The summer was always prime time for teenage boys, especially finishing up your spurt of puberty. 18-19 years old, looking to college girls who want to get drunk, party and experiment, with you gladly volunteering to be their guinea pig. The summer was time to head to the pool, to the beach and to water parks, to enjoy all of the girls running around in skimpy bikinis who want nothing but approval on how sexy they look. For some reason though, this summer, the summer before I head to college, there was only one girl who caught my eye, better yet, one woman.
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.
I pull up to the curb, around the corner from my apartment. It has been a very long day and more than anything I am glad to be home and am looking forward to a nice long bath, some quiet music.
I turn off the car, and look out my window before opening the door. For a moment my attention is drawn to the other side of the street. It is only for a moment and I shake my head, thinking I have caught myself starting to day dream. Checking for traffic I open my car door and get out.
"I can't believe you're making me do this," Natalie said as she stood on the hotel balcony at three a.m. with the wind blowing through her strawberry-blonde hair. Her eyes scanned the parking lot, and though she didn't see any signs of life, someone down in the darkness would be a lot harder to see than she would be on the balcony — dimly lit as it was.
She could see the excitement in Gene's eyes as he caressed her shoulder. "You lost the bet fair and square."
Chastity was dressed like a cheap whore. Short, black semi-sheer mini-skirt. Braless, she wore a too tight and too small, neon pink tube top that barely contained her boobs. Cheap costume jewelry and knee high faux leather black boots. Poofy blonde hair, overdone make-up and strong perfume. And underneath, lace, red crotchless panties.
It made her feel like a slut. It made her feel liberated. It made her feel excited.
I got invited to a Halloween costume party this year. I don't normally do this type of thing, but I was given enough advance warning that I was able to get online and find a cheap outfit. I chose a referee's outfit that came with a striped top and a matching striped mini skirt that barely covered my ass.
July in the sun drenched Mediterranean party island of Ibiza was hot as hell and bursting with energy. I had been soaking up the sun with my best mate Colleen for just 48 hours and we were still really only just finding our feet and know where the crowds and decent bars were.
Some men do better alone than others. I do better with a healthy female companion who enjoys being active, talking, kissing and touching. However, after "losing" my wife of thirty years to Alzheimer's, three years ago, I found that I was really out of practice as how to approach the "modern woman." I'm healthy, successful and attentive but was not getting anywhere by trying church, "meet and greets," dating sites, bars or hanging out in the produce isles at the super market.
Here we are arguing. Again. It's gotten bad lately. I don't know if it's the stress in his new job, or the mounting debt from my student loans. One thing is for sure, I've raised my voice one too many times, and now he's shut down.
It infuriates me when he does this, but at least I managed to talk him into a walk. A long excruciatingly quiet walk.
"Holy shit." I said it out loud, and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, mid-step, staring at the picture on my phone. "He's...hot."
I scrolled the picture on the screen, increasing the size to get a closer look, noting it was a scan from the back of a book. "Oh, that's right," I thought, "He's a writer."
He was definitely hot, for a guy the age of my parents. He had a thin nose and high forehead, dark eyes with fine lines at the corners, and dark hair that fell around his face in waves.