All involved in portrayed sexual activity are 18 or over. The old country western song, "older women make beautiful lovers" comes to life in the following tale.
*
This week began like any other week, I would leave the warehouse at four thirty in the morning and begin deliveries to grocery stores and restaurants throughout the area. By the time I reached Grove City, around seven thirty, it was time for breakfast. From time to time I would have to cover someone else's route and not stop at Cheryl's Diner, but not very often. In the two plus years I'd been stopping I was generally waited on by Francine or Michelle, not today, an older lady was asking if I wanted coffee before ordering.
"Where are Francine and Michelle? They have the day off?"
"Well sir, neither work here any longer, Friday was their last day, Francine is moving to Daytona Beach to be closer to her kids and Michelle landed a job in Cuba City at a large distribution warehouse. I usually work from three until seven evenings, now I'm covering early mornings. So ... coffee, or would you like to look at the menu?"
"Nope, won't need a menu. I'll have the haystack without onions and a glass of milk with the meal, honey wheat toast."
"Sounds like you've eaten here before."
"Nearly every Monday through Friday for over two years. I noticed there's no strawberry jam, can you remedy that?"
She offered a soft smile along with, "Certainly, anything I can do to help."
Having lived in the south the past several years I was used to the normal hon, shug, babe, baby or sweetie from southern waitresses, this lady was southern, but she was different. I smiled and tipped my hat as I watched her walk away. She was good looking for an older broad, quite conservative in her dress but attractive in her own right, most of the waitresses would be in jeans and a somewhat revealing top. Apparently cleavage increases the size of the tip.
Her nametag said Elma, and unlike the other gals she was dressed like waitresses used to, a light blue cotton dress with white piping around the sleeves and neckline, a neckline that was open but not enough to look inside. The one unusual thing I did notice was that the hem of her dress was probably three inches above her knees and that she wore stockings. I estimated she must be in her late fifties, maybe sixty. She had a slender figure, sort of average I guess, a cute hinder that twitched a little as she walked away, or did she do that for my benefit. Her chest wasn't big but then it wasn't small either, what I'm trying to say is she was put together nicely.
Unlike so many older ladies it was apparent she had let her hair color naturally, it was mostly a silverish grey with a smattering of brown every so often. It was long by most standards, well over her shoulders and while not as thick as a young woman's hair it was still full. I was surprised she wasn't wearing glasses, most older people do, maybe she used contacts.
Waiting for my food I momentarily drifted back to how I'd come to live in the south. I had ended up moving after my long-time life companion decided she was leaving me for a much younger model. Though we'd been together thirteen years Sherry and I had never married, I had proposed more than once, each time she said no but wanted to stay together. In my eyes we were married whether we had a certificate or not. Not so in hers I guess. For my thirty third birthday she took me out for a lavish steak dinner and introduced me to her new lover wondering if wanted to be part of a polyamorous relationship.
When I got out of jail forty-five days later I decided to move. Not across town, across country. Since I'd done no permanent harm to her new lover the DA showed mercy and charged me with a misdemeanor instead of a felony, which meant I could keep my CDL. I happily left the ice and snow of North Dakota, trading it for the heat and humidity of Northwest Georgia. Once I got past the culture shock and learned how to decipher Southern ese, (my God these people talk fast) I felt good about the move. Yes, it was hot and sticky four to five months a year, but compared to ice, snow, and temps at or below freezing five to six months a year, I figured I had the better deal.
I'd been driving big rigs all my adult life with a perfect driving record, finding work wasn't an issue, I had lined up the position I presently occupied prior to ever moving. I was tired of the long hauls and decided running a steady daily route would be more in line with what I wanted life to be. I lived in an apartment complex complete with a pool, laundry facility, a fitness/workout room, a hot tub, and more lonely housewives than you can shake a stick at. Then there were the divorcee's, the lonely heart singles, the downright homely, and last, but not least, the "I hate all men" club.
At thirty-four I must have been considered prime material because I had an abundance of women, married and otherwise, who let it be known they were ready to be wooed and screwed by yours truly. I have to admit I did avail myself of said provisions more than once, okay, okay, sometimes more than once a week. I stayed away from the married one's as much as possible, the key words there being "as much as possible". In the two years and seven months I'd been living there I'd only bedded three housewives. Two of which had abusive husbands and a third whose husband never grew up, he spent most of his free time with his high school buddies, all in their late twenties.
I'd met all three at the laundry facility, the first two were obvious, I showed them some kindness, they in turn wanted to be wanted without being abused. The second one of those nearly landed my ass back in jail, thankfully her soon to be ex was too drunk to remember who'd kicked the shit out of him. Within a week of his ass whooping she had vanished, her girlfriend said she'd gone back to Iowa and was filing for divorce. Smart girl, no one should have to put up with that shit.
The third was lonely, plain and simple, feeling neglected, unwanted, undesirable, and had basically accepted she was destined for a shitty life with an idiot husband. It started out quite innocent, we talked, she shared dreams and aspirations, we learned of one another's past, it got to be a regular thing every Thursday night. That was the slowest night of the week at the laundry for some reason, it was usually Emily and me along with one or two others.
To keep my horns trimmed I'd been banging two divorcees across the complex on occasion, I didn't hide it, but it wasn't common knowledge either. Emily and I were near being done with our laundry one Thursday, folding clothes and putting them in a basket. She was generally very careful when she folded her underwear and put away her bras, she usually had her back turned to me. This evening was different, as she folded several pair of small lacy panties facing me I was without the will power to look away.
"Do you like those Paul?"
Feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar I quickly looked down in embarrassment.
"It's okay Paul, it really is. I bought them thinking he might stay home and be with me instead of running with his high school friends. It didn't work, I even bought a slinky see through nightie. You know what the idiot said when I walked down the hall wearing nothing under it as he watched TV? Get some clothes on, you'll be cold in that get up."
I couldn't wrap my head around such stupidity, had she done that in my home I'd have jumped her bones and rode her hard all night. My mouth must have been hanging open, smiling she put her finger under my chin and lifted it.
"What would you do with a woman like me Paul? Be honest."
I thought, what the hell, I might get my face slapped, but I was going to tell her exactly what I was thinking.
