I guess those readers who don't remember life before the internet have probably never heard of a 'Singles Night'? Nightclubs and Hotels regularly ran events aimed at thirty-plus singles in search of a new life partner; it was the place to go for the widows/widowers and divorcees who felt they were a little too old for hitting the pubs and clubs on a Friday night. A sort of real world dating site.
That minimum age requirement tended to be flexible, as indeed was the aim of finding a long-term partner and that's where I and others like me came into the equation; though at twenty-one I was among the youngest, An older workmate had enlightened me as to what a rich hunting ground such events could be; amid those single ladies looking for love were more than a few in search of more ignoble and short-term hook-ups.
Most often these were 'happily married', but to older, impotent or simply too often absent husbands. It was those women that I saw as my prey and in hindsight, they perhaps saw such as me in a similar light; if you wanted to fool around, then who better to choose than a fit, handsome and virile 'younger man' to provide what you weren't getting at home?
I had a box van for my building and garden maintenance business and having discovered 'singles-nights' I learnt to keep it spotlessly clean and comfortably appointed in the rear; I even kept a mattress in my lock-up to slide in whenever the need arose. I had occasionally been invited to a hotel room and once even to the lady's family home -- too risky! - but it was most often in the back of my trusty van.
That van could at least be considered a step up from a car's rear seat, though it never failed to surprise me how eager those seemingly prosperous, middle-class and conservative ladies were to get laid in the back seat of a discretely parked car or van. Did the sordid venue add a certain sleazy frisson to their experience?
That evening saw me parking in the furthest corner of a hotel car park near Egham, a good thirty miles around the M25 motorway from where i lived; I was optimistic, the Singles-Night here had proved fruitful in the past. It wasn't long after seven in the evening, but that was something else that I'd learned: Get in there early!
While those seriously searching for a partner began to arrive at around eight-thirty, those looking for an illicit fuck were usually earlier. The excuse/alibi of 'visiting a friend' or 'attending a night-class' -- a favourite of the regular vamps -- worked best if the wives got themselves home before ten and that included their return journey; nobody chose a local Singles-Night when looking for an adulterous fling.
When I walked into the room there was a woman at the bar getting herself a drink; a tall, slim brunette, with a gorgeous pair of legs and a trim bum, wearing high heels and a silky, knee-length, sheath dress. I'd normally have waited until she'd turned around, so I could gauge her age and looks, but seeing a couple of other guys already checking her out, I guessed that she wouldn't be too disagreeable.
Those legs swung it; I kept on walking and on reaching her, I slipped an arm presumptuously around her waist and enquired if I might be permitted to buy the drink for her? The waist was slim, my hand sat comfortably on her hip and the glare of the guy whom I'd just beaten to the punch all suggested that I'd picked a winner.
The woman turned toward me, our eyes met and my stomach plummeted; oh shit!
I was dumbstruck, though the lady retained a little more savoir faire: "Well Robbie, this is rather embarrassing; I suspect for the both of us..." Turning to the still loitering barman, Mrs Turner added: "I'd perhaps best get these; he'll no doubt want a pint of lager." I still hadn't moved or made a sound by the time the now grinning barman reappeared with my drink.
While the barman couldn't know what the problem was, it was no doubt pretty obvious that there was one. Mrs T passed me the drink, gestured toward an isolated table in the corner of the room and proposed: "Let's sit over there shall we Rob?" I gave a feeble minded nod of agreement as she guided me on tottering legs to the chair.
In today's parlance, Helen Turner is a triple-A MILF and had we had the term back then, she would've been dubbed a 'Trophy Wife'; Helen was then forty-one and fitted the profile that I noted earlier almost exactly: Her husband George was well past fifty, away on business two or three nights each week and for all I knew he might possibly have been impotent too.
On top of those however, Mrs T was also my girlfriend's mother! Whenever I'd met Helen previously she'd been dressed in slacks or jeans with a loose fitting sweater; she was obviously a looker, but I can't say that I'd ever paid her much attention, she was just 'Jen's Mum'. I'd certainly never seen Mrs T's legs before, I would definitely have remembered those!
I felt a little better once seated, but coherent speech remained beyond me and Helen continued to lead our conversation, while I replied with inarticulate grunts and gestures; I'm glad that nobody was there recording our exchange:
"I'm guessing you're here in that van... Your 'Passion-Wagon' as Jenny Calls it." - I nodded.
"Your prowling around this place suggests that Jennifer was telling me the truth when she promised me that she doesn't allow you to get her into the back of it?" - another nod along with an affirmative grunt.
"Good, she's almost four years younger than you; still far too young for that sort of thing." - A non-committal grunt.
"Do you often attend these... functions; not just here, but anywhere?" - Hesitation, but a bit late for bullshit now, so I gave another, albeit reluctant, affirmation.
"Are you particularly attracted to older women, or is it just that the middle-aged tarts who frequent these Singles-Nights are an easy lay?" - Nothing beyond an open-mouthed stare and a wave of the hands.
A stern look from Helen accompanied: "I'm guessing the latter?" - An abashed nod and a grunt.
Helen released an exasperated sigh and enquired: "Dear God! Can you speak your name at least?" - Much to Mrs T's amusement, I even stuttered over that, but I got it out eventually.
"Good. So you haven't entirely lost the power of speech" - Silence again, but in response to the grin now spreading across Helen's face, I managed a weak smile of my own.
"Pull yourself together Rob; if we're to resolve this mess it'll need some clear thinking. Granted we're in an awkward situation, but it's far from irredeemable."
That caught my attention, or at least got me beyond repeatedly thinking 'oh shit!': "OK Mrs T... I'm listening; what do you suggest?"
"Well, it's embarrassing but there's no point in either of us denying what we're here for... and at the same time there's no point in our saying that we'll just forget it ever happened; we both know that we can't and won't. I also know that neither of us can ever breathe a word about it, to George, Jennifer or indeed anyone else... that would make things far worse."
"So, we both promise that it'll never happen again, walk out and keep our secret unto the grave?"
"That's the most sensible answer, but of course there will always be the issue of trust; can we ever be sure that the other one keeps to their promise and more importantly, maintains their silence?"
"OK, so do you have an alternative suggestion? If so, I'd love to hear it."
"Actually I do and it's quite obvious really, though admittedly somewhat... off the wall and perhaps a little ticklish too; so do please hear me out before interrupting." - I went back to the silent nods for that one, while Helen took a deep breath and then continued:
"We both came here looking for the same thing and after one look at me you seemed happy enough with what you saw. And since you're... not too shabby yourself, why don't we take the 'better to be hung for a sheep than a lamb' approach? We can be damned sure that neither of us is going to blab about that."
Helen's proposal left me wide-eyed and mouth agape once again, but after a stuttering start I managed to reply: "You... you're say... saying that we should... should make love?"
"God No. That's something I still occasionally manage with George and in the fullness of time, something you might enjoy with Jennifer. No... What I'm suggesting is that we head out to that passion wagon of yours and you shag me silly... Fuck the arse off me in the way that we adulterous sluts who come to places like this deserve... and of course, want."
I was totally gobsmacked! I liked to think that I was Jack-the-Lad (don't we all at that age?) but Helen's verve and self-possession were way beyond anything I'd ever encountered. I've no idea how long it was before I managed my next coherent thought, but when it arrived it was a doozy: 'Mrs T has just put her hand on my cock!'
