Foreword
This is the true story of how I lost my virginity to a 'cougar'. At the time of this writing, it is a secret that I've carried around inside of me for nearly fifty-five years. Except for the wonderful woman who became my wife, I've revealed it to no one else in all that time. It is ironic that now, through the anonymity provided by Literotica that I can tell it here, for all the world to see.
Though it is an episode that at the time had some scary elements for a naive, inexperienced-at-life, and yes, at times even stupid young man, I do not look upon it as something traumatic. Not in the least. I'm not scarred by it. I did not write this account as a form of of 'therapy' though the process of doing so has had that unexpected benefit. Quite the opposite. I cannot count how many times I've smiled to myself while piecing together the memories and endeavoring to find the words to describe them.
That nearly all of the events described here are associated with specific dates is made possible due to the simple fact that the most important of them occurred on a series of Wednesday nights. This also proved instrumental in recalling and describing specifics as to how this 'relationship' evolved, both physically and for me, emotionally and psychologically.
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For the vast majority of us, life consists of long stretches of ordinary days where a certain routine sets in. We do the same things in the same sequence, in the same place or places with the same people, day after day. There are times when this routine can become a rut.
Along the way, those ordinary days with their ordinary events come other days marked by certain special events and experiences. With time they can become special memories. These events and experiences might consist of a transition from one stage of life to another, such as graduation from high school and then maybe college. Getting married. Your first child. That big promotion you worked so hard to get and it finally happens. And if you work hard and prepare carefully, later, much later, you might be able to retire.
Some of these events are of a 'first-time' nature. Very personal experiences that often occur when we least expect it. As a young boy, you remember the first time you kissed a girl, or if you are a girl the first time you kissed a boy. Who the other person was and where you both were when it happened.
Among these first-time events is one that is intensely personal. It is the day you lose your virginity. This is the story of how I lost mine. Its details... the who, when, what, and where combined to create an experience whose consequences were truly life-changing.
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Setting The Stage
It was mid-October in the year 1968. Anyone who was around then and old enough to have retained memories of it will tell you that it was a year, maybe THE year when the world seemed to be coming apart at the seams. In the United States, this feeling was particularly strong and ominous. Riots broke out in major cities and on college campuses protesting the war in Vietnam and its draft. The assassinations of both Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. There were the protests that broke out at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in August of that year.
Even the President of the United States, Lyndon B. Johnson, seemed to have had enough, declaring in a televised speech on March 31st 'I shall not seek and I will not accept the nomination of my party for another term as your president.' In its aftermath, books with titles like 'The Year That Rocked The World' were written. Movies and documentary films were made about that turbulent year to both document its events and paint a picture of the mood of the nation.
Like most young guys during that time, I was struggling to decide what I would do when The Letter arrived in my mailbox at home. The Letter was the notice from the local draft board that began with the infamous word 'Greetings'. It hung over all of us like the Grim Reaper.
I had just turned nineteen that September, and a few days afterward 'celebrated' completion of the first full year of my first 'real' job. I had taken extra class work in mechanical drawing at a technical school during the summer following my graduation from high school. I found work as a draftsman in the engineering office of a company that provided supplied natural gas to a wide area of the state.
The job was located in a very old school office building in the downtown area of a large city. It was so old school that the building's elevators still had human operators.
The office environment had a way of reminding me each day, in some way big or small, of just how young I was in comparison to nearly all of the other employees. Most were of what has been called 'The Greatest Generation'. Many of the men were World War II veterans who had volunteered. One had been part of the first wave to hit Omaha Beach on D-Day.
All of the women in the office were also much older than me. The youngest was thirty-two. Most were between that age and their mid to late forties. The oldest was, well, too old at seventy-eight. Ol' Virginia was one of those women who kept working and kept working long after she should have retired because frankly, she had nothing else to do with her life. I figured the management of the company was okay with her as long as she was still productive. And she was.
Looking back on it I appreciate to this day how patient these people were with me, this kid that had infiltrated their world. Everyone treated me like I was part of their office 'family', and as if I was an adult and not some kid practically fresh out of high school.
Amidst this assemblage of straight-as-an-arrow folks was one Barbara Knight.
Barbara was a 'middle manager', and as such was something of a rarity in those days. She projected the image of being all business all the time. Nice enough when she needed you to do something for her, but somewhat superficial in the process. And you got the feeling that you better not mess around with her and her 'career path'.
A forty-two-year-old divorcee, she lived alone in a house in an upscale part of town. Judging from the way she dressed and at the time, the nearly new 1966 Audi she drove, it was pretty obvious she 'had money'. Certainly more than my parents had. My only thought was how much of it she had extorted from her ex. One got this feeling that she didn't need to have a job at all. Maybe there were other reasons for remaining connected to the working world. Some other agenda or agendas.
Her only child, a twenty-year-old son, had resolved his own draft situation the year before by joining the Navy. At that time he was somewhere out in the Pacific.
This every hair in place, dressed for success and manicured to the max woman, the former Mrs. Knight ( Ms would not come into widespread use for a few more years ) stood five feet three in bare feet, five feet five in one of her many pairs of stylish dress heels. Short, naturally blond hair in a sort of page boy style both crowned and framed her pixie face with its two penetrating blue eyes that were no doubt capable of producing a wilting stare when their owner was provoked. And yes, I have no choice but to acknowledge her classic 'coke bottle' figure supported by shapely legs and immaculately pedicured feet perched atop those shoes.
I noticed none of this in the beginning. I mean, what young guy would have an interest in a middle-aged divorcee with a kid roughly the same age as he? Even if she still showed evidence of having been a little hottie in her younger days? After all, this was an era when the hemlines embraced by young girls had crawled so far up their thighs that items of apparel that featured them had been designated 'mini skirts'.
Barbara's role in the company was in no way related to mine. Her office was near one corner of the floor. I had no office, just a drafting table sitting out in an open area at the corner diagonally opposite her location. Perhaps a couple of hundred feet separated us.
Even though we worked in the same office but in separate 'worlds' within it, there was one thing that, on rare occasions, brought Barbara and me physically close together... The office photocopying machine. Such contraptions were a new, novel and expensive piece of equipment back then. So much so that many offices that needed them could afford to lease only one. Our little company must have been rolling in the big bucks because we had two. One in Barbara's corner of the floor, and another in mine. Positioned about ten feet from my table, it was in almost constant use. It made for a noisy environment, often becoming an alternative to the water cooler as an office chat spot.
It had gotten got to the point that I could tell which female employee was approaching the machine just by the cadence of their walk and the specific tap-tap sound their shoes made on the hard surfaced floor. I didn't even have to look up from my work to know that Doris from bookkeeping was coming. Or maybe dear old Virgina. One of the notable exceptions was Barbara. Her visits to that machine would occur only when the one in her area had malfunctioned. It was just about the only time I saw her. She was very aloof, never acknowledging me or anyone else in the area. She never served up so much as a 'good morning'. We might as well have been a room full of potted plants.
But in my particular case that was about to change, and change big time.
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Baiting and Springing The Trap - Wednesday, October 16, 1968
Any of us who has worked a Monday thru Friday work week will, at some point in time, begin to refer to Wednesday as 'hump day'. Little did I know that before this crisp, clear and cool Fall Wednesday was over, the term 'hump day' would take on a whole new meaning. It would bring to an end one phase of my life and begin a new one.
Somewhere between two and two thirty in the afternoon, my desk phone rang. It would be fair to say that the voice on the other end belonged to one of the last people I might ever expect to hear from.
