My back ached just from walking behind the mower for the last 90 minutes. I hoped that the perspiration and work in this heat would eliminate a pound or two from my (m)ass. I figured I put on a pound and a half a year, or a little more; never too much to worry about. But somehow the Marine Corps was 32 years ago, and those 1.5 pounds per year have put me on a scale that was impressive. Maybe the back ache would go if some pounds did. Finished with the grass, I put the mower away and closed the garage door. I drank some ice water and went to shower.

The shower was relaxing, and with no one else home I took my time and used as much hot water as the tank held. I saw some grass heading down the drain, so I knew I’d be cleaning it soon–but not now, not today. The bathroom was steamy, but it felt good. As the water started to cool to lukewarm, I turned it off and used one of our new, big towels to dry off. I walked into the bedroom and had a sudden squeezing in my chest from fear and surprise. No, not a heart attack.

“Hello, Mr. Carlson,” a girl said. I was towelling my hair, so perhaps I’d dreamed it. No, really, she was there. And if she wasn’t, it was the best delusion ever. She was beautiful and naked and lying on my bed, on top of the duvet. She was on her left side, supporting her head on her hand, her left leg straight on the mattress but her right one crooked–so that I could see her sex clearly, I assumed. I knew this kid, who was she? One of Angela’s friends, I think. Yes, she lives down the road and graduated with our daughter Angela. Which made her at least 20, thank God. My mind was racing as I stood in front of this young woman, naked in all my glory for the towel was in my hands at my shoulders, but let us remember that all glory is fleeting and the kid would soon be faced with the tumescent reality of her seduction.

“I saw you were working and I know your family is gone for the day so I thought we could amuse one another this afternoon,” she said. And she straightened that crooked leg, pointing it directly at the skylight above. Golly. My heart was thumping out of my chest. Maybe it was a heart attack. But I’m not dead yet, I heard in a movie once.

She asked, “What do you think?”

“I’m thinking of South America,” I said.


“Brazil. Yet another reason to visit someday. You know, when you grow up you’ll get hair down there.” She laughed.

“Oh, I am all grown up, Mr. C. And one of the grown-up things I like to do is suck, and another one is fuck, and then I like to do them different ways.”

I hesitated. “Golly.”

I was still trying to remember her name (although many a man has screwed a girl whose name he didn’t know. I was not one of them, yet. For me, all of them were named Carol, oddly enough.). Aloud, I said, “If you do those things you must be grown up. That is the measure of womanhood.”

What was that name? Joel and Marcy’s kid? No. That kid was named Janet and she had red hair. This kid had black hair. Agnes’s kid, maybe? I didn’t know Agnes’s husband, but I didn’t believe Agnes could produce a kid this beautiful–but maybe.

She rolled over then and got up on her hands and knees, sort of diagonal to me, facing away. She looked over at me, flipping that long black hair so I could see alanya escort her face. I could see other parts as well. Remarkable bottom. Tony and Luisa’s kid? I know she lives down the street to the east about half a klick. I think she’s theirs. I decided to fess up.

“I’m sorry, Sweetheart, I just can’t remember your name. Are you Tony and Luisa’s kid?”

She looked hurt then (no, she really did). She forced herself to perk up. “Yes. Alessa. I thought you’d know my name. You certainly liked looking at me in your pool last year.”

NOW I remembered. Angela brought her over a few times to sunbathe and swim in our pool last August. But I swear I did not ogle Alessa any more than I ogled any other beautiful post-pubescent girls in skimpy bathing suits in my backyard. Really. She should not have felt special. I’m an equal time ogler.

She swivelled her hips then, so that I could see her wonderful, puffy vulva, and said in what must have been her sexiest imitation of porn stars who haven’t the foggiest notion of what is good about sex, “Don’t you want some of me?”

Lord have mercy. Perhaps it was a delusion, after all.

I said, “I can honestly say that I do not want any part of you.”

I assumed she missed the double entendre because she didn’t understand my studies in Gestalt psychology, which were only part of one course my freshman year but that I took to heart. She was much more than the sum of her parts. I’m holistic in my lust. Lusts.

She glanced down at old glory and said, “You can take my ass, if you want. I’ve never done that.”

For crying out loud, that was an insult! She looked down and then decided I should be the first in her butt. Think you can take me, huh? Not impressed, eh? Think old glory is ass-poke-qualified? Hm, I thought. You have no idea with whom you deal.

“Tempting, but no thanks.”

She lay back and pointed first her one leg and then the other at the ceiling, and said, “Oh, don’t you think my legs look good? I think they are my best feature, don’t you?”

That demanded consideration, so I considered, putting my hand to my chin. Being a Gestaltist, it makes for difficulty considering the trees for the forest. “Your legs are quite long, quite smooth, they look inviting. They are certainly a good feature. They look strong enough to trap a big man within them. But I like your breasts too,” I said.

“Really? I think they are too small. I think I will get them enlarged. Or maybe a tattoo on one,” she said. Obviously, I was not dealing with a higher level thinker here.

“Pity. Some of us prefer natural looks. And your breasts are perfect for your long, lithe shape,” I said, “and your skin is so smooth, a few freckles that make one want to examine you more closely. I think a tattoo would hide your most enticing beauty.” Pulchritude is never enough. Don’t kids realize how beautiful they are at this age? In this case, art would cover a masterpiece.

She swivelled on the bed, on her back, her feet together toward me. I was standing a foot from the bed. She spread her knees, keeping the feet together. “What about my pussy? Is it beautiful? Do you want to touch it? Eat it?”

For some reason, the p-word sounds idiotic except when I am in the throes of passion, which artvin escort probably means it will sound idiotic for the next four weeks with a possible exception of next Sunday. Maybe. Coming from this lovely creature–who still thinks sex is something you do because you can–it sounded like she was talking of a housecat. A tabby, probably.

“Yes, I remember when my daughters were little and I’d change them–why, they looked a lot like you do now,” I said.

“But don’t you like it shaved? Smooth? I made it smooth for you, you know,” she said, batting her eyelashes. Okay, I don’t actually know if she batted her eyelashes because when a beautiful woman in your bed opens her legs in the bright afternoon light just so you can look at her vulva, well, I dare any heterosexual man to say he’s looking at her eyes.

“Pour moi? I am sorry you did that. You are beautiful without, but I am sure just as beautiful with. Maybe if it ever grows back you’ll have better luck, and look like a woman.”

She actually pursed her lips for a moment, her brow furrowed. “Why don’t you come over here and kiss me?”

“No.” I said it firmly. I wanted to say yes. Did I say no? Yes? Yes, I said no. Crud. There I go thinking with my mind, again.

Laying back, I mean lying back (it was no time for bad grammar), she pulled her feet near her hips–oh, I never described her bottom–and spread her knees wide. Lovely. I considered finding my cell phone or a camera but…nah, that would end badly.

“Angie said they’ll be gone until after supper. They have reservations somewhere. Why not screw me and then screw me again, if you can.” There was a challenge in her eyes. Her lips were smiling, enticing. She wanted ME! Old glory was trying to wave. Down boy!

“Because you aren’t interested in sex with an overweight older man.”

“You don’t believe I would want to fuck you?”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head there. I know my place in the universe.”

“Well, come over here and we’ll see if I can convince you,” she said, looking at old glory under the towel–who had a life of his own this afternoon, getting a workout doing standups and shrink downs as our discussion continued. Alessa ran the tip of her tongue around her lips, probably wanting Chapstick.

It was time. “Nope. You’re gonna get up and get dressed. Then you should go home. And I won’t tell your parents how you acted. My wife might, though.”

“We could meet many times, your wife would not have to know,” she suggested.

A plan. She and I, plotting together to keep the foolish wife ignorant, an assignation, a relationship. It could go on. No fling, no dalliance, this would be no tryst. Week after oversexed week meeting in secret, in motels, in her house when the parents were gone, here when we could, and I’d feel like a kid again. She could have children, my children, never admit my paternity. I could help her raise them with frequent secret payments from my alternative funding source, a virtually unending supply of coins which magically appear beneath the recliner with regularity..

I looked at that kid and felt a twinge: she was gorgeous. Why not a romp?

If I were 20! And hadn’t met Carol. And didn’t believe that recreational sex caused huge social and personal burdur escort issues and signalled an acceptance of sociopathy and ultimately the denigration of women. But really, Carol would kill me. She would have killed me at 20 if I’d strayed. Carol is my conscience. Because I fear her. The woman can bench press perhaps 70 pounds, so I don’t mess with her.

“I’m sure you are grown up, but I don’t think you know how to act, yet,” I said, and she looked angry. “I also think this sounds like a dare your sorority put you up to.”

“You really are turning me down?” she said, sitting up on the other side of the bed. She sounded unbelieving. Disbelieving. ( One or the other.) I wondered if Angela put her up to this. In which case, Angela and I would need to have “a serious discussion, very serious,” to quote Clair Huxtable. Most of what I know about parenting I’ve learned from tv shows. I walked around, with the towel now mostly dry and wrapped about my waist–well almost all the way around it–and sat a foot away from her on the side of the bed.

She said, “You know, your wife is like 60. Don’t you want some young pussy one more time?”

There was that word again, and I tried not to laugh. It helped that she thought my wife’s age would lead me to want a younger woman. I suppose that explains all the middle age divorces and trophy wives and honeys out there. But not I. No, not I. Age is a blessing. As I age, older women look more and more attractive. If I weren’t married, they’d all be in play and I’d probably lose weight a lot faster. And Allessa should guard her door. But I am married, and I’m not losing weight at all. So there.

“I’ve loved Carol since I met her as a freshman in high school. Forty-something years now. I don’t have much experience at sex with anyone but her. It’s not that you are not sexy or beautiful. And there is nothing sexier than someone who wants to have sex with you. But I love my wife, and I don’t negotiate with that. Your willingness here says loads about you, none of it good.”

I stood up. I said, “Now, get dressed and get out of here.”

I reached to the wall and pulled my robe off a hook and put it on. I said, “I’ll wait in the hall for you.”

A minute or two later she came out, looking the kid she was, and I led her to the front door. I opened it for her. I stood away, so that she would not try to kiss my cheek or do something worse.

“If Angela ever brings you around, I’ll be careful to avert my eyes when you sunbathe. But you are magnificent, Alessa,” I said.

“Tell me the truth, didn’t you actually want to do it?” she said.

“Honey, I’ve not seen a beautiful woman I didn’t want to have sex with,” I said, “and most of the homely ones, too. It’s not about desire. It’s about character.” She shook her head and smiled.

“Mr. C, it’s really too bad you’re married,” she said walking out.

“No, it isn’t,” I replied, and closed the door. My place in the universe was a pretty good one.

I made sure to lock it this time. I went to the kitchen and drank some more ice water, laughing at the whole episode. Carol would get a kick out of this when I told her. She could tell Luisa because she knew everyone better than I. If Angela set this up, I’d want a full rundown on it and strong words might be in order. I went upstairs to get dressed, but decided to lie down. My back ached, and I fell asleep then. Carol and Angela woke me about 4:30; they asked if I wanted to go with them to the restaurant, and so we did. My diet could wait until tomorrow.

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