I was ending another week of hard, productive work, feeling that somewhat familiar, somewhat welcomed mix of exhaustion and exhilaration, looking forward to an evening alone and a long night's sleep before a weekend of nothing in particular - some exercise, certainly, maybe take the boat out for an afternoon of fishing on the lake, maybe see if the rare event of something worth watching were on either TV or the local theaters. Traffic had been the usual Friday afternoon parking lot along the Interstate, but I'd managed to get through it by determinedly chilling and reminding myself that I kept that 9mm in the car for defense, not road rage vigilantism. Finally, the idiots survived without incident, I pulled off at my exit, wended through town, stopped at the market for a drinkable red and a steak larger than I knew I'd eat in one sitting, and arrived at my house, the end one on a cul-de-sac, right on the lake, with the dock out back and the screened in porch overlooking the backyard and calm water.
I was widowed some years ago, and had adjusted quite well I thought, considering losing a spouse has to be a tough thing for just about anyone. I had made it through the somewhat grueling 40s, gotten the kids well delivered to the adult world, and made it half way through my 50s without any significant health or financial issues, being fortunate in both, and having moved up a bit in the big corporation I worked for as well. Suburban life was good, and I had a metropolis within a half hour when I wanted. That included female companionship when I felt like it, but I'd come to be pretty stoic about that. Many single females in my age category saw me as security material, which became obvious on about the second or third date. I didn't need security, and I was damned well not going to be lured into being just security for someone - that was a decision I was determined to drive if it ever happened, not be driven to. Meanwhile, younger women liked younger guys, and older women were mostly, well, set in their ways.
I am fortunate, or cursed (if that's your perspective), with finding women endlessly fascinating and endlessly attractive in ways far beyond the magazine presentation ideals. Since my second bachelorhood, I've dated and not bedded, and dated and bedded, women from 35 to 75, finding all those bedmates arousing, and mostly aroused by the experience. My days of being a stud are past, if they were at all, but I'm still functioning on all cylinders sexually. It's just that it's a social hassle, and so, I haven't had a serious partner since my wife died, while I haven't had to go without sex for more than a month, maybe two, and that mostly due to distractions at either my business at work/life, or my lack of motivation.
All that said, I wasn't expecting social company that weekend, just some time to veg.
I'd put on shorts and sandals after a post-workout shower and was reading up on the week's accumulation of magazines with a cold beer side and oldies on the radio out on the back patio, when I realized through my focus on other things that the doorbell was - had been? - ringing, faintly. I get few visitors, and the neighborhood rarely gets solicitors, so I hustled into the house, grabbed a shirt from a pile of clean clothes I hadn't gotten around to putting away, and made it through the kitchen to the +
door, buttoning as I went and getting about 2/3 of them done as I opened the door. Yes, I have a peep hole, and no, I didn't use it. Walking down the steps away from the house toward a nondescript car parked and apparently empty at my front sidewalk, I saw a woman and called out to her, "Excuse me, were you looking for someone?" thinking she had the wrong place.
She turned and I could see she was young - early 20s, I guessed, petite, shoulder-length blond hair, trim, dressed in an off-white linen shirtwaist dress (or that's what we used to call them) that was flattering without being provocative in the least, and loafers. A bit of a throwback, I thought, since I rarely see young women in loafers these days. The outfit altogether could have been worn without adjustment 30+ years ago.
Seeing me, she stopped a moment as if to take my measure, and seeming to take a breath, came back toward me. "Mr. Arthur?" she asked.
"Hello, yes, that's right. Can I help you?" I was wary - how come she knew my name? A rare solicitor after all? Someone I should recognize from her youth that I was blanking on? There was a distinct familiarity, but nothing I could put a name to. Think, Bill, think! Nope, nada. OK, go with the flow.
"I'm Lissa Wright, but you might remember my mother, Fran Anderson - you two dated back in your college days?"
Fran! The memories flooded back. Fran was smaller than her daughter, really petite, a great figure, actually my age but way ahead in terms of "social experience" at the time. She looked so young that when I approached her at a college town welcome back students picnic, my friends thought I was after a high school girl (hence their not having beat me to her - I was hardly the lothario in those days). It turned out she was a rising sophomore at the state university but had grown up in the town where the small college I attended was. The university started later, hence her still being home, and thus at the picnic, her family nearby. I asked her to dance, she accepted, and we chatted while the band played what we called beach music, thankfully not so loudly that we couldn't carry on a conversation. By the end of the picnic, I'd met her younger brother, her parents (including an apparently humorless dad with the "I'll kill you if you touch her" look down pat, her mom gracious and attractive, keeping dad's protectiveness from actualization), and we had a date for the following Saturday. I was carless at the time, but she had a clunker and offered to drive - I was counting blessings!
Come that day, she arrived as planned at about 10 a.m., with a lunch packed for both of us. The college had a lake nearby and gave sailing lessons free, with a minimal day sailer sailboat rental to students. My definite pretensions to the life of Gatsby ingrained, I'd taken the sailing lessons, envisioning myself at Newport someday. As I'd suggested to her earlier, we headed out to the lake, and I spent the next several hours doing my best to keep us (1) upright, and (2) not heading in the wrong direction. I hoped I hadn't shown myself to be a total landlubber, but found that she wouldn't have known the difference. While the life jacket I insisted she wear did nothing for the outfit (shorts and blouse) she wore, I also hoped she appreciated my concern for her safety (and mine, as I dutifully wore mine as well).
We lunched when back ashore, eating at a table by the docks after I'd put away the sailboat, a massive 18-footer maybe - long time ago, so don't hold me to that. I do remember we were the only ones out there, and that we were both pretty worn out. I wasn't comfortable at sailing by any means, and she'd been game, wanting to try everything and my leading her through the steps. After eating, we lay on the grassy slope, watched the clouds, and generally had a wonderful time of it. As we packed up, I was out of ideas and money to have any. I figured she was probably sensing that when she said she'd heard about a party that night we could go to. We gathered our things, and the picnic basket in the trunk, I held the door for her at the car, and she took the initiative, stepping close to me and kissing me. It was gentle and wonderful, and I remember it distinctly, and have from time to time over the years. I returned the kiss, and we stood, bodies pressed together, at the car, as I pulled her to me, felt her bra-restrained breasts against me and hoped that she would both feel and not be offended by my growing erection. She was beautiful, we were adults in the legal sense, and I was totally smitten.
I don't know how long we "made out," but we ended up sprawled across the front seat, that erection undeniable as we continued, with her gently but firmly moving my hand when it came to grope at her breast or her ass. I sort of expected that, but it was part of the game that I'd need to try, and that she'd rebuff on a first date, but not so vehemently that it wasn't an implicit promise for more in the future, or so I thought. We finally came up for air, and I immediately asked her when I could see her again. She hemmed a bit, then said she'd write me and we'd see (no address was needed at our small college beyond the college's and town's names, and yes, it was back when people actually wrote letters to each other), but that she really did need to get home.
