Let me explain first of all, that I like older women. And, as a man of 28 years, that doesn’t mean women who are in their thirties, or even their forties. If she’s not twenty years older than I am, forget it. Not that I can’t get turned on by a girl my age. In fact, I’m seeing someone now who’s 25. But what gets me harder than hard is a lady over, say, 50. And none of your older women who look years younger. If I wanted a 65 year old who looked 40, I’d sleep with a 40 year old. Nope. I want her to look her age. I want to know I’m doing someone thirty or forty years older.
I’m not sure what started this particular craving. Perhaps it was seeing my mom naked when I was a boy. I masturbated to that image and the fantasies it generated for years! Maybe it was the woman from next door who took me when I wasn’t much older. She was my mom’s age. Whatever the case, I started targeting much older women when I was a teenager and haven’t stopped.
I met Ev (short for Evelyn) when I started volunteering at the local food bank. I was set to work sorting out donations and Ev showed me what to do. She was about five foot nothing, with curly grey hair and green eyes. Her face was cute but nature had taken its toll and when I guessed that she was probably about 70, I wasn’t surprised when later I learned she was 71. She dressed casually and I could tell from the start that her body, though in good shape for her age, was sagging in all the usual places. Nonetheless, she seemed really nice and pleasant and conservative. Those are three turn-ons I can never resist!
Over a month or so, we got to know each other, chatting every Wednesday morning as we worked at the food bank. As the month wore on, I asked her if she wanted to go for coffee after one work session. We’d been getting along really well and she agreed without hesitation. This was the start of a usual thing, and within a couple of weeks it turned into lunch. Ev was surprised that we got along so well and that the conversation between us was so natural, considering the difference in our ages.
One time, after we’d finished eating and were enjoying coffee at a small restaurant, the discussion moved to men and women and, naturally, sex.
“I know you’re married, Ev,” I said to her (the ring on her finger was something I’d noticed right away), “but you don’t talk about your husband much.”
“Well, he has Alzheimer’s,” Ev replied slowly. “He lives in a care facility. I couldn’t take care of him anymore. I think it’s best that way but I miss having him around.”
“How long has he been there?”
“Five years.”
“You must be lonely,” I said.
Ev nodded sadly, her pale blue eyes wistful.
“Yes, I miss male company. Having a man around, talking to him, laughing with him, having…” She almost blushed as she sipped her coffee. “Well, you know…”
“Sex?” I smiled as Ev nodded shyly. “You can mention that to me, Ev. I’m a big boy, I know what it is.”
“I’m sure you do. You probably have a pretty little thing for that.”
“Well, I don’t want to be immodest, but it’s not really that little, Ev, though some have said it’s pretty.”
“No!” Ev burst out laughing, drawing attention from other customers. “No,” she said more quietly, “I didn’t mean that! God! I meant a girlfriend.”
“Oh, no,” I lied. I was actually bedding down a neighbour of mine. A woman in her mid-60s, her husband went bowling every Monday night. That’s when she’d slip over to my apartment and get satisfied for the week. But I wasn’t going to tell Ev that. “No, there hasn’t been anyone for a while. We’re in the same boat, I guess.
“But Ev, I don’t mean to shock you but, well, have you thought of finding someone? I mean just to provide some of your more basic needs? It wouldn’t mean you didn’t love your husband.”
“I know.” Ev put a bony hand to the wrinkles around her face. Then she said, in an even lower tone, “I have thought of that, Kevin. I actually have…” She seemed astonished at these thoughts. “But, well, I’m 71 and the men my age mostly don’t have the stamina to, well, perform… Never mind perform well.”
“Go for a younger man, then.”
“Oh sure, young studs don’t want an old hag, Kev. Be serious.”
I was, I thought to myself. I was. I drove her home as I had started to do every Wednesday afternoon and said goodbye to her until the next time.