Your erotic stories

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.

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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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"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."

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"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.

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The late afternoon sun shines strongly, casting long shadows on the ground. I search through the crowd, looking for my friends amid the mass of people standing, staring towards the stage. Where I am is still some way from the band currently playing, with only the tallest able to get a decent view. So everyone is mostly stood like near-inanimate zombies, their only movements are the odd step to the side, or a tilting of their heads as they seek that perfect view of a few guys playing guitars and drums.

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I look at her, and I know I want her. It's not the first time I've seen her tonight; I got here about four hours ago, and she was already here when I walked through the door. She hasn't danced at all. She's done nothing but watch the crowd, her dark eyes glittering with the reflection of the club's lights.

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Authors Note: These stories are based on my life experiences. If you haven't read the first part of my story, I'd suggest that you do so... The names (or most of them) have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. By the way, in case any of you are wondering after the end of this story, the answer is: "Yes, Cheryl is still a part of my life – even if we aren't roommates anymore."

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Too damn slow, that was my problem. There was a group of them. College students from Japan, Korea, somewhere like that. We were in the waiting room, in Innsbruck, waiting for the overnight bus to Geneva in Switzerland. They had a couple of older women with them. Lecturers or something. A couple of parents perhaps. Some of the students looked mouth-wateringly cute. Lovely sloe eyes, long silky hair that some of them had in pony tails. Parkas, of course. In some cases almost enveloping them entirely. Some had their hoods up, as it was cold.

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Hi, my name is Mindy and I'm a sophomore college student. Although you won't believe it after reading this, I must say that generally I am somewhat reserved. I was brought up in a conservative household and didn't date much in high school. About a month ago something crazy happened to me. It was my roommate Ashley's birthday and she had planned a night out with her friend Gina and me.

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We had arrived in my husband's home town. It was really a small village with a main street that looks like it came right out of a painting. The town was decorated for Christmas; all the lamp poles had colored lights running up and down them. A fresh carpet of snow blanketed the town; this place could really get you in the Christmas mood.

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