A Memoir of Rob

At 57, I have a perspective born of time and experience, and in looking back at all of my lovers, one of my most precious memories is that of my first lover. Rob Wilton had 42 to my 21 years of age. He was 6'2" with black hair that was graying in that distinguished way men's hair does, silvering at the temples. He was not fat, but he was of robust build, and his cock was thick and about 9 inches long. He had been married and divorced twice and had four sons two from each marriage. He was a bartender at a local bar I frequented called The Steak and Stein. A former Korean War marine, he was a specialist in black powder arms and had an independent gun dealership that he ran by word-of-mouth and reputation from his house until years later when he finally had a store front.

He was never a boyfriend. He was what they call today "a friend with benefits" but what I called in 1976 "a fuck buddy." He was the second man I ever slept with. The first, Mark, to whom I had given my virginity on my 21st birthday, only slept with me that one time and so I was new at sex.

Rob was man who enjoyed basic sex. This was probably a good thing. He was kind, gentle, and appreciative, and I have fond memories of our love making.

The first time I went to Rob's house with him, he thought we were going to have sex. He thought I was playing hard to get and insisted. He even took me by the wrist and dragged me towards the stairs heading for his bedroom, but I said I was not going to have sex on our first date, and that if he took me then and there and I didn't like it, I would be sure he didn't like it either. He stopped. I think he realized I was just young and really out of my depth. He apologized. We regrouped, chatted had a beer, and he told me he had a vasectomy, and that he was looking forward to seeing me again. By the next Friday, I had had a chance to think over what had happened and realized what miscommunication had occurred between us largely due to my naïveté and now on the same page, I went home with him to have sex for the second time in my life.

Straight from his shift at the Steak and Stein, He had worked from lunch to 5:30 PM through the happy hour (You remember those.). Rob liked to unwind a bit and relax. Sitting on the couch in his front room, we watched the news, sipped beer, and he slowly undressed me. He was gentle and thoughtful. Beginning with his arm around me, we snuggled close. Gradually his hand came over my breast, fondling them through my shirt. Slipping his hand beneath my shirt and releasing my bra with one hand, he found his way to my naked tits where brushing his hand over my taut nipples made me wetter than I had ever been.

He helped me take my shirt off and the bra so I was topless. He had me lie on my back across his lap. He unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans. His large hand found its way down under my panties, stopping to play in the hair on my mons then on to my pussy. I was gushing. Slowly gently he parted the lips of my pussy and fingered my clit. It was time. He shut off the TV. I shed my dungarees. He took me by the hand, clad only in my panties and led me to the stairway. This time I willingly went ahead. His bedroom, in his small Cape-style house was to the right at the top of the stairs. He had a queen size bed. A bureau with a huge mirror was across from the foot of the bed. I took off my panties.

I got on the bed and lying full out on my back, I watched as he stripped to the skin. His cock was big hard fully engorged. I quivered, but not out of fear. I quivered with excitement and anticipation. His voice was soft, his hands were gentle. He touched me all over. My legs naturally spread some, but he opened them further with his hand. He got on top of me and kneed my legs further apart. His cock waved above me. He ran the tip of his cock up and down the slit of my pussy. I bent my knees. It parted my legs further, opening me up completely. He placed his cock at the mouth of my vagina and steadily drove it in. I gasped and arched to meet him. He kissed me, my mouth, my tits, and my neck, and he fucked me.

I quivered and moved beneath him. My eyes were wide. I was completely wired. Every sense I had, it seemed, was on alert. I listened to his breathing. I listened to his sounds of pleasure. I felt his cock stretch my cunt. His balls slap my ass. I gasped at his deep thrusts. I watched his face. He couldn't wait. It didn't matter. I was so wrapped up in feeling and watching and listening I wasn't going to cum anyway. He came. I spasm in response, squeezing his pulsing cock with my cunt again and again as he planted the last drop of his jizz at the door of my womb.

He relaxed on top of me. He was a big man. I liked the weight of him on me. I liked the smell of his body and the feel of sweat on his skin on my skin. After a bit, he rolled off of me and, in the crook of his arm, we rested.

Having sex with Bob was the same every time- very basic. I said that I didn't cum, but I had come to regard these spasms as a kind of cumming that I enjoy almost always when I have sex. Later, as I became more sexually astute, I realized that what was happening was that he was hitting my G-spot.

I was not in love with Bob, nor he with me; but he took me to dinner and out on his boat and I was treated well with respect and kindness. He was not exclusive to me. He also saw Maggie, Sherri, and Ellie, and I saw others, too. But for two or three years we got together quite often and though he never said I love you, the man with the vasectomy told me that I "made him feel potent again." -- Good enough!

Rob died two years ago. I used to run into him at the grocery store and we would smile and comment that those were the "good old days" and that we shared many delightful memories and agreed that we sure did have a good time. The last time I saw Rob was June of 2006. I was having dinner with my friend, Jayne, at Stripers. He, sitting alone at the bar, bought us a round. I went over to him and asked him how life was treating him, shared some current events, and we passed our usual pleasantries. Smiling and happy as I had always known him, he never let on that he was sick. Rob died two months later.

The funeral was well attended. I tried to see if I could recognize any of the women I had shared with Rob there, but it had been twenty years, and so it really was not surprising that none of the faces looked familiar. I had a hard time focusing on the memorial service and barely heard a word as my own dear memories of the man who had so sweetly been my first lover took over.