The woman who owned the antique store stepped out and I sensed her watching me. In her mid-forties, she was strikingly beautiful. If I'd fantasized about an older woman, she would've looked exactly like her. Blond, leggy, well-rounded calves, classily dressed, shoulder-length hair and perfume that cut through the salt air like a switchblade.
Every Saturday night for the next month or so she fixed me dinner and I questioned her about her travels around the world. Obviously, she was observing me closely, watching how I reacted to her, and I must've suspected I passed certain tests because I sensed something was going to happen between us. Or maybe I hoped something would happen if I kept coming back for dinner. Maybe I'd be dessert.
Then it happened. After dinner, she brushed my cheek with her lips, innocently, seemingly by accident. But it wasn't an accident. As I sat on the couch, she touched my face, let her finger trace a line down my chest, and pressed her mouth to mine. Silently, surely, she guided my hands, loosening her dress and slip and then effortlessly undressing me.
It was my first time making love, and I couldn't have wished for anyone better to be with. Gentle, tender and smart enough to make things last for what seemed like forever. Of course, at that age you're perpetually like a marble statue. From then on, she seduced me in countless ways. Before dinner, after dinner, teaching me also to be rough, but that giving is as pleasurable as receiving. Needless to say, I was up for anything. By the end of the summer I was starting to feel like I had the keys to the kingdom. (Riviera Beach, FL, early 1950s)
from My Life by Burt Reynolds (Hyperion, © 1994)
© 2000 Nerve.com, Inc.
|
|
