Your erotic stories

If I tried to describe myself to someone I’d say that I am an athletic, well-built, 44 year old man, with a reasonable amount of intelligence. I am average in the looks department; I’m no male model, but I believe I still attract attention from the female species. I have been married once but my wife died when she was only 28. It was a car accident. I was in a terrible state after her death, but since then I’m just grateful that she didn’t die from some dreadful disease like others who have died young. We didn’t have any kids and I have remained single since that time.

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"Nice day to wash a car isn't it?" Dean walked up the driveway seeing his friend's mother in cut-off jean shorts and a black bikini top washing the car. "Oh yeah! Nice and sunny out this morning!" She replied back with a smile while pulling the soapy sponge out of the bucket of water. "Hank home?" He tried his best keeping his eyes off her body if she just happened to look over his way while talking.

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I would like to tell you of an extraordinary episode in my life. It was a time of growth and transformation, a sort of rite of passage if you will, that began when I met an amazing woman named Claire just a few days after my 24th birthday. She lived on the same floor as me in an apartment building that also housed a big indoor swimming pool. It was there that we first met. She was then, by the way, 68 years old.

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I think The Kingston Trio said it first. But then Frank Sinatra said it more eloquently, moving it from a major key to a minor key. 'When I was twenty one, it was a very good year. A very good year for city girls who lived up the stairs.' And, yes, not only did the city girls live up the stairs, but they also - as Frank observed - had 'perfumed hair'. (Hairspray, I presume.) And it did come undone - the hair, that is - when I was 21. But we'll get to that in a moment or two.

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He keeps saying that it can't happen again. Every time, as soon as his afterglow wears off, the guilt and self-loathing kicks in and he spits out those words that always make me smile. He is so adorable, trying to fight this like either one of us has a choice. I keep telling him that this is bigger than both of us, and he would be much happier if he would just give in. Give in to his fate...the way that I did the very instant that I saw him.

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"Here she comes boys," he shouted, waggling his eyebrows at me as I walked through the classroom door. My eyes focused on him, I watched while he watch me saunter the ten feet to where he stood with his jock friends. "Jared Casey, you are so full of shit." His grin widened, "I knew you were hot for me, babe. Come on, Adia, let's ditch this class and find a quiet room to do studying up on our biology?"

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Alan Bryant emerged from the cabin of his boat to see Joseph, the local lad who he employed part -time, turning his charm on another teenage tourist. Alan smiled to himself, while restraining a twinge of envy; Joseph was thirty-five years his junior, but that wasn't the only reason why the kid was so good at getting into the skimpy bikinis of young female holiday-makers.

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"What?!" I half yell as I turn around to see who keeps calling my name. I should have known it was HIM. We had gotten off to a bad start when he started at my parent's medical practice a year ago and we had never tried to make peace with each other. Things were...well...tense when we were around each other so we tried to stay out of each other's way as much as possible. It was really hard though when we worked together all week.

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Call me Jerry. I was a stranger in a strange town. I know I'm stealing those opening lines from Melville and Heinlein but if you're going to steal, steal from the best. I had recently moved to Florida and I had made a few friends in my new home but had yet to meet that special someone. My business occasionally took me on the road so here I was in another new town, knowing absolutely no one.

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It was almost six p.m. shift change at the small local bar that has been my hangout for many years. I seem to only get there on Sunday evenings now. I shoot pool with friends, look at the strippers and stock up on fantasies for the coming week. One lovely, married dancer named Britney was responsible for a large share of them. She always worked Sunday evenings. Her life has been in turmoil for most of the last year. Every few times I see her I help her relax and get her off with my hands in the private corner.

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