My oldies station was playing and I was singing along with Neil Diamond. I mean, who can resist when he starts belting out "Sweet Caroline?"
And I was tired and it was late. Ever have one of those days when absolutely nothing goes right? Well, this had been one. One of the County Commissioners I deal with had been complaining about a federal inspector. The inspector had been bitching about the county staff being uncooperative. The secretary threw a goddam tantrum.
THAT kind of a fucking day, you know.
The garage door opened obligingly and I parked the Yukon next to his baby, a little Fiat Spider that, as near as I could tell, worked about three days in seven. But I patted it on its pretty red hood as I walked by, headed for the back door.
The back door opens into a mudroom with the second door opening onto the kitchen.
When I opened the door, there he stood, and I felt the tension of this bitchy day start to leave me.
David is so damn cute he's almost pretty. A little under half my age, a student, an interesting and enjoyable companion, he was also the most attentive roommate one could want. He was standing there, dressed in an apron and nothing else, holding a screwdriver out to me.
I smiled. Not one of my grins that I practice in the mirror to pacify irritated elected officials or bureaucrats, but a real smile as I said, softly, "bless you," and took a drink, the orange juice and vodka almost immediately calming my nerves.
He took my hand and led me into the front room. He had me sit in the overstuffed wingback chair I had purchased on a whim one time at an estate auction and found to be comfortable.
"Relax," he said, taking my left foot into his lap and getting the shoe off. I breathed a sigh of relief and felt more tension leave my body as he began rubbing my foot.
He didn't say anything, just did the other foot.
Then he kissed me, a soft kiss, whispered, "stay put," and went into the kitchen.
He was back in just a minute and offered me his hand. He helped me stand and then got back to his knees, slipped his hands under my skirt, and rolled my pantyhose down. I sat and he took them off and went back into the kitchen.
He was back in a couple of minutes, this time with a small tub filled with steaming water. I caught the faint scent of Epsom salts as he sat it at my feet. I hissed softly as I put my feet into the VERY hot water, took a drink, closed my eyes, and leaned back.
He moved to stand behind the chair and started rubbing my shoulders, digging hard into the big, tight muscle that ran from my neck to the roundness of my shoulder. I sighed.
"Marry me," he said, not quite a whisper but barely audible, his breath warm in my ear.
"No," I said for about the nine-hundredth time.
He worked on my shoulders some more.
"Marry me," he said again.
"No," I said again.
He chuckled, very softly, and said, "Okay, relax then."
He went back into the kitchen and I enjoyed watching him go. David is 24, less than half my age, and still slender, his body still the high school championship swimmer he had been.
He was back in a few minutes, carrying a tray. He set the tray on the couch, pulled a chair over beside mine, put the tray on his lap, and started feeding me.
"Relax, Susan," he said, "I can always tell when you've had a bad day. Now let me take care of you."
So I laid my head back and just let him feed me.
He does things like that. It's such a delightfully, wonderfully intimate thing. I know I tend to kind of wallow in the attention but, well, there it is. I ain't apologizing.
"Marry me," he said, wiping my chin.
I smiled and said, "no."
He's getting to be a good cook. Tonight was pot roast and I felt bad for being so late. He likes to have a sit-down dinner, and I hate it when I miss them.
Fed and full, I watched him carry the tray into the kitchen and then come back with a fluffy towel. He got to his knees again, and lifted one foot at a time, drying it carefully, making me giggle when he did piggies-to-market on my toes.
When he was done he carried the little tub into the kitchen and then came back. He helped me to stand and then walked me into the bedroom where he undressed me.
It was an odd combination of casual and sensual. He eased the jacket off and carefully hung it as I stood still. He unbuttoned my blouse and pulled it free of the skirt and tossed it into the hamper. He unbuttoned and unzipped my skirt and hung it.
Then he kissed me. I always enjoy being undressed by him. It makes me feel young again.
He reached around and unhooked my bra and when I felt my boobs sag I was reminded of the difference in our ages. He pushed my panties down and I stepped out of them, naked now before him and liking the way he looked at me.
Then he finished our, well, "ritual" is too strong a word, but "process" sounds too cold. Our, well, our "greeting." He walked me to the full-length mirror on the closed door and stood behind me as I looked.
"Marry me, gorgeous," he said, his hands on my hips, nuzzling my neck.
"No," I said, smiling, and looking.
Not bad, I thought, for pushing 60 pretty goddam hard. My hair was short and grey, but I'm one of those women who got lucky in the hair department. It's that silvery grey many women try for, often spending a lot of money, but rarely achieving it. My face wasn't bad, I tend to think of myself as "attractive" rather than "pretty" or "cute." My bones are good, my nose a bit oversized but straight, my eyes very dark brown and wide-set, my mouth is generous with full lips, my chin is what you'd call a "strong" chin in a man, my ears are small and close-set. Oh, and my teeth are my own. Not bleached, kind of ivory colored, and straight.
I have good shoulders too. I had run track in high school and been on a state championship cross country team. I was small-breasted until I got pregnant and then I ballooned from a B cup to a D cup and they never went away. I'm one of those women who lost the fight with gravity early, but my glands always remained large so my boobs droop, looking kind of like oversize oranges hanging in skin-colored bags. Blue veins made an interesting map and my nipples, very dark and always big on even bigger areolas, tightened as I looked.
But working down, well, things weren't real good. When menopause stuck I suddenly seemed to lose all of my fat cells. That meant that what had been a bit of a pot belly was suddenly a wrinkled pouch with my navel, a deep innie, right in the middle.
Farther down, I had always been natural until David started trimming. Now my pubic hair, still dark, was trimmed to a short dark triangle, terminating at the top of the slit of my vaginal opening clitoral hood. My labia, always full, was smooth and on display, with just a hint of delicate pink inner lips peeking out. My thunder thighs, my saddlebags, were on display, the ONLY place menopause had left me any fat cells. No thigh gap for me. They tapered down to fairly slender calves, remains of my running days.
I smiled.
All in all, not bad for 59.
His hands were still on my hips and he whispered, "Marry me, gorgeous."
I giggled and said, "no."
He sighed theatrically but then held out my light robe and helped me put it on.
"Come on," he said, taking my hand and leading me into the front room. He made me a screwdriver and brought it in and handed it to me. He sat, then, on the edge of the couch, and pulled me gently over until my head was in his lap.
It's funny, in a way. This was part of our evening routine and although my head was about one inch from his cock, and a very nice cock it was too, this wasn't a sexual encounter. Well, it didn't START as a sexual encounter anyway. Instead, he started stroking my hair.
"Tell me of your day," he said.
And for the next half hour, I got to vent.
While I was talking his fingers eased down, finding my nipples and making little electric shocks running between them and my clitoris. He tickled his way down and found my belly button, making me giggle, and then down.
After three years together, he knew me better than anyone ever had. His fingertip found my clitoris and touched, lightly, bringing a little gasp from me.
