A story based on the life experiences of an electrician, who had his own concepts about beauty and seduction.
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Chapter One: I'm not like everybody else.
That much, I'll be the first to admit. I am not like everybody else, or at least not like the typical guy in his late 20's these days.
I like jazz and old television shows from the 50's and 60's, and would no more sit through an episode of Survivor than I would a rap concert. I wouldn't walk across the street to see the Hilton sisters, and I would have guessed that a Kardashian was some kind of foreign car if I didn't just see her name in the newspaper.
Born too late? Maybe. I just never have had any interest in many things men of my generation seem to embrace. I'm happy just working hard and doing my job to the best of my ability, and the success of my business reflects that my efforts have paid off.
I like to go to the gym and work out in the evening instead of making the bar scene, and keeping myself in good condition is something that has paid off for me in many ways.
One of those ways is by having the good fortune to be able to have about as much sex as I want, and while having a rather high sex drive is a trait that I share with many of my generation, the type of women that I find myself attracted to certainly separates me from most of my brethren.
All my life, I've found myself attracted to older women. In my teens, I found myself drawn not to the nubile young classmates of mine, but to their mothers. Teachers, nurses, cashiers - you name it. The few times that I went after girls my age, I must admit that usually by the end it was their mothers who became my real target, and if you never had the pleasure of bedding the mother of a girl you were dating, I think you really missed out on something.
My teen years were spent pursuing these women that were 20-30 years my senior, and I'm proud to say that I managed to bed a rather impressive number of those that I desired. How was I able to do this? That was simple. I paid attention to them when they talked, made eye contact with them as much as possible, and made sure they knew how beautiful and desirable I thought they were.
Was it just a snow job? Throwing them lines and charming the pants off them - literally and figuratively? Not really. I loved them and found them so much more exciting than younger women, and was usually quite honest with them. I found them far more responsive, and their experience was a plus as well. I'm always willing to learn something new.
I'm also been somewhat blessed by the gene pool. Not so much in the intelligence end; I'm just average in that way, and my math is bad enough for be to have all my business bookkeeping done by professionals.
As far as looks go, I got lucky. I'm an even 6 foot tall, and my weight is always just a shade under 200 pounds. My physique reflects the hours of time I put in the gym as well as my tireless work ethic. Facially and physically, I resemble early Rocky Balboa, but instead of speaking like a punch-drunk palooka, I talk in a very calm, deep voice. Eye contact - that's the key.
I look into a middle-aged woman's eyes with my baby blues, and more often than not, they melt like butter. That doesn't mean I necessarily move in for the kill every time, but if I want to, I can. Do I ever get shot down? Sure, but not very often.
That's mainly because by the time of decision, I usually let them move in on me. I heat them up and then let them make the move - almost like they are the ones seducing me. Makes it all the better for me that way too.
There's a lot of women who spend their days at home, either always having been stay-at-home moms, or never having had to work. Some have even retired early. They are home and they have little to do but watch soap operas and talk on the phone. Many get ignored when the husband gets home too, making the arrival of somebody like me something that breaks the monotony of their lives. I make the most of that when I can, and today was one of those days that I did.
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Chapter Two: Ceiling fans and Mrs. Cross.
It was a job that a local electrical supply company sub-contracted to me. Installing four ceiling fan and light fixtures in a home just east of Albany, New York. The family name was Cross, and the house was a split-level on a quiet road in the suburbs.
Just looking at the property and I was able to get an idea of the type of people that lived there. Probably a couple in their late 40's or early 50's. Any kids were gone and moved away, judging by the aged condition of the swing set in the yard and the lack of clutter around.
My suspicions were confirmed when the woman of the house welcomed me. I figured her to be around 52, and she was a nice looking woman for any age. A little on the tall side - maybe 5'7" or so, and about 135 pounds distributed nicely. A little fullness in the butt, but her cheeks looked solid enough in a snug pair of black stretch casual pants.
She was wearing a light pink sleeveless top, and her breasts were housed in a bra. Probably a B cup, I imagined. The breasts might be a little small for her frame but certainly nice enough. Without sleeves, I was able to see that her arms were nicely toned, without the flapping of the upper arm that some of them end up with.
Mrs. Cross had a wealth of freckles all over her arms, which was also something I found attractive. She was wearing a wedding ring and a watch. I noticed all that, and within a minute of being around her, I also knew one other thing.
If I wanted to, I could have her.
She was no cougar - some kind of desperate housewife intent on tracking down young guys for kicks, but was just a middle-aged housewife who woke up this morning and thought she was going to have another boring day. Until I showed up, that is.
I could tell by the way she watched me carry in the four boxes of fixtures, holding the door open for me each time as I came in. The second time I accidentally brushed against her breast with the back of my hand, and it WAS an accident by the way, and her nipple was quickly poking through her bra cup in response.
The way Mrs. Cross was looking at me was also a giveaway. I was wearing my usual outfit, which was a snug, lightweight black shirt with the little logo of my business on my left breast pocket. The neck was low enough so that my pelt of black chest hair peeked out of the neck hole, and the sleeves were short enough so that every move I made showcased my prominent biceps.
Most women of my generation don't seem to have a very positive opinion of hairy guys, preferring the waxed and smooth type of guy, whereas women the age of Mrs. Cross were far more accepting of it. Good thing too, because being of Italian and Greek lineage I'm pretty much covered with hair, and besides there's no way in hell I'm going to go around shaving my chest for anybody.
By the time I had my ladder in her kitchen, we were on a first name basis. I had introduced myself as Vince when I first got there, and it wasn't very long before Mrs. Cross insisted I call her Noel.
"Is that Noel spelled N-O-E-L? I asked, hoping that it was, and not with the added "le" that some women use to spell it, and when she confirmed that, I smiled.
"Spelled just like the girl that played Lois Lane in the Superman series," I mentioned, but not mentioning that I had the hots for that actress too.
"Noel Neill," Mrs. Cross said. "Oops! Guess I'm showing my age there."
She had a nice laugh, and when I told her that she was right about the name of the actress but that I knew it as well, so we both must have known that because of reruns on Nick at Nite or something, she laughed again.
Flawless teeth, a nice laugh, a good sense of humor and freckles. Noel Cross was giving me a hard-on and it wan;t even 9:30 in the morning yet.
