Author's Note: This is Pt. 02 of my Finding Jan series. I'm pushing a bit further into absurdism, bordering on complete silliness. Remember, this is just Part 02 and the pandemic isn't over yet. We've got time. . . .
Finding Jan Pt. 02
It'd been six months since my night with Jan, but I remember that night and the morning after, like it was yesterday.
Although I woke up a bit groggy, thoughts of Jan had already aroused me. I couldn't believe it had happened. I really thought it could have been a dream. All these years knowing her, never once did anything really sexual with her cross my mind. I suppose I had lied to myself a little bit about her tits though. I had indeed noticed them and had lusted after them to a degree. But in those lustful moments, her mammoth melons were almost disembodied from their owner. I knew I had wondered what they felt like to hold, to squeeze, to fuck, but those fantasies never involved her as a person. I guess this what they mean when they talk about objectifying a person or at least two world class tits.
My thoughts danced with the memories of each thing that had happened the night before. The moment she noticed my erection, the look on her face. The tenderness and eroticism of her hand moving up my leg. The instant she grabbed my cock and the sweet way that she suckled on it. The "you'll go first... you need this."
In alternating flashes, my mind kept returning to the way she pressed her tongue against my pee hole. I can't say any woman had ever done that to me before. She squeezed the tip open with two fingers and then fluttered her tongue around the hole. It was both uncomfortable and erotic, like she was trying to stick her tongue into the hole. I know some people are into that kind of thing, but not me and yet, my mind kept returning to it.
With thoughts of her tongue swirling around my cockhead, my hand had made its way into my underwear and I jerked myself off for a few moments. By the time my mind wandered to her lapping up the cum from my stomach, I realized I'd better stop before it got too far. I wanted to save the load for round two with Jan, which I hoped would involve a blowjob while eating my breakfast or preferably, while watching Sports Center.
I rose from my bed and walked toward the closet. As I passed the dresser, I stopped and stared at myself in the mirror for a good minute. I felt both proud and ashamed. I was basically a basket case of emotions. I mean, it's not exactly normal to get a blowjob from your mother-in-law. What kind of person does that?
Eventually, I walked into the closet, if you could call it that. It was really another bedroom that we connected to the master bedroom and turned into one gigantic closet. Custom cabinetry, dressing table, bench, valet, a secret safe. It was really an impressive sight. I think it cost more than some kitchens, but it made Lara happy, so I was happy.
I surveyed the room and took comfort in the fact that all of Lara's things were still there, just as she had left them. It was as though she could come home at any minute and life would return to normal. Parting with those things would have been like admitting defeat, which I couldn't bring myself to do just yet and maybe never.
Turning then to the right side of the room, my side, I looked at all of my things. The wall was divided into three sections, the left and right sections had two clothes poles each. I loved the way Ginger, my housecleaner, kept my things so neat and organized. Every shirt and pair of pants were hung meticulously...perfectly. The center section of the wall had two sets of cabinets, with three drawers each, waist high. Above those drawers was my "trophy" section. The place I displayed my most valuable items of clothing: my nylon gym shorts.
25 pair of my gym shorts, each on their own hook, facing outward, on full display. Each of the 25 on their own hanger, a hand carved, mahogany hanger, emblazoned with my monogram and family coat of arms.
I've probably got a 200 pair of gym shorts in total and Ginger rotates all of them week-to-week and seasonally. Winter shorts, spring shorts, summer shorts, fall shorts. Different colors, styles, sports teams, plain, my alma mater, pockets, no pockets, draw strings, no draw strings, short, medium, long lengths, solid, mesh, lined, unlined, you name it, she rotates them all.
She rotates all of them, except for one pair.
On the third hook, in the third row, dead center on the wall, is my pride and joy: a pair of nylon shorts I had had made by a peasant woman, living deep in the jungles of Vietnam. Ten years earlier, I had flown around the world and trekked three days through the jungle, which included a bout of dysentery, to meet... Mee Ho Lot.
Mee Ho was world renowned for making the highest quality, custom, nylon gym shorts. She was usually frequented by basketball players and rappers, but she also had a strong following of men who found themselves in sexually complicated situations, such as car rides with their moms sitting on their laps or weekend sleepovers with their promiscuous aunts and cousins. In all of these cases, nylon gym shorts were essential.
As I approached Mee Ho's hut, I saw a straw mat outside with shoes on it. As is the custom in so many Asian countries, I knew to take mine off. I parted the shower curtain she used as a door and entered. I would have knocked, but it's hard to knock on a plastic curtain.
Immediately I took stock of the situation and wondered why I had to take my shoes off since I was now standing on a dirt floor. I guess outside-dirt is dirtier than inside-dirt.
From across the hut, Mee Ho greeted me warmly. She was a pleasant looking woman, about 55 years old, with large, plump breasts, a full shapely ass and straight black hair in a ponytail. Oddly, she had a tattoo on her arm that said "Fake It, Till Ya Make It."
As I said, she was pleasant and gave me a warm smile, but there was also a sadness in her eyes. I later learned that she'd never gotten over the deaths of Tupac and Biggie, both valued customers. Recently, when Nipsy Hussle got clipped, I heard she briefly lost her will to live.
I introduced myself and she said, "Nice meet you, American Joe." As she was getting prepared for my fitting, she began to sing softly.
It was weird, but Mee Ho was singing gangsta rap and she really loved it. Her mother, Suk Yu Lot, who I hadn't even noticed sitting in the corner at first, also loved it. I'm pretty sure they didn't know what "bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks," actually meant, but they sounded pretty good singing it. I guess they liked Dr. Dre too.
I had read in my dark web chatroom about Mee Ho's process. I was told to get naked and stand on a small tailor's platform. Mee Ho sat in a chair studying my body, the way a sculptor might stare at a block of marble. Every 10 seconds, she let out a "hmmm" or "ummm hmmm," while nodding her head.
Finally, after five minutes, she spoke. I wondered what secrets of her craft would she reveal with her questions.
