Roger’s story

I’m a student, and a good student since I did my trick for my country so my rich Uncle (Sam) would pay, well, at least give me subsistence means, for me to go to school without needing to work at another job. I see my job as being a student from 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. That way, at 5:01 I could turn off my desk light and become a party boy.

I drank beer, my drink of choice, by the gallon. Smoked pot by the pound. And maintained my 4.0 GPA (yes, on a scale of 4).

I was surprised, then, at how distracted I was Monday.

The thing is, for the first time since my cousin had claimed my virginity at, well, never mind the details, and her Sister had been my second about 20 minutes later, I had been very successful at getting laid. I don’t think I’m particularly handsome, although little girls don’t run screaming when they see me. And I’m not that imaginary man with so much cock I make women swoon. My time in barracks living had made it clear that I am absolutely average.

But what I had that the other boys and then men my age lacked were two things. First, it was confidence. I wasn’t the shy boy the others were. When I went to a dance at school, I was on the floor with girls. When I thought I’d like a date with a girl, I asked and I wasn’t crushed if she said “no,” which happened sometimes although rarely. Second, and more important I think, was that my cousins in their not-yet-women-no-longer-girls way had been good teachers. While other boys were giggling and trying to figure out what went where I knew exactly how it worked. While other boys were talking together about how to do this or that, I knew how wrong they were and did not correct them. Hell, if they knew I might face more competition. I knew how to take my time, how to find a clitoris, how to touch it. I knew how to kiss, how to find sensitive spots.

Most of all, and the lesson that I thank them in my mind for often and fervently, I knew the most important lesson of all – Good Sex is often very messy but never dirty.

So why was I distracted by a woman three times my age? I had no answer to that.

I made it through Monday but on Tuesday I couldn’t resist. I was sitting in my apartment, poring over my notes (for Government Economics class if it matters) and I realized I had read the same line three times.

So I got out my cellphone and called her.

“Torrie?” I asked although I did recognize her voice when she answered.

“Hello, Roger,” she said, surprising me.

“I’m flattered that you remember me,” I said.

She laughed softly at that and said, “Well, your name IS on the screen of my phone, dear.” She paused a couple of seconds and added, “but I do remember you.”

I smiled at the phone even though she couldn’t see me.

“Soooo,” I said, dragging out the vowel in a dramatic fashion, “could I interest you in dinner? Maybe dinner and a movie?”

“Oh Roger,” she said, “it’s your turn to flatter me, but I don’t think that would be wise, do you?”

Which made me laugh and broke the tension I had been feeling.

“What’s funny, dear?” she asked.

“Torrie,” I started, but had to wait while another wave of laughter passed.

“Torrie,” I said, under control, “I had imagined many responses to my invitation, but questioning my wisdom was not among them.”

“I see,” she said.

“But you think about it. I’ll call you again,” I said and hit “end.”

In my imagination I pictured her looking at her phone, with a wistful look on her face, wishing she had said “yes.”

Regardless, the spell was broken and I could concentrate again.

I called her again Thursday and she said “no.”

I called her the following Monday and she said “no.”

I called her Tuesday.

She said “yes.”

Friday night was date night and once again I was surprised. I was nervous in ways I hadn’t EVER been before. I showered and shaved and spent 20 minutes with a blow dryer on my fucking HAIR for Christ’s sake, something I never did. Then I went through my limited wardrobe and looked at every damn thing in it. I finally settled on my best pair of slacks, hell, my only pair that could be called even moderately “in style,” a blue shirt with big puffy sleeves that I thought gave me sort of a bad boy pirate look, a pair of brightly colored socks, and my one pair of leather shoes.

And THEN, for the first time since I had bagged a cheerleader in high school, I looked in the mirror, didn’t like what I saw, and changed into one of my more conservative blue pinstriped button-down Oxford cloth shirts. Finally satisfied, I headed out.

I stopped at a convenience store on the way and bought one of those $4 bouquets they always seem to have.

I killed a little time to arrive precisely at the agreed 7:00 p.m. and when she opened the door I pulled the flowers out from behind my back and offered them with a little bow.

And again, her reaction surprised me. Her eyes got big and shiny and a small tear overflowed making an interesting wet line down her cheek.

“What?” I asked, genuinely wondering what I had done wrong.

“Oh, Roger, it’s okay,” she said, taking the flowers and smiling, “come in while I put these in water and do something about my face.”

I walked in, watching her walk, hurrying I thought, into the kitchen. The house was as I remembered from childhood playing with Ben. Oh, details had changed, of course. I thought it was probably a little more, well, feminine than when Grampa Chet had still been around, but it was still the home a couple had made over decades with the pictures on the walls and souvenirs of long past vacations on shelves.

She was gone for almost ten minutes and I was starting to wonder if she had gotten cold feet when she came back in, the cheap little bouquet in a fancy crystal vase.

I stood, like a gentleman as she put them in the middle of her table and then came to me.

“This,” she said, smiling up at me, “is the first time I ever got flowers for no special reason. Thank you.”

I flashed my Grin, the one I practice in the mirror, and said, “but there IS a special reason. You said yes.”

She laughed, that sort of throaty, age coarsened laugh, and said, “Okay, handsome, I said ‘yes,’ now take me out and wine and dine me.”

So I did. Dinner pretty much blew my entertainment budget for the month. It was a nice restaurant and we had steaks with the fixin’s. I had a beer, she actually did have wine.

“What?” she asked, as I watched her chewing.

“I’m just wondering how you stay so thin. Worried a bit actually,” I said, because she was NOT eating like someone on a diet.

She laughed a bit at that, covering her mouth daintily.

“Oh dear,” she said, “I’m one of those women who lost every fat cell with menopause. I was never very big and, well, I can eat what I want and never seem to put on any weight.”

Dinner was fun.

No, that’s far too gentle a word. Without sounding silly or girly, dinner was delightful.

I found I liked this woman. She seemed interested and it was interesting to hear her take on things.

I told her of how I was taking a class on the Cold War, and she regaled me with stories of “duck and cover” drills and watching the television during the Cuban Missile Crisis, something that was only a story in a textbook to me.

Besides that, though, I just enjoyed looking at her. Her hair was thick and that silvery grey color you see on maybe one in a thousand women although many try for it. I wanted to run my fingers through it.

I liked watching her face as she ate and talked and laughed. The tiny wrinkles around her eyes and the distinct lines at the corners of her mouth were so much more interesting than the girls I tended to date. Her teeth, when she smiled, were straight and even and hers. No whitening here, they were a nice ivory color that I found attractive.

At one point she stopped, put her hand over her mouth, and said, “what? Do I have something in my teeth?”

I laughed and said, “no, I just like looking at you.”

She giggled and actually blushed at that.

The movie, later, was some silly rom-com, all fluff and Sandra Bullock looking ridiculously cute.

I enjoyed it, to my surprise, I suppose because I was enjoying Torrie’s company.

I felt like a silly schoolboy as I reached over, ridiculously nervous, and took her hand in mine. She turned and looked at me, I could almost see her thinking, smiled, and didn’t pull her hand away.

It was about 11 o’clock when the movie let out.

“Drink, or home?” I asked.

She smiled and said, “I have to get up early in the morning, Roger, I think home.”

So I took her home, walked her to her door, kissed her quite chastely on the cheek, watched her inside, and left. I hoped she was watching me leave through the window with a curtain pulled back slightly, but I didn’t look back to see.

It didn’t even occur to me to hit one of my regular haunts and see if I could get laid. I was content to go home and yes, masturbate. It was her face I was seeing in my mind’s eye as I slowly stroked to release.

We dated regularly for a month. After that first date, she insisted on paying and my budget didn’t allow me to stand on pride. As she explained, she was “well fixed,” that particular turn of phrase making me laugh, and could afford it better than me.

We did the dinner-and-movie dates twice more before I took her to a bar where the group I knew pretty well, I never had a “crew” but these were folks I knew from class, hung out. The music was not so loud you couldn’t have a conversation and I introduced her around, proud to have her on my arm.

I think I kind of surprised both of us when I introduced her as my girlfriend. But that’s how it felt.

And she fit in with this group. Like me, they were interested in her take on things we had only studied in class.

As an added benefit, she turned out to be a competent dart player and we ruled the board through five games and a pitcher of beer.

Every night I took her home, walked her to the door, gave her a light kiss, on the lips now but still very soft and quick, and went home to my bed and right hand. And every night it was her in my mind’s eye.

Our tenth date was dinner at Pizza Hut, and a movie, Star Wars at the local fourth-run place.

At her door, when I started to lean forward again, she put her hands between us and pushed me away. I felt a sudden adrenaline rush and my thought was, “oh fuck, I blew it somehow and she’s going to say we’re done.”

But she surprised me. It was the exact opposite.

“Roger,” she said, looking up at me, her eyes doing that little twitching back and forth thing as she focused on one eye and then the other, “are you EVER going to make a real pass at me or is this some sort of weird, platonic thing and that’s all it will ever be?” Well, or something like that.

I can’t say I heard the last part very clearly because I was busy bending down and scooping her up, my left forearm behind her knees and lifting. She wrapped her arms around my neck. Well, it was that or fall, but it felt good.

I covered her mouth with mine, putting every ounce of skill I had into that kiss.

“I thought you’d never ask,” I breathed into her ear as I kicked the door shut and headed up the stairs with her still in my arms.

She was giggling now, something I had never heard her do before.

In her bedroom, I stood her up and then wrapped her in my arms, kissing her.

The kiss she returned was oddly awkward, as though she wasn’t very experienced. But the soft humming sound she made was pure womanneed. I allowed my hands to roam up and down her back, finding warmth, and then the stiff material of her bra and the panty line lower. She was so thin I could feel ribs and spine.

Her fingers came to the top button of my shirt but they were trembling so badly she couldn’t get it undone.

I covered her hands in mine and kissed her fingers.

“Let me do the work tonight,” I said and kissed her again.

She smiled up at me and the smile turned into a grin and she said, “that would probably be wise,” which made me laugh as I took her into an embrace again and kissed her. This time her kiss was better.

I took my time. One of those secrets I had learned from my cousins was that you shouldn’t hurry, ever.

So I undid the top button of her blouse and then bent to kiss the skin I revealed. Like the rest of her, the skin there was soft and slightly wrinkled. She shivered when I traced the line of that big tendon at her throat with my tongue.

The second and third buttons got me to the top of her bra, a white cotton, industrial-strength thing. She shivered again as I kissed the line where white cotton met pale skin.

I got the shirt unbuttoned and worked it down her arms before tossing it into a corner.

Then I stepped back and deliberately looked her up and down.

God, she WAS skinny. Her slightly oversize head sat atop a thin neck. Her shoulders were distinct balls, outside the deep cups of her collar bone. Her arms were so thin I could encircle them with my thumb and middle finger, which I did, and her elbows were the biggest parts of her arms.

I stepped close again, reaching around, and finding the hooks of her bra.

“Damn, Torrie,” I said, as I started on the four hook bra, “you really were afraid the girls would escape, weren’t you.”

She just giggled at that.

When I had the hooks undone, and started working the straps down her arms, she did the crossed arms thing, holding it on.

“Torrie,” I said, bending close so that my breath would be warm and moist in her ear, “I am many things but rapist is not among them. If you want me to stop, just say so.”

She smiled, nervously, and straightened her arms. I gently took the bra away and tossed it, kind of theatrically, into the corner.

She was standing very straight as I looked. And smiled. I bent and kissed her and said, “you are truly beautiful.”

She hadn’t been lying about losing every fat cell. I could see the ridges of her sternum, the xiphoid process, that little tab at the bottom of the sternum showed up clearly, as did each rib.

Her breasts fascinated me. As an aside I will not that in a Sociology class I encountered a study that noted that breasts are considered erotic in every culture.

They had obviously always been small, and now they had fallen. They sagged, a small flap of skin with a thin pad of gland and fat tipped by thick nipples on small areolas, very pink. At my slight touch, the nipples hardened into tight little cones.

Below her breasts her belly was flat but the remnants of what had been a pot belly, or perhaps pregnancy, showed in soft shallow wrinkles running from the curve of her ribs down below the beltline of her skirt.

“You are beautiful,” I said again and she managed a smile.

I closed the distance between us and kissed her as my fingers sought the button and zipper of her skirt. As it pooled at her feet I stepped back again and looked.

And again, the truth of her lost fat cell claim was on display. Her hips stood out clearly, balls wrapped in skin. Inside the balls of her hip joints were distinct cups as well. She was dressed in pantyhose and panties, along with her medium high heeled shoes at that point and I could see that her knees were clearly the biggest part of her legs. I reached up and actually spanned her thigh, about halfway between her knee and her hip, with my thumbs and forefingers making a circle.

She watched as I slipped to my knees and took her right foot into my lap to take off her shoe. She grabbed my shoulders for balance as I did that and then hung on as I did the same with her left foot.

I smiled up at her as I started rolling the panties and pantyhose down, making a tight band, hobbling her.

She was unshaved and unwaxed and I learned that there were some places where her fat cells hadn’t deserted her. Her labia were full, almost plump, and filled her thigh gap nicely. Her mons Veneris, that beautiful Mound of Venus, was very prominent, almost like the top third of a softball had been slipped in, and her pubic hair was very coarse but very sparse. I couldn’t tell the color in the dim light but I imagined it to be grey. It was a wonderful contrast to the hair on her head which was so thick and almost silky. I wondered if her uterus and cervix would be full and pink or would be small and atrophied, and wasn’t sure which one would be sexier.

It was a very attractive Pussy.

But I left it alone, concentrating on her feet instead, making her squeal when I discovered that her feet were ticklish.

I stood and smiled down at her again.

“Torrie,” I said, laying my hands on her shoulders, “you truly ARE beautiful.”

She smiled up at me. “Thank you,” she said.

I took her into my arms again, kissed her, and this time my hands were roaming over soft, warm skin. Her skin was oddly soft and warm over the hardness of the muscle and bone under it. I cupped her butt, tiny like the rest of her, and squeezed, drawing a quick little gasp from her.

I broke the embrace, turned, and pulled the brightly patterned comforter, blanket, and top sheet down. Then I held her hand and helped her up onto the bed.

I watched, fascinated, as she laid back, her head on the pillow, spread her legs, and closed her eyes.

We had talked, as adults who are dating and circling around Romance will, in a casual way about Sex. Nothing direct or pornographic, just casual conversation when someone would make a joke or some line in a movie would have a double entendre. From those casual references, I had come to understand that her Sex life with Grampa Chet had been, well, “vanilla” is as good a word as any.

The way she kissed had reinforced that image.

But THIS was ridiculous.

I stood and looked.

And waited.

Finally, she opened her eyes.

“Really?” I said in my best soft voice.

“What?” she asked.

“Really, Torrie?” I said, “this is how you see Sex? Laying there waiting?”

She looked confused and finally said, “I guess.”

I held her eyes with mine as I unbuttoned my shirt and shrugged it off.

I held her eyes with mine as I did that silly hopping thing you do, lifting my left foot and pulling off my loafer and sock and then my right.

I held her eyes with mine as I unbuttoned and unzipped my slacks, pushed them past my hips, and let them drop.

I held her eyes with mine, and smiled, as I hooked my thumbs in my boxers and pushed them down past my hips, and let them fall.

My erection was obvious. It pointed straight up my body. And I stood, wanting her to see my desire in the clearest way any man can show it.

I let the moment drag out, a little theatrically I suppose, and then crawled up into the bed next to her.

I brushed my fingertips across her cheeks and said, “Torrie, I apologize.”

She looked confused. “For what, Roger?” she asked.

“For every idiot man, and that includes your husband, who taught you that this,” and I made a gesture taking in her body and its position, “is what Sex is about.”

Then I kissed her. I covered her face with kisses. I kissed her forehead and her eyelids and her mouth, lingering there. I kissed her chin and that delicate area under her ear and her mouth and her eyelids again.

I felt a little quiver through her body and when I lifted myself enough to look down at her face I saw she was crying, very softly, not sobbing, kind of weeping, and I took them to be tears of joy.

Her nose was running and the next kiss was snot slick and slightly salty tasting. It was a good kiss.

When my fingertips traced slowly down her body, brushing across her belly button and tracing the hollow above her mons I felt a sudden tension in her body so I stopped, leaving my fingers there, and kissed her again, another snotty, salty kiss that was soft and tender and, yes, loving.

She relaxed and I let my fingers trace lower, brushing the wiry hair there.

I didn’t know what to expect from a woman her age. I thought she might be dry and I’d need to find some vaseline or K-Y Jelly. But I was wrong.