Your erotic stories

This year Jean and I celebrated our thirty-sixth wedding anniversary. I pause occasionally to glance at my wife, when she first crawls out of bed in the mornings with her white curls all tangled and snarled, or when she lays a loving hand on one of our grandchildren, and there is not one thing I would alter about her or our life together. Our hands unconsciously intertwine, even now, when we walk through a shopping mall or when we stroll along a deserted beach.

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I still can't remember when this twisted little project first took hold. I think it might have been early last spring. I run an Internet-based business out of a home office in a pleasant old neighborhood downtown. I moved in a year ago and business is good. I have lots of free time and can pretty much plan my schedule any way I want.

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It was the first Saturday of April and I was dozing on the sofa watching daytime Sports TV when Mum and Dad arrived home from a day shopping in town. "Guess what?" Dad grinned as he playfully shook me from my half-sleep. "I've arranged an interview on Monday; for a Summer job for you!" "You've done WHAT?" I growled as the enormity of the sentence hit home. "Dad has organised an interview for you with Nick at Nicholas Shoes". Mum repeated Dad's life changing sentence as she changed TV channels.

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"Wow!" I exclaimed, looking at my neighbor's daughter. "You look gorgeous!" I had known Meagan and her family since I moved into the house, about 10 years ago. Her parents were about as good as it gets for neighbors, and I considered them friends as well. Meagan and her older sister Beth were good kids, and it was enjoyable watching them grow into beautiful young ladies. I hadn't seen her since she went back to school after the holidays, about a month ago.

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It was summertime and the campus was dead. I was in the English graduate program at the University of ______________, and nearly everyone had gone to wherever they go. I was trying to finish my degree as fast as possible because I was 29 years old and I wanted to get on with my life. Don't get me wrong, I liked being a student, but I didn't want to be one forever. So, during summer school I was hanging out with three other students—practically the only people left, at least for a couple of weeks.

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I was trying to be careful as I carried the brimming pitcher of dark brown beer to the table in the corner. Jack had managed to arrive with only three-quarters of one after his trip to the bar. I was limiting my intake, and so was a bit steadier, but I was also trying to stay out from in front of the projector. The pitcher finally sat safely on the table. Helen carelessly sloshed the nutty brew into her pilsner and took a long draught.

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Life in the detective bureau was anything but routine. Everyday there were new challenges. Crime never stops. My day began at 8:30 am. I usually stopped off on the way to work to pick up coffee and some form of breakfast for myself and for the rest of the detectives, as well as the Chief. One of my duties was a review of the crime reports filed by the uniform division during the previous 24 hours. Cops often were not skilled writers. It was my job to review their reports for accuracy and completeness.

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This is a coming of age story of a young man in the 1960s. My father and I never really got along. He was a hard man, few words and worked hard all of his life to provide for his family. He was tough though. When I turned 13 he came to me and told me that he would provide a roof over my head, food on the table and laundry, but if I wanted any thing else that I had to do it for my self.

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I was a regular at a small club that was known to be a "meat market." Women of a certain age, divorced and horny were there often. I was there every Friday night and the occasional scattered evenings throughout the week but mostly on Fridays. I knew who the regulars were and their preferences. I also knew who the witches, the desperate, the players, and the losers were. There was a smattering of women that were there to dance and a smattering of people that did not seem to belong. I was one of those.

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Let me start by saying that I am always willing to step up and admit when I've made a mistake. I also hate being wrong so I have a tendency to avoid situations where those words "I was wrong" would have to escape my mouth. That said, the phrase "This is stupid," kind of became my mantra as my minivan sped along the nearly deserted roads to the lake. It was too late to turn back so I let those cursed words roll around in the back of my mouth.

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