The Cougar and Me

Chapter One

I watched her in the mirror, as she came in and surveyed the scene. I chuckled when I looked at the clock and saw that she was within 10 minutes of the predicted time of arrival. I guess all that money the Air Force spent training me as an analyst wasn't wasted after all.

She came and took the barstool next to me, as I knew she would. After all, I had arranged it so that it was available and she liked to sit more or less at the middle of the bar. She ordered a screwdriver and turned to survey the room.

"Are you tired of it yet?" I asked.

She turned and looked at me, speculatively.

"Tired?" she asked.

I grinned, flashing my absolute BEST boyish grin. The one I practiced regularly in the mirror.

"Yes. Tired of proving whatever it is you are trying to prove to whomever you are trying to prove it," I said.

She did the one raised eyebrow thing that I am genetically unable to do.

"And what is that?" she asked.

"Shall I speculate?" I responded.

She laughed, a pleasant soft laugh deep in her throat, and said, "didn't your mother teach you it's impolite to answer a question with a question?"

And I laughed and said, "oh, like you just did?"

This time it was a full belly laugh and she raised her hands, palms out, and said, "touche'."

"Well?" I said.

"Sure," she said, taking a sip of her drink and holding my eyes with hers, "speculate away."

I deliberately looked her up and down, taking my time, my eyes starting at her hairline on her forehead and then slowly down to her feet and back up.

"Forty-something housewife, 2.5 kids, could be two, could be three, kids off to college, recently traded in on a new model, comfortable divorce settlement, and now you're hunting in college bars. The only question remains," I wrapped up, smiling now, not grinning, a real smile, "is what are you trying to prove and to whom are you trying to prove it?"

She wasn't smiling.

"How?" she said.

So I explained.

I reached over and brushed my fingertips across her cheek, catching the light dusting or crows feet, or laugh lines depending on your point of view, and said, "the age shows here," and then I brushed those little creases at the corners of her mouth and said, "and here," and one final brush of my fingertips under her chin and finished, "and here."

She did smile at that.

"The kids show up here," I said, and patted her hip, not possessively, just indicating where I was looking, "and the fact that you are doing what you're doing means they are no longer at home. The clothes you wear show plenty of money so it's college, not the Army or Peace Corps or something."

She started to speak but I put my finger on her lips.

"The clothes say it was a generous settlement," I said.

I touched the ring finger on her left hand where the circular dent was still barely visible, "and this shows it's still a pretty recent divorce."

"And now the question is, are you tired of it yet?" I finished.

She smiled. It was a nice smile. "And if I am?" she asked.

"Then I want your phone number," I said.

"We could just go home together," she said.

"Nope," I said, "if all you're looking for is a one-night quickie then there's plenty of meat here," and I made an expansive, sweeping gesture with my arm, "for you."

"I see," she said.

I flashed The Grin this time and said, "let me have your phone."

She did the one-eyebrow thing again, hesitated, and then reached into her purse and handed it to me.

I rolled my eyes and handed it back. "It's locked," I said.

She held my eyes for a few seconds and then entered something on the keypad and handed it back.

I keyed in my own number, hit "end," and handed it back.

"Now I've got your number," I said, "The next move is up to you."

I drained my beer and held out my hand. When she took it I said, "I'm David by the way."

I spun off the barstool and headed for the door.

"I'm LaVerne," she called to my back. I waved over my shoulder.

In my car, parked at the curb across the street, I sat and waited. I figured I'd give it 15 minutes and call it done.

I didn't need to wait that long. In 10 minutes she came out, alone, and I watched her into the parking lot where she got into a Dodge Charger, fully tricked out with the hood scoop and the big tailpipes suggesting the big Hemi engine. I liked it.

I keyed in her number as her door shut.

"10:00 a.m. sharp, picnic, be ready," I said and hit "end" before she could respond.

I waited a few seconds and when the phone stayed silent I figured I had won that round.

So I went home, got a beer, played my xBox for a little while, killing and being killed with abandon, and called it a night.

I got up the next morning and started preparing.

I do picnics well.

I got my picnic basket, a genuine picnic basket, woven of thin strips of wood, and equipped with a blanket and the appropriate dishes and silverware. I loaded in basic condiments.

I had some time to kill so I washed my little Italian chick magnet. Any Fiat driver will tell you that owning one is more a project than simple possession, but a 124 Spider is rolling sculpture, and mine, in red with a black top and interior, is an excellent example.

Well, when it's running, which it had been doing lately.

Clean and shiny, the top down and the tonneau cover smoothing behind the vestigial back seat, I headed for my favorite grocery store. I selected five different kinds of cheese, a half dozen apples, a few oranges, a big loaf of hard Italian bread, and a cheap Chianti, about the only wine I really like.

I called at 9:45.

"Hello," she said and the tone of her voice was a mixture of I'm-glad-you-called and you're-canceling-aren't-you.

"Good mornin' good lookin'," I said, "I need an address."

She giggled a bit and read it off.

Again, I hit "end" before she could change her mind.

I was still learning my way around Boulder so I keyed the address into my cellphone's GoogleMaps app and started following the little blue line.

On a whim, I stopped at a convenience store along the way and spring the $8 for a pretty little bouquet of brightly colored flowers.

I cruised a bit once I found her neighborhood so that I pulled up at 9:59 sharp and was knocking on her door at 10:00.

She opened the door and I whistled.

"You look GREAT, Laverne," I said, and I meant it.

She's a cute woman rather than pretty. Her round face is framed with short cut dark hair, almost black without a single grey hair on display leading me to suspect Miss Clairol was helping out. She is a round woman, with round cheeks giving her a bit of a jowly look. Wide-set eyes are very dark, almost black, and her small mouth was done in a medium red lipstick. Her eyes had been given a hint of a little upturned arrow at the corners giving her a slightly exotic look, and a very pale green eyeshadow was a good shade for her. A button nose finished the inventory of her face.

From the neck down she's one of those slightly round-shouldered women. She was wearing a halter top that showed off plump arms and a nice bit of cleavage. She's a bit pear-shaped, her hips showing the children she had born. She had on white shorts, moderately short, that showed off her legs nicely. And they were GOOD legs. Her thighs were on the heavy side, no thigh gap for her, but they tapered down to nicely formed calves and almost delicate ankles. She had on white tennis shoes with just a hint of a heel to them.

As I finished deliberately looking her up and down I liked the hint of a blush I saw.

She giggled and said, "God David, take a picture, it'll last longer."

"Worth looking at," I said, drawing another slight giggle.

"Ummmm," she said, "are those for me," pointing at the flowers.

I made a little bow and offered them in my best courtly manner.

I was surprised to see her eyes shiny with tears.

"I cannot remember the last time anyone brought me flowers," she said, turning away and heading into another room.

I looked around and figured I had been pretty damn spot on with my evaluation of her. The divorce was far enough in the past that most of the male stuff was gone but some did linger. I doubted, for example, if she had specified the huge flat screen television that dominated one wall or the xBox game under it with the rack of games. The pictures on the wall struck me as things that had probably been picked out jointly with him having the last word. The furniture was in overstuffed leather, nice, but heavier than a woman would select.

As I completed my full turn, taking the place in, she came back in with the flowers in a little glass vase which she put on the fireplace mantle.

"Now," she said, "you said something about a picnic?"

I offered my arm, very formal, very courtly, and walked her through the door. She turned, locked the front door carefully, and turned again. She giggled when she saw my little red chick magnet and said, "Of course. I'd have been disappointed with anything less."

I helped her into the little car and then literally ran around to get in.

I was still learning my way around Boulder, but I knew Colorado pretty darn well. Mom had been a popular party girl and had taken me with her all over the place. I followed Highway 119 west to Nederland and then the small two-lane track to Eldora. Past that was a well-graded dirt track (I didn't take my light sports care onto rough roads) and I followed that.

Along the way I had the radio on, Pandora tuned to "All 50s." It turned out we enjoyed the same music. It seemed like she knew all the words and sang along in a clear soprano that I enjoyed.

"How does a youngster like you know all of these songs?" she asked.

"Mom had a great record collection and I liked the music," I said, picking up the melody as Rick Nelson continued whining about the problems of being a teenage idol.

"And just where are you taking me?" she asked, "should I have brought my gun?"

I laughed and said, "I am many things, but 'rapist' is not among them. You're safe with me."

"Well damn," she said with a giggle.

We continued the trip singing along, enjoying the scenery. Colorado has a lot of pretty places and where we were going was among the prettiest.

I opened the last gate, drove through, and carefully closed it behind me.

"You know the owner?" she asked.

"Mom did and, well, I don't expect we'll see anyone. If we do, I think he'll remember me," I said.

I drove up the last couple of hundred yards and said, "close your eyes."

"Really?" she said.

"Trust me," I said, and watched as she closed her eyes.

I drove the last ten yards, pulled over to a little pull-off I remembered, and turned off the ignition.

"Open them," I said, watching her face.

Colorado has a lot of pretty places and I had seen a lot of them but this spot was my all-time favorite. A big valley, lush this time of year with pastel flowers, was in the foreground with classic sawtooth mountains, still snow-capped, in the background. It is a truly spectacular view.

I could see that she thought so too. I watched as she drew a breath and then turned to look at me. She was smiling, broadly.

"Wow," she said.

I smiled, not The Grin, a real smile.

I got out and opened the door for her. While she was turning, getting her feet on the ground, the one true way to exit a sports car and I was interested to see she knew it, I opened the trunk and got out my picnic basket.

I offered my hand, helped her to stand, and then walked a few yards with her to a smooth spot. I spread the blanket and said, "sit."

I was interested in how graceful she was as she eased to her knees and then adopted that classic pose all women seem to know, her left arm extended, propping herself up, her hip and left thigh on the soft green mat.

"Do you practice that pose?" I asked and she giggled and blushed.

"You DOOOOOOOOO!" I said, laughing.

I opened the picnic basket and started spreading my goodies. The last thing out of the basket was a small pillow, something I had liberated from an airplane while I was being shipped around the planet on Uncle Sam's dime.

Well, it was the second to last thing.

"Lay back," I said, offering my hand while she rolled onto her back, the pillow supporting her neck and head.

Then I got out the last thing from the basket, a black felt sleep mask. A blindfold in this application.

Her eyes got big but she didn't fight when I put it on her.

"Now lay back and let me show you how a picnic is done right," I said.

I pulled the joint I had rolled earlier out of its protective tube and lit it, drawing the smoke deep with a loud hiss and then putting it between her lips.

She giggled and said, "oh my, it's been a long time."

She took a hit, broke into a coughing fit, got the giggles, and said, "again."

The second hit stayed down and I took one myself.

I spent the next hour feeding her. I would but a piece of Muenster cheese and put it in her mouth. Then a slice of tart apple or a small hunk of the bread or a drink from the wineskin. Then a bite of swiss cheese.

And she was enjoying the pure sensuousness of it, not being able to see, not knowing what was next. I didn't touch anything but her lips and I could feel the tension in her body building, and then smell her excitement.

Finally she giggled and said, "no more, David, you have me filled up."

She traced from my hand up my arm until she found my face. Her fingertips were light, like a blind woman finding out what I looked like. I liked the spidery little touches.

Her fingers entwined in my hair then and she pulled me down for a kiss.

It was a good kiss. We both knew where the noses went automatically. Her lips were soft under mine and her tongue flicked, touching my lips.

It was a good kiss. It lingered. We enjoyed it.

When she started reaching down though, her interest and her excitement obvious, I caught her hand.

"LaVerne," I said, "if all you want is a quickie I'll have you out of those shorts in about 15 seconds. But I'd like more than that."

"David, I," she started but I cut her off with another kiss, this one quicker.

"If all you want is an orgasm, I'll have you cumming like a damn garden hose," I said, "that's a promise. But I would really like more."

"More?" she asked.

"LaVerne, I like you. I'd like to spend time with you. I'd like to get to know you. And if we just have that quickie right now I don't think we will ever get past it," I said.

She pulled off the blindfold and met my eyes.

"You're serious?" she asked, her eyes big, "or is this some sort of weird reverse psychology come on?"

I smiled, then I flashed The Grin.

"Yes, I'm serious," I said, "panties off and I'll give you a truly delightful afternoon. Panties on and we can have something better."

She grinned then, trying to match mine.

"Can we at least neck?" she asked with a giggle.

I kissed her.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh yeah," I said.

We spent another pleasant hour, there on the blanket on the soft clover and grass, making out like teenagers afraid to go all the way. We kissed and touched and caressed. Her womanscent, laden with pheromones, almost overwhelmed my control. It was tempting to take her and see if something could come of it.

But I managed to hold off.

Finally, as the sun was starting down and it got chilly, we both quit. It was mutual and we kissed a few more times, little lingering kisses, but we were separating.

I loaded the basket and shook it out and folded the blanket. Everything ready I put it in the trunk and handed her into the car.

She was quiet for the first half of the trip but then started singing along again.

It was early still when I pulled into her driveway.

"David, I," she started but I cut her off again.

"LaVerne," I said, "think about it. If you decide all you want is a quickie, call ANY time and I'll be more than happy to oblige. Otherwise, how about dinner Wednesday night."

She gave me the lips pursed-mouth pulled to the side look only a woman can pull off.

She held that look for several seconds.

Then it turned into a smile.

"Dinner, Wednesday then," she said.

I walked her to the door, kissed her very chastely, and watched as she closed it behind her.

I wondered if she was leaning against it, a scene out of some cheesy black and white movie, as I walked back to my car.

Okay, I'll admit it, I masturbated when I got back to my little apartment. It wasn't fantasizing or anything, it was just relieving the pressure in my very swollen "blue balls" as we used to call them.

I courted her for a month like that. We would have dinner at least once a week and then dinner and a movie on Friday or Saturday. She was the one with the good divorce settlement while I was the student getting by on the GI Bill so she usually paid.

She called me before our Friday night date, a double feature of classic science fiction movies at a local artsy movie house (the 1953 version of "War of the Worlds" and the 1954 "Them" with the giant ants running amok in Los Angeles if it matters).

"David," she said, "I've waited long enough, bring your toothbrush tonight."

And she hung up.

I didn't pay much attention to the movie, to be honest, or to dinner. I think I had steak and she had lobster, but it might have been the other way around.

During the movie, she excused herself to go to the bathroom. When she returned she leaned over and said, "in case there's any doubt," and put her panties in my hand.

This time, at her house, it wasn't a good night kiss.

As soon as I was inside we were in each other's arms. She wasn't just passionate, she was frantic. Inside two seconds she was panting as she kissed and clung to me.

"Easy, sweetheart, easy," I said, "I'm not going anywhere."

"I know," she said, her face buried in my shoulder, "but it's been a long time since I gave a shit about anyone."

"Well, I'm here now," I said, my hands lightly caressing her back, "and tonight I do all of the work."

She giggled at that and then took my hand and led me into the bedroom.

I stopped and turned her to face me. My hands were on her shoulders and I said, "this night is for you. Now relax and let me do the work."

She giggled and threw her arms around me and pulled me down to kiss me, another of those frantic, almost desperate kisses.

I managed to get my hands between us and push her away a little.

"Relax, it's your night," I said, and I started on the buttons of her blouse.

She stood still although I could still feel the tension in her body. I suppose I wasn't surprised when I had the third button unbuttoned and found her bra to be white and what can only be called industrial strength.

I nuzzled her neck, touching my tongue to her skin, and then traced the shell of her ear with my tongue as well.

"You are stunning," I said, working the blouse down her shoulders and then dropping it to pool on the floor at her feet. I kissed the line where the tight bra cut into soft, blue veined skin.

I reached around and found the hooks of her bra, four hooks my fingertips told me, worked out the combination, and unhooked it. She surprised me with a flash of modesty when her arms pressed against her ribs, holding it in place.

I kissed her again, nipped at her ear, and tugged the bra free, dropping it to join the blouse on the floor.

Her breasts were about what you'd expect from a woman who was 46 and had given birth and, presumably, suck to 2.5 kids (it turned out to be two). They sagged, but not as much as they might on a skinnier woman. Hers had the fullness of a plump, she was definitely plump although far from being fat, woman. Her bras, I later learned, were 38D, and her breasts were still full and, if not a teenager's hooters, still stood proudly away from her body. The areolas were dark and large, and in her excitement, tight cones with very prominent love bumps. They got even harder when I brushed those sexy bumps lightly with my fingertip. Her nipples were a shade darker, large, flat across their surface.