Diary For April

Thursday, April 3

Hello, whoever you are, and welcome to my Diary. This is April, and this is April greeting you (yes, that's my name). I'm starting to keep a diary. I'm new to this, and I'm not sure why I'm doing it. I've always liked seeing my name on calendars and such. Why not in a diary?

An aside here: I was in a movie theater once, watching trailers for flicks that would be arriving in the near future, and when "COMING IN APRIL!" appeared on the screen in big letters I shrieked with laughter and got stared at by people sitting around me.

Maybe I thought that keeping a diary might make interesting and exciting things start to happen in my life. Starting it in midweek gives it the feeling of an ongoing project, and I like that, but you should know that it would be a waste of your time to try to find a previous diary of mine. There isn't one.

I'm going to put down some things about myself, right here on Page 1, just in case some future reader (that would be you) wants or needs to know me better.

I hope you're not a Coroner.

I am now in what is often called 'advanced middle age'. I'm not a Senior yet, not by a long shot, but I'm so far past 40 that it's getting hard to see that particular milestone clearly in my life's rearview mirror. The gray in my hair has required serious damage control for some time now, and gravity has taken its toll on my once voluptuous curves. When left on their own my boobs now choose to spread themselves on my chest, no longer having the energy to lift themselves proudly and roundly toward the sun. My pelvic region has replaced my boobs as the most prominent physical feature south of my face. My male friends would say 'pelvic regions' (in the plural), because men tend to have separate erogenous pigeonholes for the hips, bellies, asses, and uppermost thighs of females. My male friends would probably now consider all of those parts of me to have more than satisfactorily filled their respective niches.

Actually, none of my male friends would ever use a phrase like 'pelvic regions', and neither would I if I wasn't writing something that might someday be read by strangers who need proof that I'm literate.

I'm rather short. I've managed to become chunky without becoming heavy.

I sometimes wonder if my late husband would have found my present figure type desirable, or if the men who now drift in and out of my life truly find it so. My male friends say they like me as I am, but I'm sure they know how effective that line can be in enticing me to get out of my panties and into a bed. And most of them aren't exactly great physical specimens of their gender either. I now look longingly (and often hungrily) at younger and more athletic men, and I have no difficulty remembering how much fun it was to have a good old fashioned romp in the sack with one of them.

Or two of them, which was even more fun.

I live alone now, halfway up the bestview side of a Pittsburgh condo tower some twenty stories tall. I get along fine with my neighbors, perhaps because I have very little contact with them. I'm on a firstname basis with the cute young man who delivers my pizzas (and who occasionally gets a blowjob instead of a tip), but I'm not quite so sure of the first names of most of the the people who actually live close to me. Folks who live in detached single family homes brag about the separation they enjoy from other families on their street, but it's nothing like the real isolation a highrise apartment can provide.

I'm not lonely, mind you. I just live alone. And looking back over what I just wrote, I wonder why the term "male friends" appears as often as it does.

Monday, April 7

Finally, something interesting to write in here. This morning I met a very attractive man while both of us were waiting for the elevator on my floor (the 11th). I assumed he was a visitor because I know by sight everyone on my floor who might (under any conceivable circumstances) want to fuck me. After the usual meaningless greetings he surprised me by introducing himself as a new resident of the building. That'll teach me to skip those boring Condo Members' meetings. His first name is Dylan. Or maybe Dillon, but that would be a big disappointment to me. I'm a Dylan generation person. I'm going to spell it D-Y-L-A-N, and try to avoid ever finding out if I'm spelling it wrong.

Dylan is a big man. I mean Big. And Tall. My guess is that he played serious sports when he was younger. He's one of those men who gets more handsome as he ages (I believe the medical term for this is Sean Connery Syndrome), something that drives me crazy with envy and a sense of the fundamental unfairness of Life. He dresses very well. He probably has to shop in those places where former Steelers linebackers get their clothes. Or is it the middle linemen who are huge? You know what I mean, anyway.

We went through the ritual shtick about my name, of course:

"And your name is?" asks the big guy.

"It's April", I say, playing the game.

"I know that," he says. "And your name is?"

I'd hate this silly routine if it wasn't such a good ice-breaker with strangers.

He is about my age, I'd guess. His left hand ring finger is jewelry-free, although I don't pay much attention to such details these days, either way. When a man is mine for the night (or even for just a good part of it), whatever other relationships may complicate his life are of little interest to me. The lines of Dylan's body muscles have 'relaxed' somewhat in his midlife years (as compared to mine, which are now hardly paying attention at all). Dylan brought to my mind a fleeting mental image of the Marlboro Man approaching 60, and I was immediately happy that the image hadn't been of that stupid Camel character in whatever counts as middle age for a camel.

His handshake was pleasingly firm, and his smile quite dazzling. I had on a rather tight pair of chino slacks this morning, and I'm not sure yet whether that was a helpful or unhelpful choice on my part. At least I know that I didn't show any panty lines. And the moderately high heels were probably a good thing. He stood aside to let me enter the elevator ahead of him, and I deliberately walked as slowly and as interestingly as I could without looking as if I was deliberately walking slowly and interestingly.

He was still smiling when we went our separate ways in the Ground Floor lobby. I think that's a good sign of something. I still don't know which apartment he's in, and already I want to fuck him.

Wednesday April 9

I can't believe my good luck. I just met another new resident of the building, and this one is drop dead gorgeous. He's half my age, which would normally make any serious relationship with him out of the question, but he's a natural-born flirt and I think he was actually coming on to me! He used some good conversation openings that would work well as pickup lines (they'd work well on me, anyway), and he looked at my body as if he hoped it was on the menu for dinner. Again, no wedding ring or other signs of impediments to our future as fuckmates. He introduced himself as Richard, adding that he preferred to use Dick. I nearly lost it, right there.

We rode up together in the elevator, and he got off with me at my floor. I thought for a thrilling moment that he may have been stalking me! Having my very own stalker would have been a first for me (at this point in my life 'firsts' of any kind are hard to come by), but we headed off in opposite directions from the elevator. I made a point of fumbling in my purse for my door key long enough to see what door he was going to. He's in 1109.

I'll have to be careful not to let Dylan and Dick find out that I'm on the hunt for both of them, at least not until I've discovered what part they may get to play in my life, sexually speaking. I fully intend to fuck them both. One at a time, though.

So I've now spotted two new men, swimming at large in the waters around me. I intend to reel them in, to see if either or both of them is a keeper and worth mounting. I'll go clothes shopping tomorrow. If I'm going to go fishing, I'd better get me some fresh bait.

Thursday April 10

I've found that women who attempt to use clothing to conceal their figure flaws often end up looking so strangely dressed that the things they were hoping to hide become the things people unconsciously notice. I've had better luck dressing in a way that treats my flaws as features. I prefer to invite men to check my figure out carefully, just as it is, to see how good I've managed to make it look - flaws and all - and how unashamed I am of any part of it.

Take my tits. Please. I make no effort to minimize my boobs or to disguise their present shape and gradually lessening firmness. I choose bras that simply lift them and present them in a no-nonsense 'Here they are, guys' way. I refuse to wear caftans or baggy dresses, and I don't wear very full skirts, or loose oversize pants, or (and just whose dumb idea were these?) tradesmen's overalls. I wear things that cling snugly to my curves and say, 'This is where my body stops and, if you're lucky, this is where your hands can begin.'

Today I bought some tops and pants that fit with my fashion philosophy. I spent some time this evening trying them on in various combinations, deciding which ones would best suit my various moods or various social situations. And I practiced getting out of them smoothly and quickly. When it comes to sex, one can't be over-prepared. And one shouldn't be over-dressed.

Friday April 11

Earlier this evening I walked down the hall to Dick's apartment. I had on a crisp new blouse (bright red), my snuggest leather pants (black), and a pair of spike heeled pumps (also black). I knocked on his door, and waited. He opened it a moment later, peering around the half-open door as if he was not quite dressed for visitors, and broke into a broad smile of recognition. I handed him the envelope I'd brought with me. I said I hoped I hadn't interrupted him in the middle of something, although clearly I had done just that. I told him that he could look at the envelope later.

He took the envelope, and in so doing had to let the bath towel that had apparently been wrapped around his hips fall to the floor. He remained behind the door, his modesty intact in spite of the fact that I was pretty sure he was stark naked back there. Where are full length wall mirrors when you really need one? I told him that he smelled nice, that I approved of his taste in soaps or talcs or colognes or whatever, and then I turned to go. As I walked away, toward my own apartment, I made sure he got a good look at what I had crammed into my skintight pants. I walked straight down the hallway, never looking back, and noted with some satisfaction that I didn't hear his door close until I had reached my own apartment door.

Inside the envelope was a humorous 'Welcome' greeting card, and inside the card was a note. The note said that I had enjoyed meeting him, that I wanted us to become good neighbors, and that if he ever needed ANYTHING, ANYTIME (yes, I shamelessly emphasized that part), he should give me a call or, better yet, just knock on my door and ask. I added my apartment number, which I guess he now knew anyway, and my phone number.

I've been keeping an eye out for Dylan, but I haven't seen him around. I may have to stake out our hallway until I learn what his work/play schedule is. I don't want to mess with his work hours, but I want to be there for him when he wants to play.

Monday April 14

I didn't see either of the two D's in my life over the weekend. This is not a good sign. It suggests that they have ways to occupy their leisure time that don't require my input. Or maybe that they work on weekends, which bodes ill for our future playtimes.

I don't think I've ever written the phrase 'bodes ill' before. Ever. Another bad sign.

Tuesday April 15

Today I ran into Dylan at the liquor store. Now I know where he hangs out. I had just arrived at the checkout line carrying two bottles of wine. The label on the German white showed a mustachioed old guy in lederhosen, with a turreted Alpine castle in the background. The label on the Spanish red showed a toreador doing something dramatic with a flowing red cape and, of course, a bull. Now you know my criteria for making selections for my Cellar (the cupboard under the microwave). I like Fine Art on my dining table. I don't watch Martha Stewart just for the commercials, you know! Well, actually I don't watch Martha at all.

I realized that the man standing right in front of me in the checkout line was Dylan! With him was a shopping cart practically overflowing with expensive looking wines, liquors, brandies, a cognac, and imported beers and ales. I assumed he was either stocking up for a big party or planning to open a liquor store of his own. A fantasy popped into my mind, of the two of us being trapped in our building's elevator for hours with only his liquor store purchases to keep us from dying of thirst. When I found myself examining the interestingly shaped bottles in Dylan's cart, assessing them for their value as marital aids, I shook myself back to reality.

I tapped him on the shoulder, to let him know I was there. He turned and gave me a smile that almost caused me to lose my grip on my wine bottles, which I had been trying to conceal from his beautiful eyes. I had already decided that his taste in label artwork was not the same as mine.

His bill was bigger than my booze budget for an entire year. Well, that may not be exactly true. I've never been able to make up a workable budget for anything.

We talked out in the parking lot for a few minutes before going to our cars. I figured he'd need at least four trips from his car to our building's elevator to get all of that stuff up to his apartment. Unless he borrowed the store's cart, of course. I didn't wait to see if he'd do that.

Saturday April 19

Dick called me up last evening and asked me to pop over to his place for a drink and some chat. I hemmed and hawed a bit on the phone, trying to sound as if I was making up my mind whether or not I wanted to take him up on his offer, while I changed into something I thought would have the desired (i.e. seductive) effect on him. I like changing clothes while talking on the phone. I'm no good at it, but I saw it done very gracefully in a movie once and I'm still trying to learn the tricks to it.

I chose a nearly transparent white blouse, and selected the white bra underneath it knowing that it was going to be highly visible. I put on my best (and tightest) white designer jeans, which are a bit uncomfortable when I'm sitting down, but are fine when I can stretch my legs out. I pictured myself lying down a lot of the time, but that would be pretty much up to Dick.

I knocked on the door of 1109 some twenty minutes later. Dick invited me in, and kissed me on the lips in greeting. I kissed him back. A good start. Dick's apartment is a two-bedroom model, which is larger than mine and seems a bit ostentatious for a single man, but conspicuous affluence is a good feature in men. I made a mental note to see what that second bedroom was being used for. Perhaps he's an artist of some sort, I thought, a musician maybe, who does some work at home. If he's a rock drummer, that fact will probably be brought up in a future Condo Members' meeting.

Three drinks and a few tracks from a very good funky blues CD later, I was stretched out on the sofa with Dick half on top of me. My blouse was open, my bra was undone, and Dick's mouth was playing over my tits with considerable skill.

"I think the bed would be more comfortable, don't you, April?" he whispered into the valley between my breasts.

"Let's go there, Dick," I said, "and find out."

The next hour is something of a blur in my memory. I do remember undressing Dick while he was undressing me, and then the two of us running through a number of positions for sex - first oral and then coital - all of them quite satisfying. I remember cumming at least three times (at least I had three orgasms worth remembering) and I received Dick's cum in my mouth once and in my cunt at least once.

He was very good. I stayed with him all night. He provided me with a brand new toothbrush, even though my own was only a short walk away, and I slept in his strong young arms.

I awoke this morning to find Dick's tongue at work between my thighs, and after I'd had enough I knelt over him and fucked him until he'd had enough.

I had coffee and croissants with him, got dressed, walked home, took a shower, and wrote this in my diary.

Saturday April 19 (again!)

I ran into Dylan again, this time in the building's parking garage, about eight hours after I got home from Dick's place. I'd just come back from shopping. Dylan was on his way out to somewhere. I put my best flirting moves on him, and his responses were promising, so I invited him to stop by my apartment around 9 pm for a drink and some chat. I know, that's the same invitation I'd gotten from Dick, but it worked so well for him that I thought I'd give it a try myself.

He said he'd like that, and offered to bring a bottle of something suitable with him. I think he may have caught a glimpse of my wine purchases and feels that I could use some help in this area.

Sunday April 20

Dylan arrived last night in a perfectly tailored sportscoat and slacks with knife-edge creases that looked like they might be dangerous to touch with a bare finger. I recklessly planned to touch his pantlegs a lot, anyway.

I tilted my head up and greeted him with a kiss on his lovely mouth. He kissed me back. A good start. He handed me a rather heavy bottle of Scotch. The bottle looked as if it was meant to be handled like fine crystal. The label gave the 20-some-year history of the stuff, in very small lettering. No artwork, I noticed, but then the bottle itself probably ate up the distillery's entire marketing budget.

"I like mine neat, no ice," he said. "Have yours any way you like, April, but you'll find this one smooth enough to stand up well on its own." I smiled, trying to give the impression that I knew what the hell he was talking about.

I managed to find a couple of glasses that I use for orange juice at breakfast time. Dylan seemed to find this a charming departure from his usual barware.

We talked, and we drank, with an Easy Listening station on the radio that was easy to ignore and just treat as background music. Dylan asked me to dance, which I thought was very charming of him, and it felt good being held close to his large strong frame. We kissed again, and then again, and then we just couldn't seem to stop kissing. He put his big hands under my butt cheeks and lifted me right up off the floor. I wrapped my legs about his hips, and he walked us straight into my bedroom without ever taking his mouth from mine. Considering my present weight, this was a remarkably athletic move on his part.

He lowered me gently onto the bed. He began to undress both of us, slowly and teasingly. When we were both totally naked, he kissed me and fingerfucked me as I stroked his fully erect cock. Then we were 69ing. His tongue played in both of my crotch holes as I kissed and licked and sucked and nibbled at his cock and his balls.

I felt myself nearing a climax, and almost simultaneously I felt his cock seem to grow even harder and I knew he was about to cum himself.

"I'm going to cum!" he warned me.

"I know!" I answered. "But don't stop eating me out!"

That kind of talk always sounds to me like it comes from a badly written porn flick, but in the heat of passion I can't be expected to choose my words very carefully.

We both kept at it, and a moment later both of us crashed into our separate but equal orgasms. It was quite beautiful. And more than a little messy. It was something of a relief to think that tomorrow was my usual laundry day anyway, so I wouldn't be sleeping on our cum stains for more than just the one night.