This tale takes place in that, sadly very short, interval between the ready availability of the contraceptive pill and the outbreak of HIV and AIDS. It does not involve anyone underage at any point.
Since we moved to Spain my husband's passion for golf has gone into overdrive. Unfortunately that's his only passion, he's much more interested in the valley on the fourth than the one between my legs and, even if I tempt him with an offer of a blow job, he always has some excuse and resolutely sticks to his monthly quick bonk.
I wouldn't mind so much if it was a torrid encounter. Maybe with some variation in position, maybe some oral, or tying me up with his pj cord before spanking me and taking me from behind. Oh! I so wish.
But no, it's fumble, fumble, fumble, get it stiff, stick it in, wiggle it about for a couple of minutes, roll off, "night dear." And leave me to rub myself until I get some sort of result. Hardly the Kama Sutra.
He comes back from the course and regales me with a blow by blow account of nearly every hole and how he would have won if only that put on the seventeenth had gone in. Sometimes I want to scream. Maybe I should give him a blow by blow account of some fictional sexual conquest, but I doubt he would be interested and worse, much worse, I doubt that he would really, honestly, care.
Actually the thought amuses me. Next time he's in mid flow about his missed put, I should just say.
"Interesting dear, but you know that cute chap from the end of the road, the one that pushes that pram up and down? Well he called today, on behalf of some charity, and, well to be blunt, I fucked him." And see if I get any reaction.
I bet he'd just laugh, or worse still, add insult to injury by saying that he's a bit young for me! Not that I'd even try, as he's obviously married and I don't do that, but the fact that he pushes his pram up and down shows that at least his jiz is twenty four carrot gold!
I didn't actually plan to become a cougar, in fact I don't think the term even existed at the time, it just sort of happened. We were invited to a friend's son's 21
st
birthday bash. It was a mixed generation affair with some of the parent's friends and some of his. It was held in a big, old, rambling house and the cellar had been decked out as a disco. The family were well known for throwing great parties and I was looking forward to a very enjoyable evening.
It was a dressy affair, so I selected a flowing dress that clung a bit to my curves, particularly if I wear a thong rather than knickers. My bum is one of my better features and it makes me feel sexy when men watch it undulate under my dress, a clingy dress only emphasises the effect and the pleasure it gives me. I love the idea that men are looking at my bum and imagining it naked.
Just because hubby isn't interested it doesn't mean I can't do a bit of window dressing. I always try to go without a bra in high summer and, even though I'm the wrong side of forty, my smallish boobs still pass muster and stand up on their own, besides it makes me feel sexy and as the material brushes my nipples it stiffens them and that too usually gets some furtive glances from the men, imagining themselves fondling them.
I never understood men's fascination with nipples, they have two of their own after all and, in my experience, they often have a direct communication line to their cocks. Be that as it may, I enjoy men ogling me and looking away quickly when I spot them gawping. Harmless fun.
So I'm dressed to party with my sticky out nipples, clingy dress and looking forward to some fun. I had no idea at this stage just how much fun it was going be. Great food, booze flowing freely and a disco, a perfect recipe.
I noticed one chap, obviously the son's generation rather than mine, who seemed to sit out and generally be on his own. He was a good looking chap, probably early twenties, with a shock of tousled looking blond hair and, I have to say, really quite dishy in his crisp white shirt and tight fitting trousers. Mmmm those trousers, they really showed off his bum.
My mind set off on its own as I casually wondered what it would be like to fuck someone different, I'd only fucked the same person for the last twenty years or so and to say the lust had gone out of it would be an understatement. What would it be like to clasp those firm, young, naked, buttocks as he drove his cock deep into me, just a daydream really, but a hot one!
Would this be cheating? I don't think so. Cheating is something like deliberately giving someone change of a fiver when they gave you a tenner. You're depriving them of something that harms them. Hubby still gets what he wants, why not me? So no harm done. Cheating? No. Infidelity? Certainly.
I was several gins into the mission and the music in the cellar was booming, 'crisp white shirt' was sitting out again, so I surprised myself by going over and plomping myself down on the sofa next to him, and attempting to start a conversation.
"So what's the story?" He looked at me quizzically, so I continued.
"What's the story? You know, I mean a good looking chap like you sitting out with all this great music."
I don't recall the rest of the conversation, or actually I am probably too embarrassed to tell it, but I shamed him in to asking me to dance. He was a good dancer, so I put in a few moves from yesteryear. Holding my hair up, sticking my boobs out and so on. The more we danced the more I fancied him. Could I pull him? I am probably old enough to be his mum! Did I want to? Silly question! Would I dare fuck him? Where? Here? When? Now? More difficult to answer but, let's face it, I was only going home to Mr Magic Rabbit for another vibrator induced orgasm at best.
We danced a bit, chatted a bit and generally got to know each other. He seemed pretty keen because he kept ogling my tits, which is always a good sign and makes me feel hot, particularly when a younger man eyes me up, so during the next dance I gave him what I remembered was my best 'come fuck me' look.
By now the cellar had almost emptied and the slower music was on. I decided that this was make or break time, so I made my excuses and headed for the loo.
Yes or no girl? Are you really going to try to pull him or not? I would like to say that the gin and the music influenced my behaviour, but that would only be an excuse. I was hot for him! I wanted attention in the VJ department and he was available and interested.
If you haven't already guessed I refer to my vagina as my VJ. It started as Vag, for obvious reasons, and then changed to VJ with the recent trend of Vjazzling, where you get rid of all your pubes and stick rhinestones all over it. I don't fancy that, and anyway I think even Mr par 4 might notice rhinestones on my VJ. I am not comfortable with the term pussy, for some reason, and beaver sounds even worse, but I really love the word cunt!
Cunt is such a lovely, almost Chaucerian, word when not used derogatorily. I can just imagine the scene in a castle chamber of olde England.
"I trust my cunt makes his majesty happy?"
"Nothing makes me feel more womanly than my master's cock deep within my cunt!"
And a 'wench' would definitely not have had a pussy, she would have had a cunt and have been proud of the fact.
Unfortunately it's use in day to day conversation has been destroyed by its swear word connotation. Such a shame, so VJ it is, except when I'm in the throws of passion, when I can only think of it as my cunt. Anyway that was just by way of explanation.
