Ageless Erotica Read online

  I was mad and sad and a little sorry for Lewis. But mostly I missed his parking in my lot. Putting his hot dog in my roll. (Hold the mustard.) My guilty ex had left my bank account stuffed, but my yoni was a ravenous hollow.

  I needed a man. Not buzzing plastic nor organic cuke would do it; nor my fingers, such use of which makes me feel like a twelve-year-old. Anyway, we tantrikas tend not to be clitocentric, which also pretty much leaves out the L thing, although some of my best friends are women.

  Call me old-fashioned, but I’m mad for the male body, every un-pretty inch of it. I like putting my hands and lips all over a man, from the top of his head (especially if it’s bald) to his ugly but suckable big toes (well scrubbed, if you please). Oh God, it makes guys wild when I wrap my tongue around those mock cocks, especially if I reach up my hand and pump the real thing while my mouth is doing the toe. And I like making them wild, because then they give me what I crave.

  Where to find one of the darlings? Online trolling and the bar scene weren’t for me. Then a batch of snail mail brought inspiration via a glossy catalogue from a grand old midtown menswear shop where I’d picked out countless presents for Lewis. I flipped the pages and ogled the models, delicious silver-haired specimens with alluring lines around their eyes. They looked like the CEOs and senators I’d seen buying tennis sweaters in the store. One of those masters of the universe was just what I needed as a present for me.

  I was on fire as I conjured images of starched, striped shirts crumpled on the floor and power ties leading a double life as cool, silky restraints. But I couldn’t just dash up to the venerable shop and stand there exuding pheromones. I had to have a cover.

  The next day I dolled up in layers of cashmere and pearls and stormed their employment office. More accurately, I proved myself as a saleswoman by selling them on me, never mind that I had no retail experience and clearly didn’t need a paycheck. Charm and passion for their brand covered the holes in my resume.

  Of course I wanted to be on the second floor, where suits and slacks are sold and titans of industry submit to having their inseams measured. (Oh, God. The measuring tape.) But I had to play it cool and be gracious when management posted me near the famous bronze front door at the ground floor hosiery counter. I quickly saw why they wanted me there. If I quirked a smile at someone walking by toward the elevator, he suddenly needed to buy argyle socks for a country weekend or black silk hose for a night at the opera. And if I threw back my shoulders and jostled my breasts under my gray cashmere sweater, he had to have tennis socks, dozens of tennis socks—anything to delay his departure from my turf. Cha-ching!

  The accessories manager, a great-looking jerk, loved how I made his numbers rocket. By the end of the second week, I despaired of getting off the ground floor and close to the dressing rooms. The un-dressing rooms. I dropped hints, to no avail.

  But Monday brought a beautiful surprise. Almost.

  “Well, Victoria, you’re getting your wish,” my manager greeted me. “Three people called in with the flu, and I’ve been ordered to send you upstairs.”

  “Upstairs? That’s fantastic! Of course I’m sorry about people being sick—”

  “Of course,” he agreed solemnly.

  “But I’m on my way to the second floor!”

  “And then right on up to three,” he sang, with what I can only describe as vicious merriment. “Women’s.” he added, as if I didn’t know.

  “Mr. B, you’re kidding, right?”

  The women’s department is the reincarnation of Peck & Peck. I don’t think they’ve changed a thing since 1959. It would have been closed long ago, except that the owner’s beloved Aunt Mabel buys her chocolate brown tweed suits there.

  He wasn’t kidding. Up I went. Past heaven to inferno.

  The morning was so slow among the dust motes on three, I considered not coming back after lunch. Would anyone even notice? My sole colleague, who’d had the foresight to bring a crossword puzzle book, could handle any traffic that strayed our way.

  But a deal is a deal, and so at two o’clock I assumed the position behind the sweater counter. The colors ranged from soy latte to cocoa bean. And then my life changed forever.

  She walked in.

  As I’ve made clear, I don’t look at other females as objects of desire. There was something about her, though. Her boldly silver-streaked hair. The confident set of her shoulders. I felt alert in a way I don’t usually feel unless there’s a man present.

  “Good afternoon, madam,” I said politely. “May I assist you in any way?”

  “Oh, thank you, no, I’m just looking,” she said. But as I busied myself refolding a pile of cardigans that didn’t need refolding, I realized she was mostly looking at me.

  And smiling. And saying, “I can’t help noticing that you and I have the same coloring. What do you think about this sweater on us?” She unbuttoned the trench coat she was wearing. She picked up a mud-color turtleneck, held it under her chin, and stepped back so I could get a good look.

  I saw three things.

  One: Not only was she just my coloring, she was just my build. The reason her looks had struck me was that she was a mirror reflecting my past: She was me at fifty-four or fifty-five, aglow—as I had been—in the menopausal meteor shower of hormones. Wow! I wondered if I struck her as a mirror of her future. I hoped she was happy with what she glimpsed.

  Two: The mud-color turtleneck looked terrible on us—not that I could imagine it flattering any skin tone.

  Three: Her stunning straight black skirt was bulging.

  Bulging.

  As in C-O-C-K.

  Yes, gentle reader, beneath her skirt, where her long legs joined, what could only be an erect male member was saluting me.

  My knees turned to jelly. I grabbed the counter.

  “So what do you think?” She winked. “About the sweater?”

  “I think . . . I have to say honestly . . . I’m not sure . . . the color . . . um . . .”

  She cut me off with a little wave. “I know what you mean, but it may look better on. You know, you can’t always separate the color from the fit. Which way are the dressing rooms?”

  Wordless, I pointed, finger trembling.

  She nodded thanks, started away, and then looked over her shoulder. “Would you mind coming to give an assist?” Brilliantly matter-of-fact. “The sweater I’m wearing has one of those diabolical back zippers that you can’t quite reach yourself. My husband gave it to me with a card that said, ‘So you’ll never run away from home.’ Isn’t that charming?”

  “Charming,” I muttered deliriously. I tried to keep my eyes above her waist, but it was no use. She had a cock, and I was under its spell.

  I signaled the other clerk to mind my half of the department. I led my customer and her thing past the flannel nightgown display into what must be New York City’s least frequented suite of dressing rooms.

  My mind was racing and empty at the same time. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this deep mystery. If you’re thinking the lady was the beneficiary of gender reassignment, fuggadeaboutit. Some of my best friends had done the deed or were in process. She was something else. I would have bet my ovaries on it.

  This was a woman, a woman with a penis—a woman with size 34-C breasts and a penis, and I was about to be alone with her.

  Maybe it was a shadow, I tried lying to myself, as I knocked on her dressing room door. Maybe I’m so cock-obsessed, I’ll start seeing them in trees.

  Now she was chattering away about the crisp, clear weather and how she somehow always ended up inside windowless stores on the most beautiful days.

  She took off her coat, hung it on the hook, and faced the mirror, her back to me. She’d been telling the truth about the diabolical little zipper, and I reached out and pulled it down, revealing the back of an ivory silk bra. Her perfume was intoxicatingly vanilla.

  “I can wait outside,” I said politely.

  As if.

  “Look at us!” she sai
d, pointing to the mirror. “We’re practically twins. The only difference is that you’re more beautiful.”

  “No, madam, you’re more beautiful,” I said faintly. “Not to mention being way younger.”

  “Well, you’re way more polite,” she said, with a delicious laugh. “I can’t remember the last time someone addressed me as ‘madam.’” Suddenly she reached behind her, grabbed my hand, and drew it around to the bulge. “But wouldn’t ‘sir’ be more appropriate?”

  Her hard cock nudged me through the black skirt.

  I staggered backwards onto the built-in bench.

  “Don’t be frightened, sweetheart,” she said. “Every girl should have one.”

  She released her skirt and stood before me, revealing her secret.

  It was blue.

  Bright blue.

  It was blue, and it was rubber or silicone or something, and it was six inches long, and it was sticking straight out from the cunningly slit blue bikini panties to which it was attached.

  “A better color for us, wouldn’t you say?”

  I nodded and nodded. I might never talk again.

  “Meet the mayor,” she said. “Won’t you shake hands?”

  My hand was already shaking, but what to do?

  It was blue and it was rubber and it was attached to a woman, but it was a cock. And I have never been rude to a cock.

  I gave the mayor my hand.

  She moaned. I moaned.

  And suddenly I was on my knees, and my tongue was all over her blueness, and my lips were playing wild music on it, and beneath my layers of tailored gray, my pussy was pulsing in tempo.

  Her hands were everywhere at once—on her tits and in my hair, and then she was fumbling inside the bikini and suddenly I heard a soft whir, and her hips started thrashing, and I realized she’d ignited some kind of tricky little gizmo pressed against her clit.

  Did I say I wasn’t clitocentric? Mine felt so blood-rich and hot, I thought it might set off the smoke detectors. I wanted that blue rubber cock to nuzzle it and push me over the edge. I hiked up my skirt and pulled down my panties in one swift motion.

  She propped my ass on the bench, took Big Blue in her hand, and stroked it just once across my clit, and I came so wildly I would have brought the store guards running with my screams if she hadn’t swallowed them with her kisses.

  “I don’t know about you,” she murmured, “but for me, the best fuck in the world is the one right after I come.”

  “You know everything about me,” I somehow managed to say, and the next thing I knew she was pulling a condom out of her bra, ripping open the foil, and rolling it over her cock.

  She put her thing inside me, and my Kegels squeezed and released until I came in places I didn’t know I had. As I vibrated around her in concentric waves, I knew she was imprinting me forever. My first blue cock. Would anything else on earth ever feel this good?

  And the truly crazy thing is she came too, with her eyes rolling back in her head just like dear old Lewis. As she slid down the condom and wrapped it in a tissue, I’d have sworn it was full of come.

  She kissed me once, very sweetly, then glanced at her watch and frowned. I guess that goes with having a cock, never mind if you also have a pussy and tits.

  “I have to meet my husband,” she said. “He’s down on two buying a suit.”

  She pulled a drawstring bag from her ladylike purse and dropped her panties and the gizmos into it. Then she handed it to me. “Washable,” she said. “Sometimes it takes a cock to get a cock. Happy hunting, sweetheart. Now if you’ll excuse me . . . I feel too naked for company.”

  I had to agree. I’ve never seen anything more exposed-looking than her soft mound of ginger hair. The same color as my snatch hair, of course.

  I turned my back, pulled up my panties, and left the dressing room clutching my prize.

  I was still working on normalizing my breathing when she came out of the dressing room and approached my counter. She handed me the mud-brown sweater.

  “I should have listened to you,” she said, in a Mrs. Everyshopper voice. “Really not my color. But the fit was perfect.”

  “Beyond perfect, if I may say so.”

  “Thanks for your help,” she said.

  “You’re welcome, madam. Please come again.”

  “I did.”

  As she threaded her way past outerwear toward the elevator, I was stricken with a sense of loss. I knew I’d never see her again. And then, salvation: I remembered that I had an important part of her in my own purse now.

  Five thirty arrived without further excitement. I closed out the register. I waved goodnight to my colleague and descended into the basement, where the staff restrooms and lockers are.

  I pushed open a door and was greeted by whoops of laughter. I’d gone into the men’s room!

  “Now if I’d gone into the women’s room, you’d be screaming lawsuit,” one of the fellows called out good-naturedly.

  “Yeah, yeah . . . and we’d win! Sorry, guys. Long day.”

  This time I went into the right bathroom, noted that it was empty, quickly washed and dried my cock at one of the sinks, went into a stall, and pulled on the magic panties. Tentatively I touched my new appendage. Gee, what would happen if I tried peeing standing up?

  Enough excitement for one day. I tucked my prick between my legs and adjusted the panties over it. Nobody would guess my secret.

  My manager was filling out reports as I headed toward the street door. “Hey, we missed you,” he said. “How did you do upstairs?”

  “Dullsville. You owe me, baby.”

  I’m usually buttoned-down with him, and he looked surprised. “Is that so?”

  “Yup,” I said. “And I expect you to go to bat for me and get me transferred up to men’s suits. I’ve worked hard for you, and I deserve that. But meanwhile—” I glanced at my watch, “it’s martini time. Enough with the paperwork. I want to buy you a drink. Don’t break my heart.”

  He gave me two thumbs-up. “Well, okay! That’s too good an offer to refuse, even if you’re only making nice because you want something. Correct me if I’m mistaken, but haven’t you been refusing to go out for a drink with me ever since you started working here?”

  “Woman’s prerogative to change her mind,” I said.

  My cock seemed to nudge me as I uttered the words. I bit back a giggle.

  It was going to be an interesting night.

  DOLORES PARK

  Dale Chase

  “Nice butt,” says my bench companion.

  I do not know him, and though his assessment of the young runner is accurate, I am annoyed at the intrusion. “Good package,” I counter because it seems important to reply, even as doing so, to him, like this, two old men on a park bench, ruins things.

  “Yum,” he says, and I turn to see he is gray and tanned and lined. My mirror image. “I’m Jimmy,” he adds, extending a hand.

  My pause reveals my disdain for older men clinging to childish names. “Karl,” I tell him. His grip is gentle, near flimsy.

  “I know, Jimmy at my age, right?” he says with a grin. “But it’s my given name, honestly. My brothers are Bobby and Jacky. Apparently the folks thought it cute.”

  “Mine were German. Hard consonants.”

  “Such a beautiful spot,” he says as another morsel jogs by. We are on a bench in San Francisco’s Dolores Park, ogling young men of the Castro while masked as two harmless old men. “The scenery is delightful,” Jimmy adds.

  “That it is.”

  “I’m new here,” he offers. “Gave up a house in Berkeley to take a flat over here. I do enjoy the energy.”

  “And the scenery,” I add, as two young hunks amble by, one in jeans and no shirt, the other in shorts and muscle tee. Both are stunning, one olive-skinned, one fair.

  “One each,” says Jimmy, as we enjoy the retreating butts.

  “If only,” I sigh, immediately regretting both the statement and the sigh because they sound
hopeless or at least resigned, and I am neither.

  “Torture,” Jimmy says. “Visual masochism. Just one more young cock.”

  “One?”

  He laughs. “Okay, and one after that. And maybe one after that one and, oh, who am I kidding? I want them all, rampant young dicks going at me until I cannot walk.”

  I let this sit between us because I can see them lined up, erection city, but in my scenario they turn and bend and I fuck them standing, moving down the line. In fantasy I can keep it up for hours and come a dozen times. As Jimmy lingers in his imagination, I tell him my dream and find that while I like sharing it, I hate hearing it.

  Jimmy takes in my vision, and I see he’s playing it off his own. We are quiet awhile. A hetero couple pushing a stroller goes by, then a female roller skater and a fat child on a tricycle followed by a thin and efficient woman I’d guess to be the nanny. When the parade breaks, Jimmy announces somewhat wistfully, “My lover was forty-six,” as if nothing more need be said.

  I cringe because my Don was forty-five. For a moment the urge to tell all rushes up like some putrid bile begging expulsion, but I swallow it down. Jimmy exercises no such restraint.

  “He’s really the reason I’m over here. Mitch was his name. Fourteen years together, bought a beautiful Craftsman house, had it all, but, well, you know how it is. The funny thing is, I think he broke up with me not because I grew older, but because he did.”

  I have no reply. I stare at the beautiful view. Our bench is on a hillside, and there are people and dogs frolicking below, while beyond, greater San Francisco reminds me of a larger world. I know Jimmy expects comment on his outpouring, but this is impossible. Get up, get off this goddamn bench, get out of here! I shout inside because the last thing I want, the very last thing, is the wisdom of age. I want to forget about relationships and ages and who is getting older, because it is a fact that young men stay young and old men stay old, and that is why they leave you. I shift on the bench, deciding which direction to flee, until a young punk saunters toward us. Shirtless, barefoot, black pants riding low and not revealing any boxers, he is somewhat a mess: bleary eyed, stubbled, hair an unkempt dark riot. He looks like a used-up waif, somebody to be taken home and bathed and pampered and fucked. I envision a persistent cock spurting come up his tawny chest.