Ever notice how life can slowly take over until you're in that place where all you do is exist? This story is about an older widow who needs a jump start in life and finds it in a naïve but kind 19 year old who desperately wants to know about the physical side of love. At 63 she sees herself as average, but to him she's something way beyond average. Both think it's for no longer than a summer and make the most of the weeks they have.
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I'd been at Oak Grove Estates for a little over eleven months and still hadn't met many of my neighbors, probably because most of them were snowbirds and not very sociable. I seemed to gravitate toward those living in the park year-round. I didn't think I would like living in Northern Mississippi, but as I got used to the southern drawl and humidity it had begun to grow on me. I laughed at the name of the retirement community, one of those 55 and over places, I hadn't seen an oak yet, much less a grove. Southern pine and Poplar galore, but so far, no oak.
I had what is known as a park model mobile home on a decent enough sized lot to have a small, raised bed garden plot. I loved having fresh vegetables more than just June through September, which is what it was in northern Michigan where I'd moved from. That is, if there wasn't a late frost to kill off the seedlings. Harry, my hubby of 41 years checked out when he was only 66, making me a widow at the tender age of 61. Here I was a year later having uprooted my life and moved over 1500 miles away.
There wasn't anything to keep me in northern Michigan, our three kids had gone to other parts of the world.... literally. A daughter married to a guy from Taiwan and was living there with their twin sons, the second daughter working with the American Embassy in Sweden, and "the boy' as we called him was in the military stationed on Okinawa. Harry and I started having kids three minutes after we'd said "I do", or at least it felt that way. I swear the man had no sooner hung his pants on the bedpost and I was pregnant. Having kids so young and in such proximity created problems at the time but yielded the rewards of being not much more than middle aged when they had all graduated high school.
I found myself lonely after Harry died, not enough to go looking for a partner, however I did fall into bed once with Anders Heikenen, the 40 year old Finnish guy who owned the Christmas tree farm at the end of our road. I think it caught him as much off guard as it did me, with him being more than twenty years my junior it was awkward from the get-go. I was embarrassed having him see my wrinkled and stretch marked old body and he wasn't quite sure what to do with an older woman.
We'd both had a beer too many, by the time we got down to business the effects of that extra beer had worn off and there was no simple way out at that point. We fumbled and bumbled in the dark, to his credit he took his time making sure my motor was not only running but sufficiently warmed up. He kissed me like a lover would, he played with and kissed my breasts commenting they were firm and full. Thank you, I can live with that. He then made a big deal of talking lovingly about my greying sparse bush as he lowered his face to my now wanting nether region.
The first swipe of his tongue made my hips jump and I heard somebody who sounded an awful lot like me groan. I noticed that same person had their hands woven into his curly locks holding him tight to my now quivering pussy. A loving tongue bath of my folds was not new to me, Harry washed his face in my muff almost as much as he washed it in the sink, but it had been some time since that had occurred. I reveled in the first orgasm, my old body shaking and out of breath, I hadn't been that out of breath since I'd last shoveled the driveway. As I collected myself Anders crawled up my body and was about to shove his dick into me when I stopped him.
"Nightstand, on the right, little bottle of KY, put a dab on you in case I'm not as wet as I think I am. Your tongue was great, but I want your cock to be just as fulfilling."
Fifteen minutes later I could feel him shooting me full of young potent semen, thanking God I could no longer get pregnant, because as much as he came I was sure at least one sperm would have found its way through my cervix. I always loved that feeling when Harry and I made love, his cock swelling and then "bammo", I was full and overflowing with thick warm seed. Semen that would find its way around his cock and then dribble down my ass crack to the sheets or drip off my clit if we were doing doggy. Anders's climax had triggered my second orgasm which was why I was so out of breath. Pushing up on his chest I was able to take a deep breath and move him off, as he lay next to me I got up and washed away the mess between my legs, tossing a warm washcloth onto his belly when I walked back to the bed. I was in my nightie when he asked if we might do that again soon.
Turning on the bedside lamp I looked him dead in the eye, "Nope, that was a onetime thing that probably shouldn't have happened. You made me feel good inside, but I also feel guilty as hell knowing I only buried Harry ten months ago. I'll make a deal with you Anders, you say nothing of this to anyone and I won't tell your finance of two years that you fucked a 62-year-old widow."
He nodded, put his boots on and left in the darkness of night. Since that time nothing had been between my legs other than me washing. There were a number of older single guys in the park, none of them tripped my trigger in the least. I'd been asked to accompany two of them to the monthly potluck at the meeting hall, I declined, wondering what they thought I would want with not one, but two limp dicks. Spring was upon us, well, spring in Mississippi, it was still cold back home. I had called a local gardening place for a half dozen bags of topsoil for my raised garden, it was to be delivered that afternoon.
I had been working in the flowerbeds since just after lunch and was tired enough that I sat on the ground under a large tree, (no, not an oak) trying to cool off as a pickup stopped in front of my lot. I watched a younger man of 19 or 20 with a short beard and longish blonde wavy hair step out of the truck. Walking to me it was obvious he'd done something in regard to physical labor all his young life, his physique, was solid. He stopped four or five feet from me and smiled.
"Are you Mrs. Teague?" He asked.
I was maneuvering to stand when he extended a hand for me to grasp, once upright I brushed the non-existent debris off the back of my shorts as women are want to do and spoke.
"Yes I am, first name is Violet, most people call me Vi, and what's your name?"
"Devon. Not a common name in these parts, my dad was from England so I have his dad's name. He's not with us any longer, died a long time ago, my grandpa I mean. My old man ran off with some chippy about ten years ago, mom died when I was sixteen. I live with my sister now. She's divorced and is a nurse at the hospital. Sorry, my mom always said I talk too much, where would you like the topsoil?"
I was impressed by his soft demeanor, he wasn't brash, or presumptuous the way so many younger men are, and I had to admit that he carried himself more as a man than an older boy. I never could understand why so many younger guys found it necessary to be so full of themselves, as though they were God's gift to humanity. I'd taught far too many of those snotty little shits before I retired as a high school history teacher. When he had the bags of topsoil on the ground next to the beds, I signed the delivery ticket and stood looking down at the bags.
"Is there anything else I can do for you Mrs. Teague?"
"You can stop calling me Mrs. Teague and call me Vi for starters. I'm just wondering which one of the old goats in the park I can get to lift these and dump them into the beds. None of them are spring chickens anymore, shoot, neither am I for that matter."
He looked at the truck, then at me, "I've got a few more deliveries to make but I can stop by after work if you want. I don't need money or anything like that, I just want to help."
"What about your sister, isn't she going to be worried?"
"Naw, she's working swing shift, I'll text her and let her know I won't be home for supper. I'll just grab something in town when I leave here."
Ah, an opportunity to cook for more than just one, "How about I make supper as payment, it would be nice to have someone to talk with. I made cookies this morning, do you like cookies?"
