The voice on the phone was vaguely familiar and yet new to me. Her words made it clear I should know exactly who she was, but I could not place it until she mentioned my mother and gave a throaty chuckle. It was the voice of a friend of my mother: Sally. When I was in junior high school in Panama City, Florida she lived across the street in the sprawling four-bedroom home with a courtyard and more funky, little nearly-hidden living areas than I could imagine. Her home was like a maze, going from one antique-choked sitting area to another. And I was there often, as her only son was my best friend.
Sally. Why in the world would she be calling me? At my office, no less. Here I was, an attorney for a federal agency, living in the stylishly re-done garment district in downtown Kansas City and beginning to sweat and fidget like a junior-high kid again. Her voice was nearly like a purr; and that was fitting, for I clearly remember that her features and figure had a feline quality. When I was an adolescent, Sally had been the star of many of my fantasies. She had that perpetual beach bunny tan and wore tight white bathing suits nearly year-round. She moved with a grace that belied her blocky and buxom figure. Her legs were long and toned, and her big ass seemed to roll from side to side as if she were a jungle cat stalking its prey.
Her velvety alto was about to run out of mundane things to say when it finally became clear: my mother had told her that I would be in Tucson on business, and Sally now lived there, and wouldn't I like some company when I was in the desert?
The polite child in me automatically answered "yes" before I considered the ramifications. She purred her delight at my answer and told me she would pick me up at the airport, and would make sure I got a nice supper and some friendly conversation before my tough negotiations the next day. A major ramification was this: I had planned to meet Charlie Tejano, my only friend in Tucson, and he and I were planning on going to tie one on and maybe even drive down I-19 to go to a "Donkey Show" in Nogales. Now I would be eating a sedate supper with my Mom's friend, who had to be in her 50s by now. Sally always seemed much younger than my mom, although logic would dictate that her son Jack and I were the same age, so they must have been at least members of the same generation. Sally just exuded youth. She drank daiquiris by the pool early in the afternoon. She playfully gave hints to the horny adolescents who swam in her pool that her "old man" better be ready for a good ride when he got home from the bank. She wore heavy eye make-up and tight clothes. She laughed in that Lauren Bacall voice and tended toward being a tad bawdy, even when the kids were around. Mostly, though, I think she may have seemed young due to her two greatest assets. Her tits.
In her bikinis, her tank suits, her tight blouses, her halter tops and even her evening wear she always showed them off. They were tan and high and firm and, well, wonderful. Mom was pretty, but very staid. She covered up in the sun, and Sally acted like she might just melt away without it. It was obvious to me that her tits must have needed the sun, as well, because so much of them were always uncovered. This arrangement was perfect for a 14–year-old pervert-in-training across the street, but now I was 35. Likewise, she was 20 years older. And now I was having dinner with her.
I called Charlie. He understood. I had been whipped by my mother and he would spread the word in the legal community that is friend, known in college as "Borracho Loco" (the crazy drunkard) would henceforth be known as "Puta Triste" (the sad pussy). The only sad thing about it was that he was right. The night before my flight I lied awake beside my sleeping wife and remembered what Sally had been like. I wondered how much of the fun-loving sun goddess remained inside of her. I wondered whatever happened to Jack and to his little sister Kara, as I had not seen any of them since I was in high school. I tried to sleep, but the thoughts of those tits, and those legs, and that crazy ass kept me frustrated. I nudged my lovely wife awake and ravaged her for the better part of an hour. She thought it was because I would miss her. In my mind, she was Sally. I finally slept.
Thank God for direct flights. KC to Tucson was no biggie, and the turkey sandwich was surprisingly tasty. The flight attendant, Rosie, reminded me somewhat of the younger Sally of my memory: confident and carefree, full-busted and long-legged, tan and blonde. I even accidentally called her Sally when I answered her question, and she flashed that same toothy grin and the same knowing chuckle that kept me awake the night before.
I flirted casually and she commented on the fact that my wristwatch matched my wedding ring. Oh, well...
The plane was on the tarmac and a serious thought occurred to me: twenty-plus years is a long time; would we recognize each other after all this time?
As I entered the terminal I scanned the expectant faces that were waiting for the disembarking passengers. Nope. None looked familiar. I looked for the buxom, without-a-waist figure. Nope. I looked for the sun-bleached hair with the red highlights. Nope. No tight white bathing suit. Shit. This was going to be impossible. I was no longer the pudgy boy with the braces and bad complexion, the one that a sexual animal like Sally would never have noticed; no longer the one that once caught of glimpse of Kara when she was naked and about eleven years old and immediately sprouted a boner not because she was attractive or sexual, but because she was the naked daughter of my fantasies; no longer the smart kid that sat along the edges while Sally laughed with the dumber and more physical teens. I was none of that anymore.
OK. Look more closely. She has got to be 55 or so. I was 35 and much fitter than she would have ever known. I was a late bloomer and grew several inches and lost many pounds since she last saw me. While not terribly handsome, I was at least average looking with a full beard. I looked again. She wasn't there.
I grabbed my single bag off of the carousel and hailed a taxi for the Marriott University Park (not a fancy hotel, but nice and within my per diem budget). I checked in and took the elevator to the eighth floor, tossed the bag on the bed and noticed that the red light on the room phone was blinking. It was a voice message from Sally. She got held up, wanted to apologize and meet me for supper at a little Italian place on North 4th Avenue called Caruso's at 6pm. It was about a fifteen block walk from the hotel and the weather was beautiful, so I decided I might walk, until the end of the message advised to sit near the phone so she could contact me about giving me a ride.
I hung up my suit for the next day, put my undies in the in-room chest of drawers and kicked off my shoes. I stretched out on the bed in my khakis and piquet polo shirt and turned on the TV to watch Sports Center. I closed my eyes to recall the days by the pool two decades earlier and conjured images of Sally seeming to bend over to put on her shoes while always managing to be facing toward me, just so I could stare into the darkness of her cleavage. I remembered one particular night when she absently ran her fingers through my older brother's hair and only the fact that he was underwater from the waist down spared him the embarrassment of a raging hard-on. I recalled the shame I felt and the burning in my cheeks when Jack accused me of leering at his mother so obviously that even little Kara noticed it. It was that night, during Jack's tearful tirade that I found out that Kara had a crush on me, I had broken her little heart, that I was a pervert and that I was no longer welcome at his house. Before I could remember the part where all was forgiven, with the drone of Dan Patrick in the background, my reverie was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.
My heart leaped to my throat and I checked the mirror like an unsure teenager and then pulled the door open to see Sally. It wasn't her.
Instead, there stood a smiling woman that I recognized soon enough. She had the dark curly hair, laughing brown eyes and heart-faced shape of her father, and the large busted, thick-middled, long-legged figure of her mother. It was Kara. She took two steps forward and threw her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek. I returned the hug, excitedly shouted her name and crushed her to me. We let go of the embrace and held each other's hands and grinned and looked. No words were exchanged for some time as we were drinking it all in. It was a wonderful surprise. My initial disappointment was replaced with a joy at seeing someone from my past that had changed as much as me. She was dressed in western boots, designer blue jeans and a loose-fitting silk shirt. It was obvious that Tucson suited her sense of style, for she was bedecked in coral, turquoise and silver: dangling earrings, numerous bracelets and several chains that nestled in her impressive cleavage. She was not quite as blocky as Sally in her youth, but the bosom was an obvious genetic gift. Her shirt was unbuttoned improbably low and when she stepped back to look at me, I caught glimpses of the navy lace of her brassiere.
She noticed my peeking. She chuckled and said "Some things never change.....but others do, I guess." Her voice trailed off and I figured she meant that my ardor for tits was the same, but the little pervert had grown up into a not-so-bad looking guy.
We made small talk as we walked arm-in-arm to her Prius. The drive was short, the restaurant homey and comfortable. Sally arrived before the wine and she was wonderful. She had embraced the southwestern style as well and wore lots of Native-influenced jewelry, a brightly floral silk blouse and a dressy white linen pant suit. Exotic animal skin pumps matched her handbag and her now-graying strawberry blonde hair was pulled back into an elaborate bun. I noticed her body had become barrel shaped and the bosom that flummoxed me for the last three days was even heavier, higher and as tan as two decades before. She hugged me maternally, sat down and we chatted, ate too much heavy food, drank too much wine and the years melted away. I was no longer the awkward kid that was too soft and too heavy. She was no longer the unattainable goddess. Kara was no longer the shapeless skinny girl with the Harpo Marx hair and the crappy attitude. We were peers and friends, and nothing else mattered.
