Sometimes sex seems driven by beauty. Sometimes (according to conventional wisdom, the best times) it is inspired by love. But sometimes, it is just spawned from a raw, desperate, crying need. That's how it was for Rose and me.
I grew up on Long Island, and the couple next door were an empty-nester Italian couple. Being only 18 myself, they seemed ancient, but now I realize they were no more than 60. Their kids ranged from 25 to almost 40, and I think all of them still lived within 30 minutes of their childhood home, still on Long Island. I know that Rose and Sal were also grandparents a couple of times over. Every once in a while, in the Summer, they'd have a huge family cookout in their backyard. One of their daughters, in her early 30s I suppose, was about the hottest looking woman I'd ever seen: about 5'5" tall, with dark, smoldering eyes and long, straight black hair, which hung to the middle of her back. Annette was her name. But, unfortunately, this story is not about her.
Rose was a dark haired rotund woman, just about five feet tall. She had nothing in particular to set her apart from thousands of other Italian-American moms and grandmas living on Long Island at the time ... except that she had those same smoldering dark brown eyes that she'd passed along to her daughter. I often tried to picture Rose as she would have looked at Annette's age. It was pretty clear, still, from looking at our matronly neighbor's face, that she'd been a real "looker" back in the day. But too much good Italian cooking had taken a toll on Rose's body. She was probably about 160 pounds, which is a bit chubby for a lady of her height. But the way she looked at me sometimes ...
Oh, me? I'm Dave, and I was a lanky 12th grader in the local high school. I had a mop of dark brown hair and very fair skin. A virgin, still, and horny all the time. I was probably about 5'11" at the time I first entered her house, just reaching my adult height. So, anyway, I was close to a foot taller than Rose, and so she would often ask me to come over and grab her down some ingredient or another from her top pantry shelf. The woman cooked ALL the time! The smells when I would go into her house to help her reach something were amazing. She could have cooked at any of the local restaurants and done quite well, I'm sure. This started near the end of my Sophomore year. Rose and I struck up something of a friendship. Over the next two years, I got to be a regular visitor in Rose and Sal's Long Island home.
I used to wonder, though, why she put some of her commonly used ingredients on the highest pantry shelf, so I didn't have to keep coming over. It didn't make sense to me until one day when things took a different turn. Probably about the eighth or tenth time she had me over to get something down from her pantry shelf after I'd turned 18, I was just reaching up to grab a jar of pasta when she grabbed my butt with both hands. I turned around, startled, and she immediately pulled one of her large breasts out of the top of her housedress. She was not wearing a bra. The breast looked big and soft, with chunky, erect brown nipples. She pulled out the other huge melon, and looked at me with those smoldering eyes, and said,
"You like?"
As a matter of fact, I "liked" very much!
"Wow ... you're ... breasts are gorgeous!" I said, trembling.
"C'mon down, David. The pasta can wait."
She took me by the hand and led me into her and Sal's bedroom. I was starting to get terrified. Sal was a tough old bird, a cigar-chomping old guy who was wiry and looked like he knew 25 ways to kill you just with his thumb. In spite of the cooking smells with usually pervaded the household, a background odor of Sal's stogies was always present too. It made him seem somehow present, as if he were watching us.
