was still semi-hard, which I tried to hide. My mom's smirk told me I hadn't been entirely successful, and I felt my face redden as I turned away, trying to pretend she didn't know what I was probably going to do in the shower. Sometimes we forget that parents went through all of this too. She handed me the phone, which I took gratefully. "Yeah?"
"Cody?" It was a mom, then my brain registered it was Jack's mom.
"Yes?"
"It's Mrs. Nichols. Jack's mom." Her voice was matter-of-fact, all business, yet I swore I heard more in it. Blinking to get the erotic visions of the Hottest Mom out of my head, I said hello, then she spoke again. "I understand you trim trees and clean up yards?"
"Actually bushes." I must have turned beet red; my mom snorted merrily and headed out of the room, secure in the knowledge I could screw this call up without her help. "I mean shrubs."
She didn't seem to notice my inadvertent double entendre, or, more likely, knew that I was already punishing myself mentally more than anyone else could for that lapse. "Okay, shrubs. I have a number of them that need trimming, and then cleaning up the usual crap people throw in the hedges. I'll pay three an hour, and at least ten, if you can do it today."
I had nothing planned yet today, and told her so. "I can be there in an hour. Just woke up and I need a shower and to shave, Mrs. Nichols." There was no good reason to tell her that, but I felt like babbling inanely.
Her answer was soft and warm, and I knew I was imagining the wrong things about her. "Mrs. Nichols makes me feel old. Call me Olivia like your mom and dad do."
"Okay...Olivia." I arranged to be there around ten-thirty, and figured I could be at the pool with my friends by three easy.
It was a short walk to Jack's house. I'd been there many times, and didn't question my good fortune at being able to grab a job when Mrs. Nichols—
Olivia
—had an able-bodied son to take care of the yard for her, probably at no cost since he lived and ate there for at least one more year of school.
