When I was 19 years old, I spent a lonely summer in my college town working two jobs to help make ends meet for my upcoming sophomore year. Three nights a week, I worked as a waiter at a restaurant. During the day, and on call at night, I helped Mr. Simonson, the apartment superintendent of our 100-unit complex, with maintenance services. His wife, Mrs. Simonson, was the apartment manager. I did everything from cleaning and maintaining the pool and Jacuzzi, to unclogging drains (and toilets—Ugh!), fixing frozen garbage disposals, and repainting units before new occupancy.
Joe and Lydia Simonson were in their late sixties. Mr. Simonson was a gregarious hard drinking man, with a red, corpulent face, potbelly, and a bald head. Mrs. Simonson was a brassy, dumpy, gray haired woman, who always seemed to be holding a cigarette. They were fairly demanding of me, but they were fun people to be around, and they did a great job in running the apartment complex. Both of them seemed to take delight in teasing me about anything and everything. They referred to be as “Loverboy,” from time to time, because of my loving relationship with my girlfriend, Sarah. Mr. S liked to tease me about how lucky I was to have such a hot college girl for a girlfriend, and he would inevitably end the comment with some reference to how I needed to enjoy it while I could, because you get old like him, with an old, dumpy wife.
My summer was lonely, because Sarah had left town to return home for the summer to work, and also to travel in Europe with her parents and sister. She left in the middle of June, and I wouldn’t see her until late August. Sarah and I enjoyed a wonderful sexual relationship, and until she left, we went at it about four or five times a week. When that ended abruptly in the middle of June, I went to Plan B—self-pleasure. As I think Woody Allen once said—“at least I was having sex with someone who loves me.”
In late July, I was able to take some extra shifts at the restaurant, which meant I was working every day and every night for six days. It was exhausting work, but the monetary reward was well worth it. After my final restaurant shift that week, I slept until ten, then showered, slipped into my running shorts and tee shirt, and headed over to the pool house to clean the pool and add the chemicals. It was a warm day already, but a cooling morning breeze felt exquisite as it gently blew through my hair, giving my skin a sensuous and goosepimply feel. I felt very horny—and no wonder, my grueling schedule of all work, interrupted only by sleep, had put my last orgasm six days into the past. Now that was probably a record since the time I began masturbating at age 11.
After finishing my work at the pool, I went over to the office to see if I could talk to Mr. or Mrs. S about buying a new drain snake to replace one that had become hopelessly tangled and unwound. Trudy, the Assistant Manager, was in the office that day. She told me to check with the Simonsons at their apartment. So I walked down to their apartment and rang the bell. Mrs. S called out “Who is it?”
“Just me Mrs. S.”
“Come on in, Jimmy.”
I let myself in. The air conditioner was on. Mrs. S and her friend, Kathy Lewis, were sitting on the living room couch, smoking cigarettes, watching TV soap operas, and reading magazines. Both of them were dressed in shorts and tee shirts with bare feet. Mrs. Lewis was in her late fifties, wore glasses, and was a bottle brunette, with her hair in a ponytail. In contrast to Mrs. S, Mrs. Lewis was very skinny. They both appeared to be more than a little bit inebriated, as they each were working on a Bloody Mary, and a pitcher that had once been filled with the mix was near empty. They were having a wonderful time, chattering incessantly and loudly, as drunken people will.
After they ignored me for a minute or so to finish their conversation, Mrs. Simonson finally looked up at me, and asked me what I needed. So I explained, “I think the snake is broken and we need to get a new one.”
Mrs. S smirked, “Your snake is broken?” and then they both broke up in raucous laughter. “You are far too young to be worrying about your snake not working, Loverboy.” More laughs at my expense. I just stood there, and then I realized that both of them were looking at my crotch, as the discussion of my “snake” necessarily drew them to look there. I am sure I turned beet red.
“Come on, Mrs. S, give me a break.”
Then Mrs. Lewis chimed in, “Oh she can’t help it, Jimmy, she has snakes on her brain.” With that, she pulled a Playgirl magazine from beneath the Redbook in front of Mrs. S, and held it up for me to see. I just shook my head, while both of them broke up again.
