I suppose some might view this written document as a confession. A lonely woman confessing to her obsession with bedding muscular young college boys. I don't think of it that way. To me it's more of a memoir, a remembrance of the autumn of 2017 and the nice new friends I made, friends who helped me to feel young again, friends who made me forget, at least for a little while, that I'm a woman drifting into the Autumn of life, alone. I guess I should start with some background...
I've always loved the look of an English cottage. Here in New England the old-world cottage style seems to fit right in. My humble little home sits in the heart of a small town, right on the edge of the campus of an Ivy League University, just a stone's throw from it's athletic facilities. It's a long stone's throw, but many of the boys who walk past my front garden could make it, their arms strong from working in the weight rooms, their bodies lean and muscular from years of athletic pursuits. They're fine looking boys, and they make this lonely woman's heart flutter more than it should.
In the old days I would have been known as the spinster who lives in the little red house behind the wrought iron fence. It seems odd to think of myself as a spinster, but I guess it's an old-fashioned word that fits. I'm forty-seven years old, which in this day and age doesn't seem such a bad age to be single. With all the divorce these days there are plenty of men my age looking for mates, but I'm not drawn to any of them and I'll tell you why. It's the constant parade of hard-bodied college boys walking past my front garden that's made a mess of my sense of reason. It's not just the visual part that scrambles me, although that might be enough. The real problem is how polite some of those young men are, saying hello to me when they walk by, telling me how nice my garden is. They often ask about a particular plant, the eye-catching Colocasia. It's called Elephant's Ear for good reason — it's leaves are gigantic, each one nearly as big as I am. It's a tropical jungle plant that's not hardy here in New England, but it's such a powerful lure for the young men I make the extra effort to cut it back, dig it up and store it in my basement every winter.
Oh, my, I used the word "lure," didn't I. Maybe this is more of a confession than I'd like to admit. I guess if I'm being honest I should stop referring to them as "young men" and just call them boys. That's the way I think of them. They're my boys. When they arrive here in the fall as freshman they're just old enough to be legal, but they're still boys. Their experiences here at the university are what shape them into men, taught by their professors, coached by their coaches, loved by their girlfriends. For quite a few of the boys it's their first experience with girls in a sexual way. I can sometimes spot those virgin boys, but not always. Boys these days are different than they used to be, the porn on their phones giving them knowledge kids didn't have back in my day, but the nervous shyness is still there when they're confronted by a real woman's cleavage; even more so, I've found, when that cleavage is moist with the sweat of hard work and flecked with rich garden loam.
Yes, I admit I'm a bit shameless with my breasts. They're powerful tools, but of course women have known that since the beginning of time. It seems to me we women owe a debt of gratitude to the missionaries who tamed our native ways and got us to cover up. If we were all walking around naked like savages the incredible power of the hidden wouldn't be a tool at our disposal, so I say thank you to those puritans, thank you for empowering the cleavage, and the bare nipple under the t-shirt, and the gentle sway of an untethered breast under a loose shirt. I've witnessed time and time again the cock hardening power of those simple things. Freshman college boys, as you may have guessed, are hair-trigger horny, and I haven't met one yet who doesn't like big tits.
It seems awfully risqué to write phrases like "cock hardening" and "big tits" in a story about myself, but I suppose that's the only way this tale can go if I want to remain truthful. I've never spoken about any of this with my few friends, and I guess maybe that's why I want to get something down on paper, so I can look back on this little memoir when I'm old and gray and say yes, those marvelous things with those boys really
did
happen to me. As for the here and now, I must admit that my writing will be interrupted in about an hour. I'll have a 10PM visitor at my back door, the door that opens onto a brick path that leads to the dark ally behind my little house. Tomorrow is a work day for me, and my young visitor has an 8AM class in the School of Management building, but he and I just came to an agreement this afternoon and I'm eager to spend some private time with him. He's a freshman, on the tennis team, and he's in the most remarkable shape. The longest legs and a sweet young smile. But this story isn't about him. It's about the recently passed month of September, a glorious late-summer month of golden light, warm evenings and new friends. There was lots of work to do in the front garden, and I was glad of the warm days...
—
"Hi. Beautiful day, isn't it?"
That was my greeting to a dark-haired boy. He was walking slowly down the sidewalk, typing a text on his phone with his thumbs. He looked up and saw me in my garden, eyes on my eyes, and then lower. I'd worn a gray tank top that day, with no bra underneath. It's a cute shirt, a pocket sewn over one breast with an appliquéd cartoonish head of a cat peaking out of it. I love how it draws eyes down where I want them, to one of my best features.
"Oh. Yeah, nice," the boy said. His eyes darted back up to mine. His face turned the sweetest shade of pink when he realized he'd said it while staring at my breasts.
"What sport do you play?" I asked. He was clearly an athlete, lean but muscular, with a duffel bag type backpack slung over one shoulder.
"Swim team," he said.
"Freshman?" I asked. I was pretty confident I knew the answer, based on how young he looked. My nipples bloomed the way they often do when I think of freshman boys, and my new young friend took glancing notice of the way they pushed out my shirt.
"Uh huh."
"Good luck this year," I said. "You're going to love it here."
"Thanks," he said, adding an awkward "You too."
It's easy to check practice schedules online, so I made sure I was out in the garden the next time he walked by. My breasts did their pointy thing as soon as I saw him, and I'd readied myself for their display by wearing a ribbed v-neck t-shirt that forms to me in a delightful way. It's not extra tight like what a Playboy girl would wear, but it does show off some of the best features of my full breasts — the smooth curves at the sides, the thickness of my easily aroused nipples, and the round, soft curve below them.
I watched out of the corner of my eye as my dark-haired swimmer approached. He was looking at me instead of his phone, even when he was half a block away. I smiled and my skin felt tingly as it sometimes does. I let him get closer before I pretended to notice him.
"Oh, hi!" I said. "How's my swimmer today?"
My swimmer smiled. "Good. How are you?"
"I'm wonderful," I said. "How could I not be on a day like this?" I lifted my arms toward the sky for emphasis, tingling again when I felt my breasts lift and my thin white shirt tighten around them. My arms came down and my swimmer's face looked deliciously happy and young, pink again from embarrassment at where his eyes had been.
"On your way to practice?" I asked.
"Oh. Yeah," he said.
I smiled at how confused he looked at such a simple question. "I hope Coach doesn't work you too hard. I was hoping maybe I could hire you to help me dig up and move a heavy plant."
He looked excited. "Really?" he said. "Yeah, sure! But you don't have to hire me. I'd like to help."
"Good," I said. "What's your schedule like? Do you have an hour or two tomorrow, maybe?"
