Dylan arrived to pick me up promptly at seven thirty. Dylan is a friend - well, a good friend, with benefits. We've shared many intimate sessions, but tonight I asked him to escort me to a charity gala, I of course promised him a lovely evening.
I opened the door. Dylan looked very dashing in his tux. He's tall and dark and, at 52, is fourteen years my junior. He's a consultant, his kids are grown, and has been widowed for four years. Like me, he gets lonely and horny at times.
We had met on a Friday at a trade show where he was working with a client and I was working the crowd for a water systems vendor. He looked very young, but he seemed interested in my products, and we got to chatting, first business and then about our lives. He did not seem at all deterred by the visibly obvious age difference, and he suggested we continue our conversation over drinks. Drinks became dinner, and by dessert I was telling him about my divorce eleven years ago, and he was telling me about how he'd lost his wife to kidney failure. By the time the check came, I wasn't surprised when he held my hand, or, when we stood up after he paid it, how he kissed me gently on the ear.
I was intrigued, but I'm not a fool. "Dylan, you're very sweet, but I'm not exactly a young single girl. I'm not even a soccer mom."
"I'm not looking for a young girl or a soccer mom," he answered. "I'm not really looking for anybody, if you want to know the truth. I just felt this connection happening. I wasn't expecting it, and I'm sorry if I was too forward."
"Not at all," I replied. "I feel it, too. I'm not uninterested, but I'm also not looking for a relationship at this point. I've been on my own for a long time and I like it that way. It doesn't mean that I don't want a friend who can keep me warm sometimes. Now kiss me again, if you like. Properly, this time." He did. It went on for several seconds, and our tongues began the dance. I don't recall whether it was Dylan or I who opened first.
After that, he drove me home. I invited him in, and he kept me very warm indeed.
The next morning, over coffee and danish, we talked for a long time, discussing what had happened and what, if anything, it meant. We started tentatively laying out the contours of an arrangement, one that would work for us both, hopefully for a long time to come.
Following my divorce, I had been sexually active for a period of time, and had come to enjoy it. But as the years went by, the men became less and less frequent, and I had come to terms with mostly being on my own. With Dylan, I saw that this might be changing, although not in any manner I had anticipated. I needed to figure out what my - our - boundaries were going to be.
Dylan was in agreement. This would be a private friendship. We would not involve our kids, mine now long grown with kids of their own, or other family or friends. We would each remain in our own homes, but would have lots of visits and sleepovers.
We would not be a couple. We might go out socially, and at times we might not. We each understood that there might be occasions where it wouldn't be appropriate for us to appear together, with the age difference and all. We would not be exclusive. On the other hand, it was expected that neither of us would be sleeping around. If one of us chose to step out on occasion, that would be fine. In the meantime, we could call on each other whenever we felt like it, hopefully often, would try to be accommodating, but would understand if the answer was sometimes, "Not tonight, dear."
Since that night, we had been together often, and had thoroughly enjoyed our sexual encounters. Tonight will be a social event, although it will certainly end as a sexual one, and hopefully will allow for some provocative antics along the way.
"Margo, you look stunning," Dylan observed as he stepped inside. I'm not. At least, I'm not pretty in any classical sense. "Handsome" is the word I like to use about myself. Not unattractive to be sure. Features maybe a bit plain. A little large in the hips and breasts, but not overly so. Curvy. Short dark hair, styled with bangs, with just touches of gray that I don't color yet, to provide some gravitas in the business world. It keeps men from asking me to fetch coffee at meetings. Tonight I'm wearing a burgundy gown that's spray painted on, low cut, showing a lot of cleavage, sleeveless with bare shoulders, and a high slit up the side, putting my curves most definitely on display. No underwear. At Dylan's request early on, I don't shave anything other than my legs. All in all, a bit much, maybe, for a woman my age, but I'm hoping to have some fun this evening. I like my assets and I still know how to use them. Tonight, I hope to put them in play and stir up, if not some trouble, at least a little intrigue.
"Thank you," I told him. I picked up my clutch from the table, checked for the tickets, and we walked to his car. As we walked down, I put my hand on his back and let it slide down to his bottom. Dylan chuckled softly at this gesture, he knows me.
We arrived at the hotel ballroom, checked in with our tickets, and found places at our table, then went off to the bar for cocktails. Drinks in hand, we took a leisurely stroll around the room, stopping at stations to taste hors d'oeuvres, and looking for friends or acquaintances. We didn't see any. We walked past a couple, about my age. Both were a little on the heavy side. She was marginally pretty, and he was nice looking although balding on top. The man pointedly looked at my cleavage as he went by. Rudely obvious. Someone to have a little fun with later on, perhaps.
The band started and I led Dylan onto the floor. We danced, and he held me tightly, sliding his palm down my back, to my ass. Just for a moment. He flashed me a grin and I squeezed him tighter. I laid my head on his shoulder and he breathed gently into my ear, sending a tingle down to my toes, by way of all the good spots. We danced a couple of numbers, teasing each other here and there, then walked back to our table where a group of three ladies, pretty and in their thirties, were standing around chatting about reality shows.
Introductions were made, and I turned to Dylan. "Be a dear and get me another drink," I whispered.
He turned to walk off to the bar, and Young Lady One mentioned, "He's handsome. Are you two married?"
"Oh, no," I replied, "I'm just keeping him around for the sex." As the Young Ladies grinned, I reached up to touch my earring, in the process intentionally exposing a thick tuft of black armpit hair for all of them to see. In spite of themselves, they stared for a moment before recovering. "Oh," I went on, as if caught by surprise. "He likes that. Or, he says he does. He seems to enjoy places where I haven't shaved."
Young Lady Two responded, hesitating, "It's very exotic, isn't it?" Well, for their generation, I suppose it is.
"That's what Dylan says," I went on. "And I like to keep him happy. He's very, well, accommodating. And, I shouldn't say this, but he's two of most men, if you know what I mean." Three pairs of eyes lit up at that.
Dylan arrived back with fresh cocktails. "Thank you, darling," I whispered, placing my hand on his forearm as I reached to take the glass.
