On June 22, 1975, Jaws, the first summer blockbuster movie, opened nationwide in 409 theaters. Earlier that day, under a dazzling blue sky filled with great puffy white clouds looking like immense sheep dogs at play, I packed my 1971 Ford Pinto with a sea bag stacked full of uniforms, a duffel bag filled with neatly folded civvies and several cardboard boxes of books.
Twenty minutes later, I parked in front of a house out past the greyhound track in the rural fringe of Orange Park, Florida. My buddy and I were renting the place for a third of what we expected to pay.
Sitting in the car for a moment, I listened to Lady Marmalade then turned the radio off. I opened my car door; at least two things were unbeknownst to me the naïve Midwestern kid, a neophyte in the Navy: First, I had no idea that Ford Pintos had defective gas tanks with an unfortunate tendency to burst into flames if rear-ended at speeds above twenty-five miles per hour. Every time I tooled down the road, I risked immolation like a saffron clad Buddhist monk in Vietnam. Secondly, that I had driven straight into the kill zone of a land borne Great White Shark, my personal Jaws. In a few moments, this predator, armed with a dastardly array of weapons, with a take no prisoner attitude would commence circling me in the same lazy fashion as the movie’s slick killing machine.
Desiring more space then afforded at the barrack on base, I talked a buddy named Mark Brewer, a red haired guy from Sioux City, Iowa, a fellow who lived deep inside himself, a guy who did not run his mouth but when he did say something, it was worth listening to, into sharing a place with me. Both of us were Sailors and hospital corpsmen at the Naval Hospital in Jacksonville. I loved working on the intensive care unit; Mark hated the ortho floor. We pooled our resources, quickly found a house to rent well within our limited budget and signed the lease the day before with the rental agent.
Mark and I considered the residence a bachelor pad not a mere house. I do not know about Mark but I saw Hugh Hefner’s smug countenance when I looked in a mirror. I might not have Hugh’s wealth, a hutch of Playboy bunnies scampering about in such abundance you merely had to reach out and scoop one up but I was confident that my youth, enthusiasm and relentless determination would net me a few hot-blooded vixens.
The house Mark and I rented so cheaply, a two-bedroom house built on a concrete block foundation, a craftsman bungalow, built in 1921 using floor plans and materials purchased from the Sears Modern Homes Mail Order catalogue for less then fifteen hundred dollars, had a low pitched roof, a sprawling porch, lots of windows. Painted hazy gray it looked comfortable sitting amidst the scrub palmettos, cabbage palms and chinkapin trees. Islets of grass in channels of dry dirt made for a shabby front yard, a quite muddy front yard when it rained I had no doubt. In back, a path led to the placid patch of the St. John’s River where a bright yellow canoe bumped against a rickety wooden pier.
In that direction, the river, in every other direction trees, trees and more trees, their bonnets of leaves provided shade, perches for birds sounding off. Along with our house, another craftsman bungalow, this one painted a pale yellow and looking invitingly cool shared the clearing and the gravel square serving as a parking lot at the end of short graveled road.
Some people, not necessarily members of my family, said, I was a good-looking kid. I did not agree. At 19, my manhood still tenuous, fresh from boot camp and Hospital Corps “A” school in Great Lakes, Illinois, I was a gangly youth who blushed too frequently, broke out with pimples way too often. I still missed my long curls of blond hair, still grieved for the missing ponytail the boot camp barber snipped off in one easy fluid motion. My immature face the image of my father at the same age, sprouted whiskers soft as dandelion stems. Females seemed to love my clear blue eyes and being totally pussy crazed, wanting to fuck my brains out with a plentiful portion of women, my eyes in my considered opinion were my solitary babe attractant. As a young child, I stammered, learned to control it, suffered through the slings and arrows cast by bullies. My slight lisp, replacing the sibilant S with the interdental Th sound, plagued me, followed me through school, into the Navy. I fought several times, sustained skinned knuckles and bloodied nose, a series of them. I gave back pain in the same portion I received it when someone hearing me slay sibilants laughed at me, assumed my speech impediment somehow signaled my effeminacy, and accused me of homosexuality. I detested the stereotypical depiction of a gay man prancing about, lisping every time he opened his mouth. I lived to fuck women, women exclusively.
I dreamed of becoming a doctor. To test that ambition, my family doctor recommended I spend four years as a hospital corpsman in the United States Navy. I followed his advice, joined the Navy and now I loved doing all the clinical procedures, treating patients, giving shots, drawing blood, learning simple lab tests, shooting x-rays, suturing lacerations, scrubbing in surgery even doing the scut work required of a Hospitalman, a swab jockey cleaning heads one moment, giving injections, making beds the next moment.
Mark and I had tossed a quarter to see who would sleep in the bigger bedroom. I won. I figured five trips from the car to bedroom. On the third trip as I passed the car, I touched the hood. Still hot to the touch and for once I had traveled from point A to point B without the adjustment screw in the carburetor jumping out and stalling my car. Leaning against the car’s rear bumper, the hatchback open, I lifted a cardboard box and at the same time looked toward the yellow house and at that precise moment, you might say my ship came in. I dropped the heavy book laden box, looked skyward and said, “Thank you God.”
A scant twenty or thirty feet away in the front yard of the yellow house a lovely, buxom, long limbed woman on her knees used shears to cut weeds around a palmetto tree near the center of the yard. Barefoot, her toenails painted pink, she wore short pink shorts that pressed against her firm buttocks. Her heavy breasts spilled over the top of her white halter-top as she clipped away. Her knees pressed against the ground, her legs, bent, looked as good as the rest of her.
You remember such moments until memory meanders away at the instance death embraces you. Thirty years later the memory of my first sighting of her retains its vivid clarity.
Never in my short life had desire sluiced through me with such abandon. I was no virgin but until this moment I could not remember being this hard, being erect so quickly. The closest resemblance to the suddenness of my lust was the memorable moment, shortly before joining the Navy, I stepped into the bathroom, suddenly transfixed, supremely engorged, seeing my Aunt Monica, Mom’s younger sister toweling off after her shower, her huge breasts, her butterfly shaped public hair sparkling from glistening drops of water.
Placing the shears on the ground, my neighbor glided over to the porch steps, posed for me. Being an aficionado of centerfold photography, Karen Christy, December 1971, being a personal favorite, I always wondered what it would be like to stand behind a camera, look through the viewfinder and take photos of a beautiful, sexy woman. Now, I knew. She reached out with her slender left hand, a gold band on the ring finger, touched the tubular metal porch rail. Shifting weight to her shapely right leg, she bent forward, lifted her left leg, stretched it out behind her lithe body, the leg formed a flattened v shape. Then standing on tiptoes, she looked back over her right shoulder letting me feast my eyes on her ass, her slim ankles, her sculpted calves, firm thighs.
Back to when I suckled my mother’s teat, I was a solidly entrenched big breast man. Ever since I started masturbating, big boobs were crucial to my practice of auto gratification. Seeing a buxom woman in a low cut bra, her breasts thrusting forth for the world to see delighted me, hardened me. Busty woman in something low cut stimulated me just as effectively as a bare boob in a glossy stroke magazine. This woman posing on her porch, her black hair cut in the style popularized by Dorothy Hamil resembled Audrey Hepburn, Audrey Hepburn with big boobs. She pirouetted on legs equal to Betty Grable, Ann Miller or Betty Page. I thanked God, she wore no spike heel pumps or I would have gone right over the edge with semen spewing into my pants.
Never had I seen a woman so comfortable in her body, taking such pleasure in flaunting it in public view. I by no means a rocket scientist, my SATs in high school respectably average numbers, not close to Susan Leu’s nearly perfect scores, I knew this woman’s sexy show was a semaphore of invitation.
Staring at her, I must have resembled a wide-eyed religious zealot come to Jesus.
She turned to her left, positioned her left foot on the first porch step and I knew the show was over for now. Then, incredibly, she smiled, a sinfully wicked and salacious smile. Then with her bare feet firmly planted on the porch steps, I could see several drops of perspiration on her breasts, she raised her left arm in a smooth fluid motion. She pointed at me, pointed back at herself and finally pointed at the front door of her house.
By the time she reached the screen door, I was on the bottom step of the porch.
She smiled. At that moment, much closer to her now, I could see she was thirty seasons my senior. Somehow, she had stopped the ravages of time, the debilitating effects of gravity, the ceaseless weathering of biology and in June of 1975; her body remained as firm, supple and sexy as it did in 1955, the year before my birth.
She said nothing, I could smell her perfume, see the perspiration on the topsides of her tits as she opened the screen door, it squeaked as I followed her into the house.
Bouncing on her bare feet across a polished hardwood floor, her hips swaying back and forth, she took my damp left hand in her dry right hand, led me through an immaculately kept house toward a bedroom.
“What is your name,” I asked.
She placed the index finger of her left hand in front of her pink lips.
Silence is golden, golden is silence, I thought to myself.
We entered the boudoir, a couple’s bedroom. A man also slept in this room. Neckties, several suits, a pair of work boots occupied space in a closet and I wondered if the man of the house was close by, too close by for my comfort.
She motioned me to sit on the bed, a four-poster. It resembled the bed my papaw died in surrounded by five sons and two daughters in the summer of 1965. This model looked much older, old enough to have rested Andrew Jackson’s weary bones when he came Florida way during the Seminole War.
Following her silent command, I sat on the side of the bed, facing a mirrored dresser with several framed photos, a jewelry box on the dresser surface. She dropped to her knees, the pale blue throw rug shifting slightly as she settled on the floor.
Looking down I could see the sumptuous slope of her breasts rising from the halter-top. She moved her head, tipped her chin slightly. I figured she wanted me to stand. I stood. She unbuckled my belt, slid down my zipper, pulled my jeans down and they pooled around my ankles. My cock poked from my white jockey briefs. She untangled me from my underwear and motioned me to sit back down.
I sat. She took me in her mouth, her lips looking like pink pillows moved up and down my length. She sucked, her cheeks collapsed inward. The most delicious sensations shot through me as she worked. Occasionally, she looked up at me her mouth plugged full with my cock. She continued to suck, stopped, let me pop out of her mouth, licked and sucked with renewed vigor. Her mouth squeezed in on me, I reached out, placed my hands behind her exposed ears, pulled her toward my thrusting pole. As she sucked, some anxiety settled in my gut. What to do if I heard the screen door open and a beefy crew cut guy suddenly filled the bedroom doorway. Truthfully, the idea of a boyfriend, a husband catching this woman on her knees, my cock in her mouth added a fillip to our carnal meeting.
Fuck, I wanted to say, the word said as a request, a plea, an order but I followed her lead and remained silent. All of my average sized cock fell into her mouth. She took it all and what truly excited me was her passion in sucking cock. She struck me as a woman who did nothing by half, who went full bore at any activity. I had glimpsed a veritable library of cookbooks on a shelf in the kitchen, which probably meant she was not satisfied with mere cooking. Her beautifully toned body testified to killing workouts. Even her coiffure allowed her to move out the door quicker, to sally forth faster.
As she laved my cock with her tongue, I noticed her left hand inside the front of her shorts. I removed my hands from her head touched her breasts, my hands slid into her halter-top, mashed down on her nipples. Feeling is so much better then seeing. My hands, still moist, roamed over her boobs. My God, they were big. I wanted to see them minus the halter-top.
I want to fuck you. The words stayed inside my head. Please let me fuck you did not emerge from my quivering mouth. I would sound so lame. Nor did I say I am going to fuck the hell out of you, you little minx. I thought it though.
Nearly at the moment of my release, she stopped sucking; I bounded from her mouth. She stood, smiled at me, an innocent, sweet smile like a nun grinning at kid going through communion.
Standing up, she pulled her shorts down, stepped out of them, removed the halter-top in a shrug and did a slow spin letting me see every inch of her geography. My eyes nearly popped out of my head taking in her nakedness. The reality of her breasts far surpassed anything I imagined. Big, round, perfectly shaped mounds, each one capped with a supremely erect nipple centered in a pale brown field. Her tiny waist made her bust look even bigger, her hips flared out, the cheeks of her ass looked hard as granite. Legs sculpted by a serious regimen of dancing, runner’s legs not too muscular and not one smidgen of excess adipose tissue.
I want to fuck your tits, slide my cock between them, and fill your mouth, I thought to myself looking at her breasts. Red lipstick adorned her full lips and formed a band around my cock. My heart pounded, my cock head, slick with her moisture pointed at the nest of black pubic hair in her pubis.
In the quiet room, I could hear a clock ticking somewhere in the house. It ticked maybe five or six times and we were in the immense bed under cool blue sheets, me on top of her, my cock buried in her pussy, her legs around me, her heels pushing into my flanks.
Her pussy grabbed and fixed itself around me. For some inexplicable reason Terry Lynn Wilberforce came to mind, her eighteen-year-old portal surrendered to my eighteen-year-old penis. Maybe it was because Terry was my first fuck and this woman my best fuck by far. Tumescent in her tight tunnel, our friction taking us on a merry ride, we took our sweet time, slowed down and sped up, practiced patience, drove to the edge of release and pulled back. All of it coming together like a symphony orchestrated by a master. Not one sound escaped from her, not a whisper. My noise of grunts and groans provided a running commentary to our coupling. As my cock charged forth, I took the nipple of her left breast in my mouth, sucked it, sucked it hard. Then my mouth moved to her right breast, my hands slid under her ass and lifted her toward me.
This woman, tiny crow’s feet around her green eyes and the slightest loosening of flesh on her neck, were the only signs that signaled her seniority. Her sexuality was so overpowering, the lust in the room so dense it amazed me I had not yet exploded inside her.
The only sounds in the bedroom were the squeak of the bed, some birds singing outside. In her muteness, I found enticement and eroticism.
I had fantasized of women coming and going in my new digs but this sexual interlude went barreling past the property of dreams, seemed so fantastical I expected to wake up any moment and find myself back in my barrack bed.It was no dream however.
For several hours, we fucked. I fucked her in the standard missionary position, we did it doggie style, my semen shot inside her pussy, deep inside her mouth. Never will I forgot how my cock looked swaddled by her mouth, the way she felt as my cock plunged into her.Periodically, we paused; she threw back the sheet, padded on her bare feet to the kitchen, returned with icy cold lemonade and butter cookies one time and chocolate covered cherries later. In the bed, we nibbled the cookies; I nibbled her. We sipped lemonade; I supped between her legs, my tongue probing into her canal filled with my semen. I felt so deliciously wicked fucking this woman. She fucked me with equal gusto. She seemed tireless and I was inexhaustible. It felt surreal all this fucking and sucking and licking with no conversation, no bed talk patter. Finally, spent, my cock unable to rally, my finger inside her, I fell asleep in the mussed bed. I think she did too.
I awakened to her stroking my cock. My God, she wanted to fuck again. Hell, I wanted to fuck again too. Now, she talked, told me about herself. Her name was Minka and she was 52 years old.
A widow for five years, her husband Carl, a steamfitter, killed in a fall at work. She sued the company employing the workers whose negligence caused his death. The company settled with her for a most handsome sum and she worked part time in a dry cleaning establishment.
After Carl’s death, she fucked a man of 19 tender years, my age. From that moment, she was hooked on young men. She loved the way their cocks felt in her mouth, the way they filled her pussy. She owned the house Mark and I rented. To assure herself a steady supply of young fuck buddies, she instructed the rental agent to rent the house for nearly nothing. With a large navy base close by Minka had a plentiful source of seafood.
Minka raised her head from the pillow, looked at me.
“The rental agent told me you had a slight lisp and I hesitated, reconsidered trying to seduce you. I would have been quite embarrassed if I did everything but fuck myself on the front lawn only to find out you were gay. The way you shot over here though, I knew, no way you were gay. “Honey, you have so much potential to be a fuck monster. That is why I like you young fellows so much. You keep going and I think your young sperm keeps me young.”
Looking at this youthful half-century-old dame, me a hospital corpsman schooled in basic pharmacology, hoping to be a doctor some day, I had to agree with her ideas on the fountain of youth properties found in young male sperm. For the next three years, this woman, my personal Jaws, never went without my youth giving elixir and I never went without what she gave me so freely.