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 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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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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The young waiter smiled and felt his pants tighten and his bulge tingle as the two women emerged from the tennis courts to sit at one of his tables of the hotel's outdoor bar slash café. Nice, he thought. I'd love to give either one of them a fuck before I go home tonight. Maybe both.
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"My sweet Lord," I heard her whisper under her breath, as I framed her face with my hand, and gently turned her to look me in the eye.
"Shh," I hushed, my face inches from hers, "don't speak."
I curled my lips over hers, my bottom lip gliding into her mouth. I settled in closer, my other hand sliding down her arm to lace our fingers together.
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One summer afternoon, April Price waited stoically in line at the check stand in the small, upscale supermarket where she bought most of her groceries. The old woman in front of her had a whole cartful, so April passed the time by looking at the covers of the array of fan magazines on display. When all the old woman's purchases had been rung up and bagged and paid for, the checker asked her the question he asked all customers.
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Let's start out with a joke this time, to evoke a light-hearted mood.
The guy goes to the check-out counter of the supermarket with a salad for one, a pre-wrapped sandwich, and one can of soda.
The cute young clerk eyes his purchase and says to him, "You're single?" The customer grins and nods his head. "You can tell by my meal, huh?"
And the girl says, "No, you're fuckin' ugly."
It was that round, tight, perfectly sculptured bubble ass that caught my eye in aisle six of the Food Lion in Fairfax, Virginia.
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I am Frank Stokes, 64 years old, retired from an executive position in a large corporation. My wife of 35 years passed away 3 years ago.
I live in Brentwood, a golfing community, in the Atlanta area. There are three 18 hole golf courses. One easy course, one a little more difficult and the third, for experts, more difficult. Lots of sand traps, water and longer. I play the middle course.
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