Ageless Erotica Read online

GEORGE

  Lorna Lee

  I stared at the “submit” button on LastResortDateSite.web. Elvis appeared in my mind’s eye, hips jutted out, and began to croon, “It’s now or never . . .” as his hips gyrated in sync with the melody. “It’s now,” I said as I smiled at the memory of The King. I moved my cursor and hesitated over the button. One click, and then just sit back and wait while all the seventy-plus-or-minus-year-old studs within a fifty mile radius of my home read my profile and reply. Of course, how many of those studs would want a seventy-year-old hot mama remained to be seen.

  My gal pals had tried various electronic dating sites, and their biggest complaint was that all the codgers came calling with a pocket full of Viagra. All they really wanted was to show my friends how young and virile they still were. Did I want a seventy-year-old who truly thought that with the help of a pill, he was still sixteen? I thought long and hard about clicking on the “submit” button after spending several minutes answering page after page of personality test questions. Elvis kept crooning in my mind; I clicked. My biggest fear was that I’d find some old man who wanted a nurse!

  Exhausted, I went to bed. A bit away from the foot of my bed, he waited. My lover. George. As always, he sat on his cloth-draped stool, not quite facing me, not quite in profile, looking down his long aquiline nose at something only he could see. The only article of clothing he wore was on his head—a Greek fisherman’s cap, bleached from years in the sun. His face wore a perpetual expression of patience and a neatly trimmed silver beard and mustache. Thin, his well-tanned skin covered ropes of muscle developed through years of fishing on the open seas. An old amulet of protection hung from a leather cord around his neck. He sat as he always sat, relaxed but ready for whatever would come his way, his right ankle on his left knee, both hands resting on his walking stick, held to his left side, toward me. This beautiful, tanned man did not even wear a tan line. Nude men seldom turn me on, but George was different, and he knew it. He never presented the full monty when the light was on—he waited for darkness and my wild fantasies. Strong, silent, with a touch of mystery, he never made demands.

  “Ah, George, you are so patient. So caring. I wonder why I feel this compulsion to find someone else.” As usual, George replied with just a hint of smile. He is truly one of the strong and silent types. I slipped into bed between the sheets, turned off the light, and pulled the blankets up to my chin. George soon slid in beside me.

  His arms wrapped around me, his mouth found mine, and soon he shifted in the bed, pulling blankets and sheets off me, and moved his mouth down my body. I felt the warmth of his mouth on my breast, his teeth lightly nibbling my nipple; the coolness as his warm, wet mouth moved down my belly. I moaned in the promise of what would happen next.

  He separated my legs, found my secret self with his hot, wet tongue. His tongue slid around my clit, which I’ve named Ethel, and over it, and too soon, I flooded with warmth. Maybe that’s why I feel the need for a different lover? George always knows what I want, and goes right to it. There is no mystery with George, no long, drawn out foreplay. George is good for instant gratification, but Ethel never really has a chance to wake, to reach her full potential of enjoyment.

  A short eternity later, I lay in my bed; the sheets and blankets back over me, neatly tucked in. I reached for George, but of course, he wasn’t there. He had returned to the cloth-covered footstool near the foot of my bed. I rolled over into deep, satisfied sleep.

  The next morning, I said nothing to George as I passed him on my way to the shower. I hurried through my ablutions, poured a cup of coffee, and with great expectations, turned on my computer.

  I had winks from men two thousand miles away, winks from men who lived across two mountain passes, and a few winks from locals. I dated some of the locals. One thought primitive camping and hunting was the way to live. His first question when we met was, “Do you know how to gut a deer?” Another gentleman wanted to live in a sports bar, watching games and drinking beer. His major question for me: “Ya gonna bet on da Packers, right?” And then there was the survivalist who did time in the federal penitentiary for illegally possessing and selling weapons—some of which actually ended up in the commission of felonies, including murder. I despaired of ever finding a compatible man through LastResortDateSite or any other online site.

  “Oh, George,” I wailed in self-pity as I crawled into bed that night. “Is there a decent, intelligent, fun man out there who isn’t already taken? Will I ever find him?” Shortly after I turned off the light, George slid between the sheets and pulled me to him. He stroked me, and as my sobs subsided, he kissed away my tears. His hands began to caress my breast. He nibbled my nipple, held that nipple in his mouth as his hand slid down my belly. He slowly caressed my Ethel until I could take no more. I called out, spasmed as my legs clamped shut, and then I fell into sleep.

  The next morning, I received another wink. From Dave. In reading Dave’s profile, I saw we matched 98 percent on our personality test. We shared the same religion, read the same books, belonged to the same political party, and he lived eight miles away—I winked back.

  “George,” I sighed that night as I crawled into bed, “is this going to be another letdown? Do smart, intelligent, and decent men use LastResortDateSite.web?”

  There was no response from George, no slipping between the sheets to hold me. No love from my ever-faithful lover. I slept fitfully.

  The next day, Dave and I set up a meeting.

  Since we both love Thai food, we arranged to meet in a small Thai restaurant. I recognized Dave as soon as I entered the restaurant from his photo on LastResortDateSite. The photo didn’t do justice to his height (a foot taller than me). Or his thick and wavy silver hair. Or his green-hazel eyes. Or his contagious smile. Or his intelligence or capability to carry on a conversation beyond hunting, survivalist philosophy, or pinochle. We ate lunch and talked for hours. We covered topics from death to physics to swimming pools.

  “Oh. My. God. George, the man can think. On a variety of topics. And his jokes are funny. True, I don’t melt when his hazel eyes focus on me, not like I did when the survivalist turned his ice blue eyes on me. But, when I looked Dave up in Google, the worst thing I could find about him is he used to run marathons. That night, George silently crawled between the sheets after I’d gone to sleep. I felt his hands explore my body and find my nerves, and after a while, I moaned, then called out, then dropped into deeper sleep. George again sat on his stool, guarding me.

  And then, the night arrived when Dave came to dinner—and stayed for dessert.

  “Lorna, I need to tell you something. I’m impotent. I can’t take Viagra because it interferes with the other medication I’m on. I can cuddle, and caress, but that’s about all. Will that be all right?”

  I leaned across the sofa cushion and kissed him for a long time. It was a sweet, chocolate-and-wine flavored kiss, unlike the ones from George, which actually are flat as a black-and- white photo.

  Dave’s hands reached for and cupped my face. The kiss lingered.

  “Come,” I said and stood to lead him down the hall to my room and my bed with freshly laundered sheets.

  Dave stopped at the foot of my bed, and again held me in an embrace. He leaned down and gave me another long kiss as his tongue circled mine. He held me close with one arm as the other hand untied my wrap dress and dropped it to the floor. I managed to unbutton and remove his shirt and get his pants to the floor, next to my dress. He eased my bra and panties off. I eased his shorts down. There we stood, naked with all our wrinkles and gray hairs and extra flesh, shyly exposed to each other. Although neither young nor inexperienced, we were new to each other.

  Dave’s arm relaxed, and I fell back a bit. He caught me and chuckled, “I’ll show you mine, if you’ll show me yours.”

  We both laughed. A man who can actually laugh during sex is a treasure!

  He lowered me to the bed and stretched out beside me. On his side, his elbow bent and his head
above me, he caressed my body. His fingers traced meandering trails along my belly, my thighs, my breasts. I started to mirror the motions, to caress and explore his body. I felt the warmth of his chest beneath my hand, the smoothness of his belly, the roughness where my hand met hair.

  “No,” he said as my hand caressed his chest and moved down his belly. “Not tonight. Tonight is my treat.” He moved my hand over my head. He spread my legs, and his hand lightly stroked the inside of my thighs. I felt ripples of warmth radiate out from his fingers. That warmth followed his fingers and moved deeper as those strong and gentle fingers moved from my thigh to between my legs. They caressed Ethel. I shivered with delight.

  He shifted his body and knelt between my legs. His mouth pulled on my breast. One hand held and squeezed the other breast while his other hand tickled its way down my belly. A moan of anticipation escaped me.

  His kisses and licks traveled from my nipples down my belly. My hands found his head, and I tangled his hair with my fingers. As his tongue reached my clit, Ethel woke. Truly woke. I held onto his head, my fingers grasping ever tighter. Unlike masturbating with George, this was the real thing. Pleasure like this had not happened to me, or to Ethel, in years. Dave’s tongue caressed Ethel. First with hesitancy, then with ownership.

  His mouth closed over her and pulled her into him. I moaned. I don’t know how long his tongue stroked me—it felt like forever before I shuddered with a true orgasm, then moaned with a second. Then I pulled him up to lie next to me, for truly one can have too much of a good thing.

  “Heaven,” was all I could say. We held each other, teased each other, and grinned like we had just discovered sex for the first time.

  The next morning, we woke still entwined in each other’s embrace; I disentangled myself, padded off to the kitchen, and brought back coffee. We sat in bed and drank it. “Who’s the nude dude?” Dave asked, pointing to the black-and-white photograph on the wall.

  “Oh, I don’t know his real name. I call him George. My girlfriend is a professional photographer, and she took it some years ago. I liked it and bought a print. Besides,” I grinned, “I like having a man in my room.”

  “Really?” Dave smiled down at me. “We’ll have to see what we can do about getting you a real man in your room. It is a little intimidating sharing you with another naked man.”

  Dave left after breakfast and the promise of more nights to come. I entered my bedroom, our bedroom, and moved the photo of George to the guest room. There he remains, sitting on the draped stool, still without a tan line, still handsome and virile as ever. Did I imagine it, or did he wink when I passed by?

  IN THE MEANTIME

  Miriam Kura

  As I enjoy my late morning tea in the upstairs nook of my home, Andrew sleeps downstairs. We are in the middle of our periodic twenty-four-hour tryst.

  Last night, in this same knotty pine sleeping nook, we lay on the bed and watched a movie while he slid his hand to my breasts to fondle them and awaken my desire. He explored all the ways his palm and fingers contour to my breasts and nipples, an absentminded yet knowing move that thrills me every time. When the movie ended, I rolled over and faced him, wanting more. We spent an hour letting our fingers languorously glide over each other while we kissed, talked, and sighed our way through teasing touch.

  I’m surprised that I’m ready for sex all the time, more than when I was a younger woman. Is this post-menopausal zest?

  However, we waited until the next day to make full-on love. That way we could take advantage of Andrew’s increased desire earlier in the day. We came downstairs to the king-size bed in my tiny bedroom and fell asleep spooning, his hand over my breast.

  I’ve come a long way with this man. Finally, we found a way that works for both of us; it’s just not the way I expected. Seven years ago we fell deeply in love and had a two-year romance. He was sixty-one; I was fifty-three. I wanted a long-term romantic partner, but he was restless. Our breakup was amicable but wrenching, with infrequent contact for two years while we each healed our hearts.

  During that time Andrew discovered the source of his restlessness. At his core he is a polyamorist. He longs for ethical love relationships with more than one woman at a time. Meanwhile, my dream died that Andrew might be my life partner. Eventually, I was able to move on, date other men again, and remain committed to my goal of finding my mate.

  With this loss of intimate male companionship I felt impatient and petulant about my romantic life. Some women solve that problem through casual sex with men they recently met. But that’s not in my DNA; I can only make love to a man I know well and trust. Then I heard about the practice of having a sex friend, someone you know well, to share nurturing touch while searching for a life partner. I couldn’t think of anyone I knew until I realized that Andrew could be a great candidate. He seemed to be a short-cycle relationship person, so he wouldn’t be looking for a commitment from me while not being able to give it himself. I already knew and trusted him because he had always been honest with me.

  Emotionally, could this work? Sexperts said that it was ill advised to do this with an ex-lover. My friends told me they wouldn’t be able to handle it. I wondered if I could and still look for a longtime, committed love. I wouldn’t know unless I tried it.

  Two years ago I sent an email to Andrew to broach the subject. We met and discussed whether it could work. He said, “A year ago I proposed something similar, and you nixed it right away. What’s different about this?”

  “I’m different than I was a year ago. Back then I still wasn’t over you. Now that we’re back to a friendship, I’m looking at this as an experiment. I know that we aren’t meant to be mates, but I won’t know if I can be sexual with you and stay on my goal of looking for my life partner unless I give it a try.”

  We talked about the terms. I proposed that we date other people but remain sexually monogamous with each other until either of us found someone we fell in love with. That’s when I learned of Andrew’s new realization about himself.

  “I don’t want to be monogamous. I’m finally coming into my own as a polyamorist. I’m not going to be monogamous with anyone anymore. If I fall in love, it will be with a lover I add to my other lovers, not one for whom I leave all others.”

  That was almost a deal breaker. I didn’t feel safe about my sexual health if I was having sex with a man who had other partners. But, as is our custom, we kept talking until we had an arrangement that worked for both of us—we would engage in some sexual activities while he has other lovers. Then we would add more options if he has no other partners and is “accidentally monogamous” with me.

  We are both free to date whomever we want, and we do. He has sex with whomever he wants. I want sex with only one man, and for now, that’s him when I’m not seriously involved with someone else. The only way this works is that we are both quite sure that we are not each other’s mates and don’t have a long-term future together.

  Thus began our episodic sexual visits. This is my current in-the-meantime arrangement until I find my life partner.

  Now at one o’clock in the afternoon, I return downstairs to my bedroom, where Andrew reads the newspaper in bed, wearing his black satin boxer shorts. He hears me approach; the paper rattles as he pushes it aside to look up and smile.

  He says, “I’ve prepared,” code for the Levitra pill he took a half hour ago.

  I spy the condom already opened and ready on the nightstand: We want to be sexy and safe. “So have I,” I reply, taking my long sweater off to reveal my black camisole and lace underwear.

  “Oooohh, that’s sex-y-y. One minute I’m reading the paper, I look over at you, and the next second I’m amped for sex. You look sooo sexy in that.”

  I’m delighted to hear it. It’s taken me a while to learn not to flinch when flaunting myself in front of him, to accept his compliments with grace. He gets a view of my ass when I bend over the iPod speakers to begin the “Afternoon Delight” playlist.

  I cra
wl into bed. He pulls me toward him and caresses me with light sweeps over my arms and thighs. He stares at my lace underwear, and then pulls. “Let’s get this off.”

  I slide my hand from the springy white hairs of his chest to the sleek black hair on his belly. My fingers slip underneath his waistband to graze his penis. I think, I’m greedy for your skin on mine. I push his underwear down.

  Now that my thigh is between your legs, I dare you to resist such sweet enticement. His torso undulates against me in slow rhythmic waves. This begins that inevitable warmth between my legs, that urgency. He presses against me, igniting my desire for him.

  Let’s make sure we’ve arrived in the same place. Are you with me? When we were together as a couple, Andrew was just discovering an unreliable erection. It distracted him from enjoying sex. His anxiety made him less present and attentive, either rushing or not starting at all. There was little I could do to reassure him or help him to get with me in bed, just to enjoy what fun we could have. Now Levitra helps enormously with these issues, but I still have the tendency each time to wonder if he’ll relax into lovemaking.

  It also helps me to slow myself down until we’re in sync with each other. So I glide my hand back up his torso to his shoulder. I trace his collarbone with my fingers until I feel the bony knob at the end of it, a place I like to alight when I’m feeling the strength of my desire.

  He says, “I love the feel of your soft skin, so different from mine.” He pulls my camisole aside to cup my breast and wake my nipple. Andrew finds my breasts endlessly fascinating. They fit within his palm. He lingers there and then progresses slowly to my pubic hair. His hand is a wand that awakens every nerve, until finally he arrives at the soft folds between my legs. Barely grazing the skin of those outer lips, he pauses—right there on the outside—arousing me with the slightest touch.

  “How do you know exactly where to touch?” He doesn’t respond; he just continues to caress that velvety softness. I’m keenly aware that those folds cover the entrance to the most thrilling morsel. He strokes lightly while he pushes his groin against my thigh. I whisper, “This feels so . . . nice.”