Your erotic stories

I remember it as being one of 'those' weeks. Sunday was my twenty-second birthday and my mother took me to lunch at The Connaught. On such occasions, my mother likes to take charge. I think that the elderly couple at the next table thought that I was her Toy Boy. Oh well, if it brightened up their outing.

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I had driven 25 of the 50 kilometres of my way home from the Christmas Eve celebrations I had at my girlfriend's home. I decided to call in on old Miss Tomlinson, my old retired schoolteacher, she and I finished school the same year; I at 16 and she at 60. That was 12 years ago. Why I decided to call in on her I have no idea still. Sure I saw her in her garden and waved as I passed her house on many occasions, but never once stopped.

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She was gazing through the window overlooking the pool, when Fran came up beside her, handing her a tall glass, frosted with dew. "Thanks, Fran, I need that on a day like this," she said, but her attention was outside. Fran moved alongside her, and the two women gazed at the view. "Penny for them," said Fran. "Just thinking that it's over two years since I last got laid."

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My best friend Karl and I grew up together. We've known each other since we were babies. Our mothers were best friends and they got married about the same time and spent all their time together, so I think we were even changed on the same table and took baths together. We did everything together, we had all the same interests.

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I had made the trip from the little cottage across the street and about 50 feet down countless times but never faster than that afternoon in June of 1976. After I sprinted blindly from our neighbor's back yard, a yard I had mowed for the last four years - not even watching for cars on the rarely traveled gravel road - I ran into our house and closed the door. Closed it and locked it and then looked through the blinds for what was about to happen.

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I thought at the time I had the worst luck in the world. There I was, standing on the shoulder of an interstate somewhere in Western Pennsylvania, eighteen wheelers rumbling by as I stared at my 1982 Toyota Celica. I'd opened the hood to see if I could figure out what was wrong, but had no clue. A few minutes earlier it started making a worrisome thumping sound and then stalled out. I was barely able to maneuver my way onto the shoulder safely.

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The mid-term grades had just been posted and most of the class crowded around the board trying to see. I was near the back of the crowd and just waited. "Wow Bob, an 'A'! You must be a genius." I looked behind me to see Jean, one of the nicer looking women in the class. "What did you get?"

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I have often pondered the manner in which society has changed in its view of sexual relations over my lifetime. It is now quite accepted that older people, for example grandparents, still enjoy sex. It has not always been that way. There is no doubt that Grandparents used to to do it back then, but it was simply not acknowledged. Today of course, one could make a date with a grandparent online and be screwing that evening.

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I was always amazed at how someone from my past unfailingly seemed to turn up on opening nights of exhibitions. It didn't seem to matter which city I was in, some old school friend, long lost family member or an acquaintance from the photography fraternity seemed to find the ads for my openings in the small print and turn up to say hi.

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I didn't get into sex when most of my friends did. I'm not sure why, but at thirteen and fourteen when my friends were starting to take an active interest in sex and boys, I just wasn't that interested. I suspect my hormones were late bloomers or something. It wasn't until I was sixteen that I started to feel the urges, and I tried to deal with them at bedtime by touching myself with very little results for some reason.

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