Your erotic stories

It was 4:30 p.m. and already dark one dreary, rainy late January day in Portland. As usual, I stopped by my local Fred Meyer store to buy some items for dinner. One trip to Montreal years ago and, ever since, I've liked buying just enough fresh items for dinner each night. I even shop with an old web sack that I got when I bought too many oranges. It is a ritual now. I see some familiar faces and get to talk to few people briefly before heading to my quiet house and the evening news.

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My wife Cynthia died on a Monday. She had been unconcerned when she started spotting between her periods and didn't bother me with the concerns of her gynoclogist until the diagnosis came back, uterine cancer. The cancer was stage IV and highly aggressive, the doctor didn't sugarcoat the results. Cynthia fought hard, surgery, radiation and chemotherapy, but in the end the diagnosis had come too late.

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SUNDAY It was my third time in England and the big British Airways jet came in over London and touched down at Heathrow thirty minutes early. As usual, it seemed to take almost as long to taxi and disembark as it had to cross the Atlantic, but finally I made my way with the other passengers along a carpeted corridor with a one way mirror at the end and came out into the baggage area. I had my laptop, as usual, and a bottle of Scotch I'd bought at O'Hare.

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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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So finally we meet. God, you are even more radiant and exuding that perfume that I only have heard about so far. Your Irish eyes crinkle and sparkle with mischief as you smile at me, taking in my gauche nervousness. "Nervous, boy?" you ask me teasingly. I try and laugh it off, blushing furiously.

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Miranda Warren watched her friend K.C. West pace back and forth in the coffee shop in which she worked. She could tell that the attractive young blonde was nervous. K.C. had no reason to be. She was the pretty young blonde with the vivacious personality. If anyone should be nervous, it should have been her other friend, Casey Carter. How often does a 40-year old insurance broker get to go on a date with a 21-year old blonde model type?

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When I started driving some years ago, I recall my dad's repeated warnings about keeping plenty of gas in my car. Well, as this 19-year-old sat on the gravel shoulder of a rather desolate foothill highway after running out of gas, the last thing I wanted to think about was my dad being right, as usual. It didn't seem that I would have to worry about anybody coming along this road at 1 a.m., so I figured I might as well bunk in my car until daylight.

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My business partner Les and I have been mates since we were 13-year olds at school together. We lived a few doors from each other, we went on booze 'n' birds holidays to Spain together, we were best man at each other's weddings, and my wife and I are godparents to his daughter Becky. Stella and I weren't lucky enough to have kids of our own, but we only live a short distance from Les and his wife Irene, and Becky has almost been like our own daughter.

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This was my time, I decided. I always had to look good for him, so I stayed in shape. At 59, I regularly heard that I looked much younger, and that was always a welcome compliment. I mean, I feel younger than 59. I think of my mom at 59 and she was in housecoats, or frumpy bland clothes. I preferred vibrant colors, current trends.

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Shortly after I turned thirty-nine my mother died suddenly of a coronary thrombosis. Dad had died seven years earlier. So since my brother Kenny, a journalist and my only sibling, was living in London at the time, and my daughter was in her second year of college, I was left alone with the task of going through my mother's things and deciding what should be kept and what should be thrown away.

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