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.
