Ageless Erotica Read online

  I never considered myself bisexual or bi-curious or any of those new labels they have been using nowadays. I just wanted to kiss a woman, check it off my bucket list, and be on my way. It was all in the name of research.

  When I entered the lesbian club, I felt like I had a big sign on my forehead that said alien. Just as I was deflating my self-esteem and deciding to take my miserable, self-pitying, woe-is-me self home, this fancy chick—complete with butterfly tattoos, piercings, and spandex jeans—asked if I wanted to dance. She looked young enough to be carded, but she had a mature air about her that seemed both intriguing and innocent at the same time. I kindly took her up on her proposition. We danced just close enough for me to smell the Egyptian musk oil she was wearing. We had a couple of drinks and a good conversation. But I was starting to get tired and was ready to go home and relax.

  Before making my grand exit, I announced that I had to use the ladies’ room, and my companion decided she needed to go as well. I tried to enter my stall and close the door, but she quickly slipped in behind me. She looked me dead in my eyes and started to slip her hand in my pants and maneuvered down into my panties. I took her by the hand, opened my legs slightly, and guided her hand to the moist spot forming between my legs.

  Her fingers were soft and purposeful as she played with my pubic hairs before entering me. One by one her fingers tugged and twisted the soft wet hairs that were now sticking to my body. First there was one finger, then two, then three, and then she alternated between the three keeping in sync to some invisible carnal beat. I was in tune with her every movement, riding her fingers with every stroke. It was the best hand job I had ever had, and she had barely started. The heat that was growing between my legs was seething. I had to bite my lip to keep from anyone overhearing us. I’m not sure if I led her on in some way or if this type of thing happened all the time in lesbian bars, but I felt that since I had come this far, I might as well go along with the program.

  Her fingers went deep inside of me, fingering me and stroking my clit with one hand. I started to moan or groan or both, and with her other hand, she covered my mouth. As she stirred up the friction in my pants, my body started to gyrate to the beat of the music playing in the background. When she couldn’t muffle my moans with her hand any longer, she removed her hand and stuck her tongue in my mouth. She kissed and licked my mouth until I came all over her hand.

  When she finished, she went to wash her hands, licking her fingers first. I didn’t know the correct protocol for dismissing myself after just being fingered in the bathroom, so I thanked her for an interesting evening, hugged her, exchanged numbers, and wobbled out of the bar. I needed a hot bath, aspirin, and sleep, before adding another well-deserved check to my bucket list.

  The next item on my bucket list was delayed when my uterus decided to drop. After discussing my options with a specialist in urogynecology and reconstructive pelvic surgery, I scheduled an appointment for laparoscopic surgery, a repair procedure that in my case required a hysterectomy to remove my uterus.

  Since both of my ovaries were healthy, I was able to keep them, which made me feel as though I still had my woman parts, regardless of being beyond childbearing years.

  The doctor noticed that I had some vaginal tearing over the years, and so many babies left my vagina less tight and snug than it used to be. She would tighten up my vagina as an added bonus. My sex life would be better because my vagina would be tighter. Who would have thought that after all these years I finally would get the designer vagina that I had always wanted, all new and improved!

  My ex-husband wanted to be the first to try out my new goods, but after thinking long and hard about it, I decided that he didn’t deserve to be the first. Maybe the second or third, but certainly not the first.

  Soon after, I bumped into Barry, a man about fifteen years younger than me. I have often stopped by my favorite happy hour spot to get a drink, flirt with a young man or two for the novelty of it, and go on my way. Barry was a little bolder that the other young men I had been meeting lately, though, and that began to make him more alluring.

  Barry had flirted with me on and off over the years, but I never considered kissing him, let alone having sex with him, as he was so young. He was on the same community advisory board I was on, and I didn’t mix business with pleasure, especially so close to home. But the more I kept bumping into him, the more he started to look kissable—and sexable.

  One evening after an intense community meeting election, I gave Barry a ride home like I usually did. This time, when he invited me up for a beer, I took him up on it, since we had been celebrating our electoral success all evening anyway. After a few rounds of small talk, Barry began his usual flirtatious bantering, and I did my usual cougar moves, all in the name of fun, but something was obviously different this time.

  Barry slowly walked up to me, placed his hand comfortably between my legs on my upper thigh, and whispered, “You gonna let me hit that tonight?” I gave him the green light to go further by stepping slowly into his grasp. By now his hand was softly but firmly positioned under my skirt, near the wet spot between my legs. He moved in closer beside me and slowly ran his hand further up my thigh. His hand felt good between my legs, just like it was meant to be there. I wanted to see how far this would go.

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t start anything I couldn’t finish,” I said, barely above a whisper and hoping he wouldn’t stop.

  Barry continued to run his hand up and down my thigh. As his hand slowly made its way to my wet spot, I pulled away from him, while I still had the strength to do so. “Why are you always doing that?” Barry asked with a smirk on his face. “You always pull away from me, and you know you want this.” He was right. I did want it. I looked down at him. He was rubbing the biggest erection I had seen in a long, long time!

  I decided, tonight would be Barry’s lucky night. And mine.

  I was too old for games and too horny for wasting any more time. He was an obedient young man and came to attention as quickly as the wood in his pants that was now saluting me at full mast. I liked what I saw: his thick, monstrous, bulging appendage that was hanging before me in full frontal view in all its glory. I certainly must have done something right to get so lucky! I think I may have looked as though I needed CPR because he asked me if anything was wrong. I reassured him that at that moment, all was right with the world!

  It was a little awkward at first, because I started to feel insecure. I couldn’t remember if I was wearing my thong or my granny panties, and I didn’t remember if I still had that unsightly panty liner still attached. Did I even shave under my armpits or pluck the extra hairs under my neck? In the wrong light, my breasts looked like cow udders. In the right light, they looked like voluptuous torpedoes. Tonight they had a mind of their own and were hanging east and west, but heading south. I couldn’t remember if I had shaved the gray hairs from my lollipop just in case it was going to get licked, like a lollipop should be licked.

  Without warning, Barry grabbed me by my arm, which shook all the negative thoughts from my head. With my full consent, Barry began to pin me down like a hungry dog in heat. I didn’t resist, because I like it rough and wild and I was glad to finally meet someone who was just as nasty as I was. I was sexually as hungry as Barry, and the heat was turned all the way up to a boil. I was matching his rhythm note for note and trying hard as hell not to miss a beat. As he started massaging my breast with one hand, his other hand attentively forced its way down my pants and didn’t stop until he got to the cream-filled middle. On cue I used my free hand to ride horseback on his hand that was already buried deep inside me. I held it tight, making certain that he wouldn’t remove it until I was ready for him to ease it out.

  Before I could talk him into letting me take off my clothes, he had me facedown, with my pants around my ankles. Barry was both amiable and forceful, just the way I liked it.

  Then I remembered my surgery and was scared to death, because I didn’t know how he was g
oing to feel inside of me. All I could think of was him busting my stitches and sending me running back to the hospital. Between heavy breathing and gasping for air, I informed Barry of my surgery, and he immediately asked, “Do you want me to stop?” I told him I didn’t want him to stop. I just wanted him to be careful and take his time and pace himself for my sake.

  When he tried to enter me, it was tight. So tight that I figured my doctor had sewn me up a little too much. Then I feared that Barry would feel like a battering ram trying to force his way into my tiny keyhole. However, Barry tuned in to my sensations. As soon as I became apprehensive, he stopped to check in with me. He went from forceful caveman to a gentle giant. He became patient and refined, taking his time inch by inch, until I had swallowed all of him and was moving in time with his rhythm once again.

  He loved me long and hard. It was tasty. It was mouthwatering. It was finger-licking good. He filled me up from wall to wall. “Damn, that feels good,” he would say between each sweaty stroke. Stroke by stroke he began to build momentum, but slowly I was easing my way back into the driver’s seat. As we began to pick up the pace, I began to get my old buzz back. Barry took my legs and spread them like a wishbone.

  It felt as though I was outside of my body looking down at myself, and I liked what I saw, I liked how it felt, and I liked how my vagina was brand-new and tight. I turned off all the mind clutter. I moved when he moved and did what he did. I was a puppet on a string. I lost control. I was under his spell.

  When it was over, it was over. I dressed, kissed him on the forehead, and left. He wasn’t my husband, my man, or my boyfriend—just barely my friend—and I was fine with that. In fact, I loved that. I couldn’t wait to get home and check this off my bucket list. Then I was going to soak in a hot tub of Epsom salts, pour some champagne, and celebrate my new and improved vagina—and all the years we had ahead of us!

  TRAIN RIDE

  Harris Tweed

  I took the train to Salt Lake. Why not? Seventy years old. Hadn’t made a journey by rail since I was sixteen going from Billings to Glasgow, Montana, to brand cattle on the highline for a football buddy’s uncle. Now, fifty-four years later, I was going to Salt Lake to give a talk on noir fiction at the college. I’d worked on it while we steadily rumbled along out of Oakland, but once we started the climb through the Sierras east of Sacramento, I looked out my window more often.

  I was gazing at a bend in the Truckee River when someone in the aisle brushed my arm passing by. I glanced up, expecting a conductor or steward, but saw instead a slender, gray-haired woman in a soft, wool dress.

  She said, “Excuse me,” and I nodded, and that was that, but after another page of editing, she returned to my mind. What a lovely smile, and her eyes held a liveliness that stirred me. Okay, who was she, and what was she doing on this train?

  I felt like a teenager scoping girls in the bleachers at half-time. Planning my reconnaissance, I’d decided to feign a search for the dining car. I’d carry my briefcase like I was planning to work while eating. If I walked up-train, I’d find where she was sitting, get a better look, maybe even make direct contact. I might learn whether she was riding alone, whether she wore a ring, whether she passed her time memorizing the Bible, that sort of thing.

  Turned out she was on the same side I was, up about twelve rows, aisle seat in front of a large woman who had obscured my vision. I slowed just before I reached her and bent, ostensibly, to straighten my cuff. Kneeling I could see a slender left wrist, sapphire-colored ring on her middle finger, the same pale gold as her thin chain bracelet. I could see that her silvery hair had a pleasant luster and that her shoulders were back, not hunched. All to the good. I rose and brushed her arm as I walked by, excused myself, and then pretended surprise to see it was the same person who had brushed me just minutes ago.

  “Hello,” I said. “I believe I zigged when I should have zagged.”

  She gave me that smile again, said nothing.

  “Have you been to the dining car?” I asked, noticing that the seat next to her was vacant.

  “No,” she said, tolerating my intrusion. She glanced at the seat back directly in front of her as if its pocket might hold a map. Shook her head and smiled again. “I haven’t. I don’t even know if it’s that direction.”

  “Forgive me if I’m being a bother, but I’m wondering if you’d like to join me and find out. We could have a quick cup of coffee or a bone-dry macchiato, hold the nutmeg.”

  She turned her attention up a notch, searching my eyes to decide whether I was teasing, or obnoxiously overconfident, or worse, maybe a perv of one of the myriad types.

  “Sorry,” I said, “mixed message. I was serious about having a coffee together. About the macchiato, not so much, unless that happens to be your favorite warm drink, in which case we should order two.”

  She glanced at the Atlantic magazine she was holding and then at my briefcase.

  “I’m carrying this everywhere,” I said. “A talk I’m working on. I couldn’t afford to lose it.”

  She set the magazine beside her and fiddled with the top button of her dress, considering. She looked out the window but didn’t seem to find anything interesting.

  “Please,” I said. “I’ve interrupted you. I’ll go get a coffee and let you get back to your reading.”

  She brought her eyes back to mine. “No, I’ve read enough for the moment. A coffee would be fine.”

  I saw that in her fiddling with the button she’d wound up undoing it. As she stood, she undid another. Her skin was a light tan, and the V her top now made was fetching.

  She caught me looking and colored slightly. “Shall we?” she asked.

  My thoughts tumbled as we walked into the next car. And the next, and finally, the dining area. We chose a table for two on the far right corner, which, at least for the time being, had no close neighbors.

  Our waiter came immediately, immaculate in black slacks and a short white jacket. He poured water, took our coffee order, and left, polite but businesslike.

  “My name is Malcolm,” I said, “and unfortunately people call me that. It’s not a name that nicks well.” That earned another smile.

  “Last name?”

  “Scrivner,” I said. “Not a bad match for a man who’s giving a talk on noir fiction.”

  “I rarely read any of that,” she said. “I don’t like the snappy patter.”

  “The detectives?”

  “Yes, and the crooks in general.” She unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap. “Guess that dates me,” she said. “They don’t say crooks anymore, do they?”

  I laughed. “Goons, goombahs, thugs, palookas . . . they don’t say any of those much anymore. Noir seems to be moving away from crime and into everyman kinds of dilemmas. Road rage, drug use, accidental murder in the suburbs, kinship wars in Appalachian hollows.”

  Her eyes left mine and wandered again to the window. I was boring her. “And your name?” I asked, trying to win back her attention.

  “Guess,” she said, a bit of a twinkle.

  “Desdemona.”

  She barked a laugh.

  “One can hope,” I said. “I’ve never met a Desdemona.”

  “You’re a terrible guesser.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin though she’d had nothing to eat or drink.

  “I am,” I agreed. “One more try and you tell me.”

  She waited.

  “Emily.”

  “The poet,” she said. “I’ve always liked that name. No, Rachel. Rachel Ames. My maiden name,” she said. “I took it back after my husband died.”

  “A terrible question popped into my mind,” I said and waited.

  “I usually love terrible questions. Ask it.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  “That is a dangerous question, isn’t it? He could have just passed; he could have been the love of my life and you would have . . . what do they say now? Killed the buzz?”

  In that moment I think my heart actually leape
d. Could a seventy-year-old heart still leap? I could barely put my socks on. Whatever, it was beating faster and I knew why. Buzz. She was feeling some kind of similar attraction, and yes, here came that shy blush and a lovely swallow.

  “No one who knows me has ever accused me of being sensitive,” I said. “Should I withdraw the question?”

  “No . . . that’s not something I’ve been asked before.”

  The waiter was at our table so soundlessly it seemed he materialized. He put the small, ceramic cream pitcher between us, followed by the sugar bowl with its slightly tarnished tongs. From his wooden tray he lifted nearly translucent porcelain cups atop saucers and centered each between our utensils. Finally an aromatic coffee was poured with neither a clink nor a drop spilled. He couldn’t keep himself from brushing at a speck near the middle edge of the tablecloth. “I’ll bring you a menu shortly,” he said, “should you become hungry.” He turned and strode toward the galley without a backward glance.

  I found myself reluctant to break the spell by taking a sip.

  “We should all be so professional,” she looked after him.

  “What was your work?” I would not have been surprised if she said minding a house. She could have been some wealthy person’s trophy wife a few years ago.

  “I started out a lawyer. Hated it. Became the publicity person for the San Francisco Opera. We had the best parties in the world at bars like Vesuvius, Tosca, the Tivoli. God, what a job.”

  “The opera work seems to fit your . . . elegance,” I said. “But I’m surprised by the parties. You must not be as . . . uh, reserved as—”