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By the time I came back out of the bathroom, a few million sperm spinning toward the water-treatment plant behind me, I had already begun to feel embarrassed. The high was wearing off.
I had just engaged Rita Distefano, my 40-something crush, in a highly-charged discussion about sex scenes in books. At the time, it had seemed to go famously, better than I might’ve hoped. But now that I’d shot my load, alone in the bathroom, I began to take a different view. The image that had been burning up my brain when I closed the door–Rita riding me like a mechanical bull–was now replaced with one of her driving away, laughing pityingly at poor Kevin and his thinly-disguised attempt to get his rocks off by getting her into a conversation about “breasts bobbing wildly.”
It was pathetic, really. Borderline harassment. Maybe I didn’t know her so well after all. It was insane, what I’d done. What I needed to do was quit fixating on a woman who was a year and a half older than my own mother, get my head on straight. Just because she talked to me, didn’t mean she wanted to take me to bed. I would be deluding myself to think otherwise. Why would a grown woman with a career and a life of her own want to go messing around with some 18-year-old, long-haired misfit? No reason, none at all.
And so, in a state of embarrassed, post-orgasmic gloom, I trudged off to my room.
Over the next few days, I anticipated Rita’s next appearance with a mixtuure of dread and, in spite of myself, eagerness. Hope burns eternal, after all, and so did my hormones. I couldn’t forget the way she’d laughed, the feeling of herb hand in mine, the way she didn’t let go until she absolutely had to, and the little wriggle of her shoulders. The devil on my other shoulder had woken up and begun to yell back at the angel on the other side.
“You know, when you’re … near the end … things can get pretty … wild.”
Just how wild, Rita? How wild do things get for you?
So it was with mixed feelings, early the next week, that I heard the doorbell ring at 4:30 in the afternoon. I was in my room, reading the latest issue of Metal Maniacs, thinking how the Korn and Marilyn Manson fans who constituted the headbanger crowd at school would surely shit their pants at some of this stuff coming out of Europe … then I heard Rita’s voice out in the living room, and my mom laughing.
I put down my magazine.
Go out there.
You can’t go out there.
Go OUT there, dammit!
I was used to waiting in my room for a little while. I never wanted to go bounding out there like a neglected puppy, begging for a pat on the head. I’d let fifteen or twenty minutes go by before wandering out there. But today, it was torture.
Don’t go out there, you blew it.
You have to go out there. You laid the foundation last time.
Finally, I got disgusted with myself. You’re acting like a chump, Kevin, a blue-ribbon chump! She’s in her 40’s, and you’re acting like she sits behind you in chemistry class. Go out there and act like a normal human being. If you need an escape, just say you need to take Dennis his homemwork assignment, because you do.
So I moseyed on out to the kitchen, where the ladies were having a cup of coffee. I headed for the cookie jar, pretending not to notice them.
“What’re you doing up there, mister!” Mom said, mock-stern.
I turned around, half a cookie already in my mouth. “Who, me?” I said, through a mouthful.
Rita broke into a smile as soon as our eyes met. “Well, it’s the great literary scholar,” she said, and winked at me. I couldn’t hold back a grin, my lips tight to keep from displaying semi-chewed cookie. I hoped she wasn’t making fun of me, but sensed that all was well.
We shot the shit for a few minutes, and then I casually fetched my jacket. “I gotta go take the homework assignment over to Dennis Jarecki’s house,” I said.
Dennis Jarecki was this sort-of friend of mine. He was a computer genius and science whiz, but also a lazy pothead. Our conversations tended to be bizarre and convoluted, but somehow, we always seemed to be thrust together. Dennis had bronchitis this week, wouldn’t be in until at least Thursday. It couldn’t have come at a worse time for him, because he was in the middle of one of his periodic mad scrambles, trying to get his shit together academically before the end of the end of the third marking period.
I grabbed the folder with the day’s homework and headed for the door.
Rita pushed back her bchair. “I gotta go, Janet,” she said, putting on her own coat. “Gotta pick the boys up at my mom’s. Wait up, Kevin!”
I hung near the door while Rita and my mom said their goodbyes.
As we walked toward our respective cars, all I could think to say was, “Cold out, isn’t it?” Nice opener, Mr. Smooth!
“How’s The Stand coming?” she asked.
“It scared the living shit out of me last night,” I said, truthfully. “It’s awesome!”
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “they made a mini-series out of poker oyna it a few years ago. I taped it when it came on. Would you like to see it sometime?”
“Sure,” I said, even though I couldn’t see how a mini-series could possibly measure up to the book.
“Tell you what,” Rita said, her hand on my arm. “Why don’t you drop by this weekend. I’ll see if I can find those tapes, and we can watch them together.”
“You sure you don’t mind?” I asked.
“Not at all,” she said. “Matt and Danny go with their dad this weekend, and I’ve got nothing to do. I could use the company.”
Was this exactly what it seemed, a friendly invitation to watch a shitty TV adaptation of a great book? Or was there more to this? Was her hand moving slightly, stroking my arm just a little bit?
GO FOR IT! screamed the devil on my shoulder. The angel was silent.
“Well, if you’re sure you can stand me for the evening,” I said, reverting to my usual armor of self-deprecation.
Again, that smile. “Oh, I think I can tough it out,” she said, squeezing my arm. “Why don’t you come by after dinner? I’ll even make you popcorn if you want.”
“Say no more!” I boomed, perhaps a little too loudly. “I’m there!”
I turned it over and over in my mind, all the way to Dennis’s and back, and over the next few days. What did it mean? Was it just my overactive imagination?
Whatever it was, I was determined not to miss it. I was going to Rita’s on Saturday evening, with a full tank and all sails set. To make sure I was ready for whatever was in store, it somehow came into my head to avoid masturbating beyond Wednesday night.
And so, the fateful evening arrived. Just after 7:30, I was cruising through Rita’s neighborhood, a nice subdivision populated by teachers, low-ranking lawyers, the odd corporate assistant vice-president or two. The radio in my crappy little Dodge was on the classic rock station, which just then happened to be playing Boston’s “Let Me Take You Homme Tonight.” I took that as a good sign.
I had told Mom I was going riding around with Dennis. I wasn’t sure why I had lied, since Rita was her friend too, and going over to watch The Stand seemed perfectly innocent. But somehow, since Rita had invited me outside of Mom’s hearing, and since she didn’t appear to know about it, I decided to err on the side of discretion. Anyway, Dennis and I did some hanging out occasionally, so it wasn’t like I COULDN’T be doing that now.
Instead, I was taking the curving driveway all the way to the end, behind the house. I was walking back around to the front of the house, climbing the front steps, and ringing the doorbell. I was freshly showered, full of food that wouldn’t give me gas (or worse, the runs), primed and ready for action, if indeed action was called for.
Rita answered the door, wearing jeans and a thin, green sweater.
“Hi, Kevin!” she almost sang, extending a hand, hooking my sleeve, tugging me into the house. She slipped an arm around me and ushered me into the living room. She pointed me to the couch, and then went fussing around the room, picking up random objects that didn’t seem to be out of place to begin with, while engaging me in small talk.
Is she nervous, too?
Finally, she came and plopped down next to me on the couch. “I have to tell you,” she said apologetically, “I never could find those tapes. I’ve looked everywhere. I’m sorry.”
I had almost forgotten what I was supposed to be there for. “Oh, that’s okay,” I said. “It probably wouldn’t have lived up to the book anyway.”
Rita nodded, and agreed that this was usually the case. We tossed around a few examples.
“I’m glad you’re here all the same,” she said.
“Me, too,” I said, feeling myself blushing.
She got up to get herself a glass of wine, offered me one. I passed, afraid I wouldn’t like it, and wanting to keep a clear head.
When she came back, she seemed to sit a little closer than she had before.
“You know,” she said, sipping her wine, “I don’t get out as much as you might think. We teachers have as much homework as you guys do, you know. And I’ve got the boys.” Her sons were about ten and eight, I guessed, still young enough to need their mom to take them places and help them do stuff. “I don’t have the time, but also,” she continued, staring into her glass, swirling the wine absently, “I don’t have the patience to go out and try to meet … men. There was a time, when I was divorced. I guess you could say I went a little bit man-crazy. Not anymore. I just don’t want the aggravation of it.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. As friendly as I had become with her, and as well as I thought I got on with older women, I wasn’t used to them confiding in me like this. So I fell back on humor. “But a woman has needs,” I said, with a crooked grin. I immediately regretted it. It sounded like I was making fun of her.
“Yes, she does,” she said. “And I’ve found I really enjoy your company.” She paused, then playfully swatted my knee. “You smartass!” canlı poker oyna I chortled, relieved she hadn’t taken it the wrong way. She continued more seriously, laying her hand on mine. “I look forward to our talks, I think of you as a friend. And lately …” she trailed off.
I remembered to breathe. I smiled encouragingly at her. Go on, go on!
“Maybe I shouldn’t …” she said. She took a deep breath, squeezed my hand. “I guess I should just say it,” she said, and looked straight at me. “I want you to be my lover.”
There was silence for a couple seconds. I couldn’t hardly believe it, waiting for the lights to flash on and somebody to yell, “Surprise, asshole!”
Rita went on, her words coming in a rush. “You don’t have to do anything. I’ll understand. I should never have … you probably think …”
She started to pull her hand back, but I held on. “I want to,” I interrupted.
She looked at me, torn. “Maybe you should think about it,” she said, uncertainly.
“I have thought about it,” I said. “I’ve thought about it ever since you moved back. I’m comfortable with you. I can talk to you. You’re my friend as much as my mom’s friend. I always hope she has to go somewhere when you stop by, so I can have you to myself for a while. And I think you’re beautiful.”
This was NOT the way I normally talked. But I had to convince her, keep her from changing her mind.
“Well,” she said, gulping down the last of her wine. “I appreciate that, Kevin. You don’t know how much. And it makes me so happy you feel the same way I do.” She brushed some of her curly hair away from her face with her free hand, still clutching my hand with the other one. “But we’ve got to have an understanding.”
I had been expecting something like this. “I won’t tell a soul,” I said.
“It’s not so much that,” she said. “We’re not doing anything wrong. You’re eighteen, and I’m not your teacher, and never have been. We both want this, and we’re not breaking any laws. But … there’s a need for …” she paused.
“Discretion?” I asked. It had been the word on my mind when I’d told Mom I was going cruising with Dennis Jarecki.
“Yes, discretion.” She squeezed my hand, now winding her fingers through mine. It was more than a friendly hand-holding, and it was starting to turn me on. I hoped this conversation could wrap up soon. “Discretion,” she repeated. “Nobody needs to know about what we have.”
“It’d cause an uproar,” I said. “Complicate things unnecessarily.”
Another squeeze. “Exactly!” she said. “I don’t want you to feel like what we’re doing is wrong, but you know how it is, especially in a small town, and having the job that I have.”
“I understand completely,” I said. There had been a rash of teacher/student sex scandals at area high schools recently, and this was in the days when Mary Kay LeTorneau was still a frequent punchline on late-night TV. A sensitive issue, in other words.
“I know you would, sweetie,” Rita said. She gazed at me for a moment. “Sweetie, are you sure this is what you want?” she asked softly, almost pleadingly.
Oh God, stop asking this! How can I convince you?
I slipped my free arm around her. “Rita,” I said, “I’ve been waiting for this, I don’t know how long.”
She continued her intense gaze a few seconds more. Finally and abruptly, she stood up, pulling me with her. “Let’s go,” she said.
Halfway down the hall, still holding hands, it almost seemed like she was skipping. Then we were practically running into her bedroom, Rita closing the door behind us. Then she turned to me. “Get over here,” she said fiercely, wrapping both arms around me and holding me tightly. I gave as good as I got.
Somehow, despite the nearly twelve-inch difference in height, she turned her face up to me and our lips met. Hers were soft and warm, and when, after about half a minute, they parted and I felt her tongue flicker against my lips, I felt a thrill shoot through my loins.
It wasn’t my first kiss, but it wasn’t too far removed. Still, I didn’t have my usual sense of not knowing what the hell I was doing. I swirled my tongue around hers, lightly tapped her lips with my tongue until she let me in.
We finally had to come up for air, and Rita broke away. “Hot in here,” she panted, already pulling off her sweater. The bra underneath was black lace, as were the panties when she lowered her jeans.
I was so busy watching her undress, I was startled when she wagged a finger at me. “You too,” she said. “You have to do this, too, you know.” I immediately began shucking out of my clothes. She folded hers over a chair, neatly, while I let mine fall where they might.
At last, we faced each other in the soft, golden light cast by her bedside lamp. I was finally getting to see Rita naked.
She was five feet tall, trim but not skinny (maybe 115? what did I know about judging women’s weight?), everything nicely proportioned. Her curly black hair came just below her shoulders, and the rest of her was all olive skin. Her internet casino breasts were round and fairly firm, a 34B I guessed (correctly, I later discovered), and she had beautiful, wide, light-brown nipples that seemed to stare at me invitingly. Her stomach was slightly rounded, her hips pleasingly full, and as she pirouetted for me, I saw she had a nice, neat butt. Her legs, well, what could you say, she was five feet tall, but still, they were toned and smooth-looking. And–I hardly dared look at it too long–she had a neat, black landing strip down the middle of the mound between her thighs.
And there I stood, 125 pounds spread over almost six feet of me, my thick blond hair reaching the middle of my back, my face–well, I’d always been told I was good-looking, but what did I know? Obviously, I was naturally very skinny, but had a bit of muscle from my occasional, brief flirtations with weight-lifting. As for my own equipment, I had read in one of the Cosmopolitan magazines I swiped from my sisters that most men fell somewhere between five and seven inches in length, and from four and a half to five and a half inches in girth. One day deciding to lay the matter to rest, I had discovered that, when fully erect, I was smack in the middle on both counts.
Rita and I stared at each other’s nakedness for a few seconds, and then both grinned and laughed nervously.
“Wow,” she said, “what a hunk.”
“You’re beautiful,” I said.
I bet we both thought the other was just being nice, but it didn’t matter.
She stepped toward me and held out her hand. “Come here, baby,” she murmured.
We were on her bed then, on our sides, kissing feverishly, our hands roaming each other’s bodies. I stroked her thighs, her bottom, her back, her sides, her belly, skirting around her boobs, although I couldn’t stop glancing down at those nipples.
She rubbed my chest, ran her hands over my thighs, lightly patted my ass, and then began stroking my stomach, working her way down.
We were locking lips the whole while.
My fingers found one of her nipples. Her body trembled, mine too. It felt large; not unrealistic “big as a half-dollar, sticking out a full inch” crap I’d heard guys say, but large all the same. I playfully gave a gentle pinch. Rita gasped, and her hand skipped the last couple inches of my lower belly, her fingers wrapping around my cock. Which was fully erect, throbbing almost painfully.
“Oh, Rita,” I moaned.
“Mmmm-hmmmm,” she murmured and began to stroke, very slowly, her hand soft and warm on my shaft..
I was just starting to explore the moist folds of skin buried in that landing strip, when she pulled her bface away from mine. “Baby,” she said, short of breath, “you’re really hard, I think we better get to it.”
Here it was, the main event. Rita rolled onto her back, and I crouched above her, her hand guiding my cock toward her, its tip already glistening with liquid. It was finally happening.
I just didn’t realize it was going to happen quite so soon. As the tip of my cock neared its destination, my head spun and I felt my body flush. “Rita!” I gasped. “Oh God! Oh …”
I was so pent-up after three days of abstinence, that I didn’t even feel myself spurt. Instead, my cock simply began gushing.
“Oh!” Rita said sharply, as I came. “Oh, Kevin!” She sounded surprised, but almost a little excited, too.
It was one of those orgasms you have after you don’t beat off for a few days, where you come so hard, and then your dick almost immediately starts deflating.
“I’m so sorry, Rita,” I whispered, out of breath and mortified. I could have kicked myself, if my legs weren’t trembling so much. I had come all up her thigh and across her belly, my softening cock still spasming in her fingers, delivering a few last drops.
I had blown it. Rita would be disgusted and call the whole thing off. So much for a full tank!
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again.
She put a hand on the back of my neck, brought my face down to hers and kissed me gently. “It’s okay, honey,” she whispered.
I collasped onto my back. Rita fetched a tissue from the bedside table, and mopped up the worst of my cum from herself. Then she reached over and gently wiped off my limp penis, even that a strangely sensual gesture. Then she stood up carefully. “I’ll be right back,” she said, heading for her bathroom. She closed the door, leaving me to dwell on the sorry details. It had felt so good, but I had just been too excited. It was over. I didn’t make the grade.
The bathroom door opened after a few minutes, and Rita walked back into the bedroom, still stark naked, her boobs nodding lightly as she moved. She was smiling again. “I’ll be right back,” she said again, heading for the door to the hall. Over her shoulder, she said, “Promise.”
This time, she came back with two glasses of wine. “I think you better have one, sweetie,” she said, handing it to me. “It’ll help you relax.”
I didn’t have the heart to ask if she happened to have a couple Silver Bullets instead.
“Sorry about that,” I said again, as I sipped. “I’m really sorry.”
Rita hopped back onto the bed next to me, propped herself up against the headboard. “God, I’m so turned on,” she sighed.
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