When I was twenty I had sex with a woman much older than me.
I was with my girlfriend at the time, and it was obvious that our relationship was drawing to a close -- not much to say to each other anymore, even the anal sex felt perfunctory, and when even the anal sex gets perfunctory, well: not much roadway left.
Still, we went one spring weekend to visit her mother at her house in the country: almond orchards blossoming as far as the eye could see. Her mother was thirty-seven, and a remarkably fine-looking woman at that, for a woman so old: when you are twenty the age of thirty-seven seems old indeed.
We had arrived late on Friday, so conversation had been a minimum; early Saturday morning I went down to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. My girlfriend was still asleep upstairs -- she was always a late sleeper -- when her mother came into the kitchen after her shower, wearing only a towel.
I think I said something about almonds when she dropped the towel to the kitchen tile, and her naked body in the morning sunlight was magnificent in a great-used-car way: like a late-model Acura with no body damage and no tears in the upholstery, freshly waxed.
So she starts sucking my cock, and for a moment I realize that I probably shouldn't be engaging in this, but my cock was being sucked so I didn't really think about it that hard.
Then I bent her over the kitchen table and fucked her from behind; there was a vase with pretty flowers on it, I remember that. I was gentle at first -- I did not want her to break a hip or something --but then she told me "Harder! Harder!" so I complied.
When I finally ejaculated there was come everywhere: on the ceiling fan, on the table, on the flowers in the vase, on the refrigerator door with all the photos stuck to it with magnets, and in her hair.
After we cleaned up we had breakfast, when my girlfriend finally came down to join us. I got a bit nervous when she paused to sniff the air, but I think she was just smelling bacon.
As we ate I did the math. I was twenty and she was thirty-seven: not bad, really.
When I would be thirty she would be forty-seven; this could be concerning.
When I was fifty she would be sixty-seven, and being fifty is too young a man to be eating at Sizzler's' Afternoon specials.
Sunday afternoon we said our good-byes, and drove back to town.
I still remember this time with a feeling of longing. And mild regret at not at least trying for a mother-daughter threesome.
I am Laslo.
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