It started as a bit of a mutual joke, I suppose, but as the realization that we were both talking about the possibility became more and more frequent, there grew an underlying, sexual tension that was palpable.
Christina was a bartender at one of my favorite recreational stops, the Turf Club at one of the prominent casinos in Atlantic City. For those unacquainted with the Turf Club moniker, it is simply a small haven inside of a casino where a patron can watch and bet upon simulcast thoroughbred races from across the country.
I was more than simply a 'punter', I used to own a stable of thoroughbreds in the late 1990's, and had two successful fillies, including one who won a number of graded stakes races in California, and her winnings provided me with enough of a windfall profit that I was able to take an early retirement from my real estate career and buy a beach house in Ocean City. I never thought that the retirement would last forever, after all, one can only play so much golf. Yet at age fifty-one, I was enjoying some quality post-divorce free time after busting my nuts working for the past thirty years.
My latest girlfriend, Stephanie, was a recent divorcee herself at thirty-seven, and came down to visit and 'play' on weekends. She sold real estate and was a part-time fitness trainer outside of Philadelphia, and she had, shall we say, an open mind when it came to all carnal activities. However, our relationship was limited to weekends when her school-age kids spent time with their dad, so most weeks, I had five days by my lonesome. Hence, my trips to the Turf Club. It was a pleasant, relaxing way to pass some afternoons, maybe make a few bucks, and it didn't hurt that Christina was behind the bar to add some aesthetic flavor.
Christina, or Chrissy, as I began to call her in a paternal manner, was twenty-four years old and already divorced. She had married some military guy stationed at Fort Dix at the tender age of nineteen (WHY do youngsters DO that!?), and from what I could ascertain from our conversations, the allure was basically limited to the fact that he was the first male she knew to get a tattoo with her name on it. Regardless of the reasons for the foolish and ill-fated attempt at matrimony, by the time she reached the age of twenty-two, she ran away from the abusive alcoholic Marine, her self-esteem in tatters, and enrolled in the local community college. She held a variety of jobs to support herself, determined to do it on her own, and on weekday afternoons, she worked behind the bar.
Chrissy was an absolute sweetheart, and I have no doubt that her comfort level with me was due to my age, more than old enough to be her father, and I was an aberration from most of her customers. First of all, I never hit on her, unlike ninety percent of the drunks who wandered in and out of the casino, but most important, at least to Chrissy, I think, was merely the fact that I listened to her.
When you get older, you talk less and listen more. It takes less energy, and you learn a lot, about people, about things. About things that happen to people. And what people like about certain things. Mostly, though, you learn just from observing human behavior.
For instance, I discovered that Chrissy never wore a hint of make-up during her shifts, unlike almost all of the silicone-chested cocktail waitresses in the casino who looked like they had cakes for faces. By her own admission, she didn't want to give the impression that she was interested in any male advances whatsoever. She had straight, light brown hair that she usually had up in a ponytail, and dressed in mostly loose clothing, conservative blouses and slacks. However, on these warm Spring days when her clothing became a bit tighter and unwittingly revealing, it was apparent that she had a killer body.
Chrissy was petite, about five-feet-two, perhaps a shade taller, and couldn't have weighed more than one hundred and ten pounds. On her particular frame, though, no matter how hard she tried to conceal them, a pair of disproportionately huge breasts poked out from beneath her generally unflattering attire. On the first April day that reached eighty degrees, she wore a pair of khaki shorts that not only clung to two tight little buns, but showed that her legs were slim and surprisingly long on such a compact frame. For the first time that day, I couldn't help but to complement her in the most paternal, gentlemanly way I could muster, and she blushed and mumbled a bashful, "Thank you, John."
That was also the day I got my first hard-on when thinking of Chrissy in less than a gentlemanly way, and when Stephanie arrived on Friday night for her weekend stay, she was the unwitting recipient of a hard, eager, enthusiastic fuck before she barely made it through the front door. Steph didn't know then that it was mainly due to my growing fervor for the young bartender. In my mind, I called out Chrissy's name as Steph spread her legs and begged for more cock. I heard only Chrissy's sweet, soft voice in my imagination, and I exploded the biggest torrent of cum that I'd let loose in ages on Stephanie's taut tummy. Steph left for home that Sunday a well-fucked and thoroughly sated woman.
