Your erotic stories

The melancholy old songs were playing on the stereo. It had been 2 years ago, this day, that Andreas had been taken from me. Listening to the old 70s love ballads – The Carpenters, Barry Manilow, Barbra Streisand... All of those torch songs about lost love and trying to find my man or to try to replace the one that got away...

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My wife Joan is 62 years old. She is a doctor and a dancer; her lifelong devotion to the art has kept her slim and strong, with great vitality, despite thinning skin, age spots and thickening around the middle. I am passionately drawn to her, find her very attractive, love her with a depth I never knew was possible, and want to fuck her often. (All you young people out there, just because we're old it doesn't mean we're dead.

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Her parents called me cold. Not to my face of course, I heard them in one of those moments I wasn't supposed to. In a not so unguarded moment her mother screamed at me that I was a monster for taking there daughter away from them, her husband managed to calm her and move her away from me before apologizing. His eyes gave him away, he agreed all to well with his wife's opinion of me. But to do this now and on the day of Angie's funeral was simply not acceptable.

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Annie Daniels sighed softly and paused at the large steel-and-stone gate, then accelerated to glide up the hill. Tall statues of cement cast spooky shadows on the ground, and she shivered as she killed the engine and stepped out into the slightly chilly air of early evening. She made her way hesitantly to the fat gravestone a few yards away, a sunflower clutched in her hands, which she lovingly placed at the base of the marker. "I miss you, Matthew."

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I was a bit confused when I arrived home from work to find the living room furniture shoved off to one side barring a single chair, and the futon mat spread in the room. A moment's thought decided it must be movie night; we often laid the mat out to allow us to snuggle together while we indulged in a flick or two. The idea sounded divine as my day at work had been somewhat tedious and had felt overly long.

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Fifty is such a daunting number. Half a century and it seems just yesterday when I was young and the world was new. I sit alone in a crowded bar nursing my third bourbon and coke as music blares around me drowning the sounds of younger people chatting and laughing. Today I am still the 'right' side of that psychological figure. I am forty-nine, but it is the eve of my 'Big 50'. It is only a number, I keep telling myself but in the back of my mind a small voice is chanting in a child-like taunt, "oldie, oldie, you are an oldie..." over and over.

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Barbara Clausen stepped from her car and handed the keys to the valet. He took them and handed her a receipt. Giving the young man a smile, she headed for the glass doors leading into the restaurant side of the sprawling building. She saw her image reflected in the glass. She also saw the young man pausing before getting into her car to park it. He was watching her with a bit of admiration on his face.

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Andy surveyed the room, which looked much different than it had last time at this year. A large, overly-decorated tree stood in the corner, almost too large for the room. There were lights and ornaments and tinsel abundant. He displayed his Christmas cards prominently, there were at least a dozen more then last year.

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