Your erotic stories

A week before Christmas, I ducked into the fifth floor men's room. It served as temporary reprieve. The first among twenty or thirty things I could invent to occupy myself while avoiding the remainder of the company Holiday party two floors below. One other occupant was in the room. He barely registered on my eggnog-addled brain. Most years I managed to escape the compulsory merrymaking by being unavoidably detained somewhere else on company business. This year I was unavoidably detained in Los Angeles.

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It had been nearly two years since I lost my wife to a drunk driver. Dating at twenty is a bitch, dating at fifty... well, let's not go there. I had a lot of friends, and that helped, but to be honest, porn and hand jobs were no replacement for the twice a week sex I was used to for the last twenty five years. As I said, dating at fifty is a bitch, there aren't too many choices in a small town, even a college town like the one where I teach.

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A year ago, I was searching through the real estate section of the newspaper with mounting despair. Amber and I had been looking for a house that we could turn into a home ever since we'd been married. While we were relatively well off, we simply couldn't afford the sort of house we wanted where we needed it to be. As an on-call emergency manager at a chemical plant, I have to be able to get to work within thirty minutes of a call.

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It was a cold, snowy day, and I was sitting at home, alone and bored. My mom had the kids for the day because I was supposed to work, but the office called and said they didn't need me. I puttered around, trying to keep myself busy, but the boredom quickly returned. The thing was, I couldn't stop thinking about her -- about the girl I met last night.

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