All sexual activities and themes described in this story involve consenting individuals who are 18 years of age or older. Nothing to the contrary is intended or implied.
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The kid was definitely hitting on me.
The "kid" in question was 19. Young enough to be my son, which he certainly wasn't. Or my son's friend...
...which he certainly was.
That, I suppose, is an obvious red line to avoid. But Anthony was capable of blurring lines. He didn't look or act or carry himself like a "kid". I'm a tall woman at 5'10", but Anthony towered over me. He and my son, Josh, had been high school football teammates a year earlier, and the roster had listed Anthony at 6'4", 215 pounds. He looked a lot bigger than that up close, in the gym, right after his workout...in a tight white tank top stretched to the limits by his pectoral muscles, with naked biceps that seemed to rumble when he moved...smooth, chocolate skin stretched over those lovely muscles, sexy smile, a young (very young) Denzel looking straight into your eyes, with the confidence of an older, sophisticated Alpha male.
The term "Manchild" popped into my head, even though that usually refers to the opposite: a fully grown man acting childish, rather than a younger man who carries himself as though older.
Then again, I suppose that a young man making a move on his friend's mother, indulging his fantasy instead of keeping it locked safely away, does suggest a reckless disregard for consequences and perhaps a questionable level of maturity.
Okay then, let's go with Manchild.
The Manchild was definitely "hitting on" me. Flirting? Well, of course...
"Looking really nice, Mrs. H," he said, his eyes taking a leisurely stroll up and down my body. And yeah, I probably did look nice, my long, athletic swimmer's body sporting a post-yoga glow; sweaty and flushed and breathless, my tight yoga pants showing plenty of curves and my skimpy sports bra showing plenty of skin.
"Thank you, Anthony." I tried to shrug off the compliment, but it left me a bit flustered. "Um, you can call me Melanie now. Or Mel."
"Mel," he repeated, rolling the "L" around in his mouth like he was tasting wine. "I like that, it's sexy...it suits you."
Sexy? Did he just say "sexy" to his friend's mom? It gave me a flutter in my tummy...and maybe a little lower than that.
And it made me more than a little hot and bothered. Despite my dark brunette hair and brown eyes, my skin tone is light enough that when I blush, you can't miss it. Getting called "sexy" by Anthony made me blush big time. I felt the heat not just in my face, but my neck, my shoulders...my chest. Yes, way down my chest between the swell of my breasts, and that's where his eyes went. And stayed for a moment, before returning unapologetically to mine.
Anthony's attention toward me was flattering and flustering, but to be honest, it wasn't the first time my son's friends had taken notice of me. Sometimes they'd let their eyes linger on me or hit me with an awkward compliment. Usually, it was easy to ignore or laugh off.
But the flirting with Anthony was going a little beyond just lingering glances and stumbling flattery. Anthony's approach was anything but awkward. He was smooth and confident, and at times playfully aggressive.
And then there was the fact that he was standing so damn close to me, crowding me with his testosterone-infused Alpha male presence. Touching me, even, his fingertips grazing my arm and shoulder as we laughed. And when I didn't stop him there, he brazenly touched my cheek as he brushed aside a loose strand of my hair. I could have, and should have, put a stop to this, of course, stepping back or pushing him away or admonishing him. I didn't because...I didn't want to embarrass him or make a scene? Or because I just didn't want to stop him?
And finally, he wasn't just satisfied with flirting. He was pressing deeper into the realm of the taboo.
"I miss you. We should hang out some time," he said.
"Hang out?" I kept the tone neutral, masking surprise and incredulity.
"To get caught up," he said. "We haven't talked in a while. We can grab a coffee or something."
"Coffee. Sure, we can do that sometime."
"Or dinner."
Dinner is not the same as coffee. Anthony was actually asking me out. On a date. Me, more than two decades older, his friend's mother. Even if he couldn't see how implausible that was, I should have called it out. But I could only manage a half-assed attempt to discourage him.
"Sure," I said. "My husband would love to see you too." My voice was level, even though my heart was inexplicably pounding.
"Really?" he asked in a tone bordering on sarcastic. The delivery included a smirk and a side eye. The smirk stayed in place as he waited me out, silently demanding a real answer.
I could have shut him down with "sorry I'm married"; or sucker punched him with "I don't date my son's friends"; or just dropped a simple "no, I don't think so". Instead...
"Maybe...let me think about it." Yeah, girl, way to shut it down.
He'd gotten something close to what he wanted, so he knew better than to push his luck for the moment. He gave me another sexy smile.
"Think about it," he said, then turned to stroll away.
"See you around, Sexy Mel," he said, loud enough that a few of our fellow gym members turned their heads in surprise.
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Over the next couple of hours, the intensity of the encounter faded. My heart was no longer pounding and the flushed, hot feeling in my face and chest was mostly gone. It left in its wake a cocktail of milder but still distracting emotions: disappointment in myself for not handling it better; indignation over this cocky Manchild's audacity; but also, an illicit thrill over the whole thing, hitched to a dash of guilt for actually, on some level, enjoying it.
No matter. It was over and done with. Although we belonged to the same gym, there was no guarantee Anthony and I would see each other anytime soon, so the whole thing might just fade from memory. If I did run into him, and he dared to bring it up again, that would give me a chance to set him straight. So, I could stop stewing over it and move on. Not a big deal at all.
It was certainly not something I needed to tell my husband about, right?
Right?
"So, I ran into Anthony today at the gym," I blurted out as I rinsed off the dinner plates and utensils and loaded the dishwasher. What made me bring it up? Guilt, I guess, or a previously undiagnosed case of OCD. Dan, my husband (and Josh's stepfather) of seven years, still sat at the dinner table, checking emails and sports scores on his phone.
"Anthony?" he asked distractedly, not raising his eyes from the phone.
"Yeah." I was already kicking myself for bringing it up. Did I REALLY want to talk to my husband about getting asked out by a 19-year-old? Luckily, he wasn't paying attention, so I'd dodged a self-inflicted bullet.
"Anthony who?" he asked. Oops, not dodged quite yet.
"Josh's friend." I kept my back to him as I did kitchen stuff.
"Anthony Sherman? From football?"
"Yeah." I snuck a glance over my shoulder, hoping he was still focused on his phone. But he wasn't, he was looking at me now.
"Good kid," he said. "What's he up to? Going to college?"
"Taking some classes at the junior college, but mostly working." Okay, this was a safe conversational direction.
"Playing football?"
"No. Said he might play next year."
"Hmm, okay. I hope he does; I think he's got the talent to get recruited by a four-year school." And that seemed like a good place to leave it, so I didn't respond. A couple of heartbeats passed. Yeah, bullet dodged. I was done with the dishes, so I turned back toward him. He was looking at his phone again. I leaned back against the counter, facing him as I sipped a lemonade.
