Loading...I have mentioned in other stories I have written here that I worked for many years as an English professor at a small but expensive New England college. I retired at the age of 65 as a result of the college’s policy of mandatory retirement—a stupid idea in an age when most people live longer than they did in the past and most retain their brain capacity. I continued to live in the same town and the same house that my late wife and I had occupied for 30 years.
But to keep myself from becoming bored, I developed a new hobby and vocation by writing mystery novels. To my surprise I was able to find an agent, who in turn found a publisher. And again to my surprise, the books sold.
But after four of them, I started to get bored with fiction and thought it would be a good idea to write a nonfiction book that would involve a lot of research. But what would be the subject? In my inactivity, I began to watch “Oprah” in the afternoons and was astonished at some of the things she was able to reveal about the sex lives of American students in high school and even middle school.
I didn’t want to get into the deeds of middle school students for obvious reasons, but I thought it would be fascinating to research the sex lives of high school students. But how? Obviously they didn’t go around bragging about it—except to their friends of course.
The answer was to come in the form of a knock at the door.
To relieve my boredom, I also had been teaching a two-hour a week class in writing at the local high school, so I knew quite a few of the students. One of them I knew was Catherine Green, or “Cathy” as she liked to be called, since she lived only a few doors down the street from me.
One of Cathy’s jobs during the summer was to mow the large lawn in front of her parents’ house. Her father was president of the local bank, so the family had money, and the house and yard were large. Whenever I heard the power mower start, I would go out and take a walk up the street. I enjoyed talking to Cathy, and she would always stop the mower to talk. But the main reason I went out was to take another look at her. She always wore extremely sort denim shorts and a loose T-shirt. Her breasts apparently were small, so she never wore a bra, and thus I admired her “points.”
She had just graduated from high school at the age of 18 and was planning to go to Boston University to major in government. We had a nice chat about her future plans, and then I headed off to the store—but turned once more when she turned away to take another look at her lovely bottom.
Anyone who thinks a man loses interest in sex at a certain age is naïve and greatly mistaken. Cathy was someone who could arouse a lot of your interest in sex. She was about five foot six with long brown hair, which she always wore in a simple ponytail. She never wore any makeup, but she didn’t need to. She had an absolutely beautiful face and looked a little like the movie actress Natalie Portman. She also had a lovely tan, which was very unusual, since we lived in what was called “the whitest state in New England” because of our long winters and short summers. I asked her one time how she got and kept that lovely tan, and she told me “The tanning salon in the mall. I can get an all-over tan that way without any tan lines, since I don’t have to wear anything when I’m in the tanning bed.”
What a picture that made in my mind.
At any rate, the day after the mowing, there was a knock on my door. I answered it to find Cathy there, in her usual garb of short shorts and a yellow cotton T-shirt. And of course her points.
“Hi,” I said, “What brings you here?”
“As you know, Mr. Baxter, I have a full scholarship to Boston U, but I’m trying to get money during the summer for my other expenses, and I wondered if you might have any odd jobs I could do?”
I thought about it. “Hmmmm. Actually, I don’t think I do. I retain a landscape guy on a yearly basis, and he does all the lawnmowing and stuff like that, and I can’t really think of anything else.”
“Okay, but if you do think of anything, give me a call. I really need to make some money, and jobs are scarce.”
“Will do.” She turned, and I watched her cute little bottom walk away.
But then I thought about it. If I was going to write a nonfiction book about the sex lives of typical high school students in America, I would need an inside source, someone who was intelligent, articulate, and best of all, candid. Who fit that description better than Cathy?
I called her later.
“Listen, Cathy, I was thinking about it, and I do have an ‘odd’ job for you. It pays well and would not take up much of your time. If you would like to come back over, I’ll talk to you about it.”
“Great!”
She was there in ten minutes, still wearing the same garb of course. I invited her in, gave her a lemonade and took her into my home office.
After sitting her down, I explained to her what I was planning to write and that I needed an “inside person”, so to speak, who would candidly be able to tell me what was going on in the sex lives of typical high school students.
“I won’t use your real name of course,” I said, “We’ll make up a name for you, like ‘Becky’ or something. The job pays twenty-five dollars an hour and there would be two two-hour sessions, one on Monday afternoon and one on Friday.
“That’s a hundred dollars a week! Fantastic! That’s as much as I hoped to make by working at some place like Mickey D’s for a lot more hours than that.”
“So you’ll take the job—and give me honest candid answers?”
“Yes—of course!”
“You can tell your parents about it. Don’t tell them the subject. Say that it’s confidential, but that you’re helping me with the research—at the standard researcher rate of twenty-five dollars an hour.”
“Okay.”
“Today’s Sunday. So do you want to start tomorrow, Monday, around 2 p.m.?”
“Yes, that would be fine.”
“See you then.”
Cathy was right on time the next day and wearing her usual garb of short denim shorts and an orange T-shirt.
“Hi!” she said with a smile.
“Hi yourself.”
I took her into my office and sat her down. “I shouldn’t do this,” I said, “but would you like a glass of wine?” I wanted to loosen her up a bit and make her less self-conscious and more talkative.
“Yes, that would be nice.”
I had the decanter filled with white wine and two glasses ready. I poured both of us a glass, handed Cathy hers, picked my legal pad and pen and sat down. She drank some of the wine.
“First things first,” I said with a smile. “Is it true what you told me: That you have no tan lines with that beautiful tan?”
She laughed. “Yes, it’s true.” She stood up, turned around, unzipped the front of her shorts and pulled the back down about two inches, below where the top of her bathing suit would be. “See?”
“Yes.” I not only could see that she had no tan lines; I also could see that she was wearing yellow cotton panties. “What about the other side?” I asked.
She turned around and with the same smile on her face lifted the front of her shirt up to her shoulder blades, exposing her lovely breasts.
“Good God, I didn’t mean you were supposed to show me your breasts!”
She laughed. “I’m sorry. I like to shock people,” She pulled her shirt down and sat back down. “You weren’t offended, were you?”
“No, just surprised. You have beautiful breasts.”
“They’re too small.”
“Says who?”
“My boyfriend Roger.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He has no eye for beauty. They’re lovely, much better than big heavy breasts.”
“Thank you. I’ll tell Roger you said so.”
“Please don’t. Let’s get on to the serious questions. Did you consider yourself a typical American high school girl?”
“Yes, but smarter than most.”
“But typical sexually?”
“I guess so.”
“When and what was your first sexual experience?”
“Ahhhh.” She thought about it. “I gave a boy a blowjob when I was fifteen.”
“Lucky him. Did you have more sex with him?”
“No, I just wanted to see what it was like?”
“Did he come in your mouth?”
“Yes.”
“And did you swallow it?”
“Yes, I wanted to see what it tasted like.”
“And what did it taste like?”
“A little peppery. It was like swallowing an oyster.”
“Interesting.” I didn’t realize it until I stood up to pour both of us another glass of wine but talking to this girl was giving me the beginning of an erection. I sat down quickly, hoping that she had not noticed.
“How old were you when you did it for the first time, lost your virginity in other words?”
“I was sixteen.”
“How did it happen?”
“Since I was in the school orchestra—flute—my parents send me to a music school in New York state for the summer. I was determined to lose it then, and I did, with one of the teachers. He was twenty-six.”
“Lucky him. Did it hurt?”
“Not as much as I thought it would.”
“Did you continue doing it with him?”
“No. I was just using him to lose my virginity.”
“I assume you’re doing it with Roger. When did that start?”
“When I was a junior. Seventeen.”
“And you’ve been doing it with him fairly steadily ever since then?”
“Yes.”
“How many times a week?”
“Usually twice, Friday and Saturday. I had to study the rest of the week.”
“And where did you do it?”
“Believe it or not—right in my own bedroom. That’s where most high school kids do it, because in most cases, both of their parents work.”
“Very convenient.”
“Yes. In your day, it was in cars, right?”
“Yes, in my day, it was in cars.”
“The only thing I’ve ever done in cars is an occasional blowjob when Roger’s driving. We both like that—the risk of being seen by truckers or whatever.”
“You’re an exhibitionist.”
“I guess. A little bit.”
“And Roger likes blowjobs?”
“Of course.” She stuck out her tongue and waggled it at me. I had noticed about a year ago that Cathy, like many girls, had a silver tongue stud.
“What’s the meaning of that?”
“Boys like it—when you’re giving them a blowjob.”
“Why?”
“Because of the way it feels.” She thought about it for a minute. “Would you like me to give you a demonstration?”
“How would you do that?”
“Guess. You would have to take off your pants,” she said with a smile.
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not joking. You’ve always been very nice to me, especially with this job. You’ve been a lifesaver. So I wouldn’t mind showing you…if you would like me to.”
If I would like her to? My God, I began to think I had died and gone to heaven. Who could resist an offer like that.
“I…ahhh.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it at first. Obviously, there’s a big difference in our ages, so I don’t know if you’re still able to…?”
I smiled at her. “Well, I haven’t had any sex since my wife died five years ago, but I think I’m still capable of it.”
“Good.”
I had another idea. I might as well go for the full package. “But I might need a little extra stimulation to get me started.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you could provide me with wonderful stimulation if you would be willing to do it naked.”
“Take off my clothes?”
“Yes.”
She stood up. “Well, you’ve seen my tits, so I guess the rest doesn’t matter. Can I have another glass of wine first?”
“Of course.”
She poured herself a glass. “You?” she asked holding up the bottle.
“I’d better not.”
“Okay.” She drank the wine, put down the bottle, pulled her orange shirt off and dropped it on the floor. Her breasts may have been small, but they were very beautiful.
Then she unzipped her denim shorts, pushed them down, and stepped out of them. Finally, with a smile, she hooked her thumbs into the elastic at the side of her panties and pushed them down. “There,” she said, clasping her hands on the top of her head. “What do you think? Is this stimulation enough?”
“Wow. More than enough.” She was absolutely beautiful, with flawless fully-tanned skin and a narrow brown bush which looked like it had been trimmed for a bikini. I couldn’t help staring at it.
“From what I’ve heard and read and accidentally seen pictures of, a lot of girls today seem to shave their pubic area,” I said, “But I’m glad you don’t. It seems more natural.”
“Yeah, I think it’s a little perverted to shave, because for the guys, it’s like having sex with a twelve-year-old. I did shave it once, just to see what it was like, but I didn’t like it, and it’s really uncomfortable when it starts to grow back. Roger liked it though, the pervert. He wishes I would have stayed that way. So I’m trimmed but not shaved.”
“I like it that way.”
“Thanks.”
“But I think you need to get a new boyfriend—from what you tell me about Roger.”
“He’s going to be history anyway. I’m going to Boston, and he’s going to Johns Hopkins, to be a doctor. So our story is over….I haven’t had much sex either this summer.”
“So perhaps this can make up for it?”
“Perhaps so. But to finish the subject: The reason why a lot of girls shave is that it encourages their boyfriends to go down on them, because the boyfriends think it’s cleaner that way.”
“What percentage of high school girls shave, do you think?”
“Well, based on what I see in the shower room, I would say its about thirty percent. Usually, the more popular girls.”
I wrote that down.
“But enough of this chatter,” she said, “Take off your pants.”
I unfastened my belt and pushed my pants down to my ankles. Then I did the same with my shorts. As I had suspected, I already had a three-quarters erection. “I’d like to keep my shirt on.” I didn’t want her to see my open-heart surgery scar from five years before. Other than that, I’m in pretty good shape for someone my age.
“Okay.” She looked down at it. “Gee mister, you have a really nice-looking penis. I’ll bet you get blowjobs from a lot of high school girls.”
“Dozens.”
“No wonder.” She got down on her knees and crawled over to between my legs. Then, with a smile, she took my penis in her hand and slowly swirled her tongue around the head. I closed my eyes: I was in heaven. Finally, she took the rest of it into her mouth. Now, I could see what she meant about the tongue stud, as she drew it up and back against the underside of my penis and around the head. I felt like a teenager when I realized I would not be able to control or delay my reaction much longer.
“I’m going to come,” I muttered.
She took it out. “Come in my mouth,” And she put it back in. In just a few seconds that’s exactly what I did: I closed my eyes and came in her mouth. It was one of the most pleasurable feelings I ever had.
When I finally opened my eyes, she was there in front of me, with her mouth open and showing me on her tongue what looked like a big juicy oyster. Then, with a smile, she swallowed it. “Yum yum.”
My God, where was she 45 years ago? If I had known her then, I would have married her in an instant. In “my day”, you had to beg a girl for months to get such a service, and even then it was given begrudgingly. I never dreamed that a girl could actually enjoy it—which Cathy seemed to be doing.
She stood up and without putting on any clothes sat back in the chair. “Next question?” she asked with a smile.
I sat up as well, also without redressing. The next hour looked like the strangest interview imaginable, with her completely naked and me half-naked. I wish someone would have taped it.
“Speaking of blowjobs,” I said, “I saw a program on ‘Oprah’ once about rainbow parties, where a young man is serviced by five different girls, all wearing a different shade of lipstick—and thus leaving rainbow rings around his you-know-what. Have you ever heard about them?”
“I’ve heard about them, but I’ve never seen one or heard of one happening. They may be just a myth that some teenagers made up. Teens are always lying to authorities, mostly for the fun of it.”
I wrote that down.
“Have you ever been in a threesome or foursome?”
“No, but I know some girls who have. Especially on prom night, when four of them might go out of town and rent a motel room.”
“Let me see how I can put this. Have you ever engaged in anal intercourse?”
“No, but I would be willing to try it to see what it was like?”
“I see.” Hmmmmm.
And that’s how it went for the next 45 minutes: the naked interviewer asking questions of the naked interviewee.
“I think I’ll close it down now,” I said after an hour and 45 minutes, “But I’ll pay you for two hours of course.” I paused. “Unless you think I should pay you more?” I wasn’t sure how I should word that.
“No, that’s fine.”
“Good, then I’ll see you on Friday.”
“Okay.”
“But you might want to put your clothes on before going home.”
“That’s a great idea,” she said with a laugh. “I never would have thought of that. You’re so smart.”
After she left, I began to think about it. How did I ever get this lucky? Did I have this idea in mind when I first thought of the subject for the book? Did I have this idea in mind when I first asked her to be the subject? Would it continue? Time would tell.
II She also was right on time, 2 p.m., that Friday. But this time, instead of the short shorts, she was wearing a very nice dress: blue denim, silver buttons down the middle, a white belt and low-heel white shoes.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked. “I’ve never seen you this well-dressed before.”
“This is the occasion. I thought it would be nice to dress for you.”
“Well, I appreciate that. Shall we get to work?”
“Sure.”
I led her into my office, where I had already placed another decanter of wine and two glasses. “A little wine?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said as she sat and crossed her legs.
I poured both of us a glass, handed one to her, and sat down.
“Okay, first things first. I imagine you’ve done it often enough with Roger to have some preferences. Which would you rather do: give and receive oral sex, or have intercourse?”
She thought about it for a minute. “I guess I would rather have intercourse. Oral sex—blowjobs—are easier and safer, but intercourse—fucking—is more personal, particularly if you’re looking at each other while you’re doing it.”
I smiled.
“What are you smiling about?”
“I’m shocked to hear a nice girl like you use that term.”
“I’m not a nice girl. I’m a bad girl.”
“Maybe you are. You probably should be spanked for that.”
“I agree. Would you do it?”
“Don’t tempt me. Back to the questions: Which would be your favorite position when having intercourse?”
“I’m glad you asked that. My favorite position would be with me on top. Definitely.”
“Why?”
“I can control the action—and the speed. Most guys come too fast, I think, and I like to make it last.”
“So do I.”
“See? We’re not such an odd couple after all.”
“You’re probably the only one who would think that. And that reminds me: I didn’t make it last on Monday because I was in such a state of shock. But you did all of the giving, and I did all of the receiving. You didn’t get much out of it, and I apologize.”
“I got a lot out of it.”
“Like what?”
“Hard to define. But if you feel that way, would you like to make it up to me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would you like to go down on me? I would love that, and I don’t get it very often.”
I looked at her. “You’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious. You could consider it part of your research. What a high school girl would really like.”
I stared at her in disbelief, but it was obvious that she wasn’t kidding.
I stood up. “Drink your wine.”
She stood, picked up her glass, drank it all, and put it down.
I scooped her up in my arms. Light as she was, it was very easy to do.
“Help, I’m being kidnapped,” she said.
“I’m going to take you to someplace more comfortable.” I carried her into the bedroom and tossed her on the double bed.
She sat up. “Wow mister, what are you going to do to me?”
“Shut up and take off your clothes.”
She climbed off the bed and with a smile unfastened her white belt, let it drop to the floor, and then began unbuttoning her dress. She let the dress slip to the floor, and I realized for the first time that maybe she did dress for me after all. She was wearing a matching pair of white underwear, bra and panties, with lace.
“That looks brand new—and expensive,” I said.
“It is. I bought it specially for this. Would you like to take it off?” She turned around.
I stepped forward, unhooked her bra and let it drop. “Now turn around.”
She did so as I got down on my knees. I took the waistband of her panties and slowly pulled them down, revealing her beautiful brown bush. I leaned forward, cupped her bottom with my hands, pulled her forward and planted a warm kiss on her bush—and the downy lips beneath it.
“Ummmm,” she sighed.
I stood up, picked her up again and threw her on the bed. Then I got on the bed with her, took her ankles and spread her legs. “I’m going to go down on you, as you call it, and I’m not going to stop until you come—in my mouth.”
“That sounds wonderful.” She looked over at the window, the blinds of which were open. “Can anyone see us?”
“I certainly hope so. The only person living next door is Mr. Cohen, an old man of about 85. But if he happens to be watching, this is his lucky day.”
She laughed.
I read in a magazine once that a good way to perform oral sex on a woman is to write your name with your tongue on her clitoris. I did that, but then I also added the complete Gettysburg Address, until she was moaning and whimpering.
“Oh Goddddd!” she finally cried as she came with a lifting of her hips, and I felt her suddenly grow wetter.
Finally, she sat up. “That was the best orgasm I have ever had in my life.”
“Good. I’m flattered.”
“You should be. Since Roger has already left to get set up at Johns Hopkins, how would you like an 18-year-old girlfriend for the summer?”
“My God, that would be the best thing that ever happened to me. This research might take a little longer than I thought.”
“I agree. At least until September.”
I looked down at her bush. “You look nice and juicy. It would be a shame to waste all that fine lubrication.”
“What do you have in mind?”
I looked up at her. “How would you like to get fucked?”
She laughed. “Why Mr. Baxter, I didn’t know you used language like that.”
“I do when I’m inspired.”
“Can I be on top?”
“Of course.”
“And you don’t have to use anything because I’m on the pill.”
“Good.”
“But aren’t you going to take your clothes off?”
“No. I’m going to be fully dressed, and you’re going to be completely naked.”
“Okay.”
I laid down on the bed and she straddled me. “Are you going to take it out?” she asked.
“You can do that.”
“All right.” She unzipped me and took it out. It was more than three-quarters erect. “Can I suck it to make it bigger?”
“Please do.”
And she did—until it was a lot bigger. Then she moved forward a little and gently impaled herself on it, sliding down slowly. Then she slowly started going up and down and back and forth. I knew she wanted it to last, so that’s what I did, with her help. We managed to hold off for 35 minutes before she came.
“Oh Godddd!” she cried, and I felt her lower lips clench me as I came too, deep inside her.
“Wow,” she finally said, “You are the greatest lover ever. I should be paying you.”
“In a sense you are. You are the best sex partner I ever had.”
And that’s how it went for the rest of the summer. She came over for two hours every Monday and Friday. I couldn’t think of any more questions to ask her, so we just spent most of the time sucking and fucking—in every place and position we could think of. Even through the back door.
You may be thinking at this point: How does at 67-year-old man satisfy an 18-year-old girl? Quite simply: With a visit to the doctor to ask for some Viagra samples.
“What about your heart?” he asked.
“What about it? I’m enjoying something that very few men my age ever get to experience.” I didn’t elaborate, but he gave me the samples.
They do work, by the way.
I thought our “research” would end at the end of the summer, but it didn’t. I booked a hotel room in Boston and visited her several times during the school year to “catch up” on our research.
End