Karen, the woman I preferred, was a great companion and fantastic in bed, and I didn't desire any more sexual pleasure than she provided. I was astonished when she sent her daughter around for some older-male advice and she ended up polishing my bone as well.
After a couple of weeks I hadn't heard anything from either of them. In a way I was living what might be called a prostitute's life, just sitting around waiting for Karen to get an urge for sex. She showed up when she happened to feel like it and I wasn't consulted before she did. And while her daughter was a great screw, I really didn't want to see her any more. There were too many possible avenues of complication.
Not that I mind the opportunity for sex, understand. I enjoy screwing as much as the next guy. However, unlike my younger years it is no longer the center of my life. If it happens that's very nice, but I don't spend every waking hour dreaming of opportunities to poke my dick into a crotch cavern. What we have is wild and exciting, and I'm satisfied. Maybe the infrequency makes it more enjoyable when it does happen.
When I checked my mail a few days ago I found a plain white envelope with only my first name written on it. I thought perhaps it was a party invitation from one of my neighbors or something like that. We all do that sort of thing, to save postage.
Wrong. It was a short, rather blunt note: "Fitness club parking lot, 7 PM Friday." No signature, no indication who it was from, not that it took a great deal of sleuthing. It had to be Karen or just possibly her rapacious daughter. It irritated me a bit and I was tempted to ignore it. If anybody wants to see me all they have to do is come to my door. Even so I'm as nosy as the next guy. I suppose women count on male curiosity when they do things like that. It works too, since I went.
I parked out at the far edge of the lot about five minutes before the time specified and reviewed the local weekly newspaper. By 7:20 I was becoming a bit miffed. I was about to drive away when a monstrous Ford passenger van rolled in and beeped the horn. I hesitated. The van stopped with the driver's door on my side and the window went down. A slender woman with bright red hair and huge sunglasses looked across at me. "Are you Dave?"
"Yes. Who are you?" If she wanted to play mystery woman I didn't feel like it.
"Karen Larson told me to talk to you. She said you are the only man she knows who seems to have his head on straight. Can you give me some time?"
Nuts. I have no desire to be any kind of counselor, emotional, marital, or any other variety. "This is pretty weird. If you could put a note in my mailbox why didn't you just walk up and ring the doorbell?"
She looked blank. "Note? Oh, I thought she phoned you. No, she wouldn't tell me where you live. Anyway, can you leave your car here and ride with me? I'd like to be somewhere more private."
I was very close to saying no, lady, I do not want to go anywhere with you and I do not want to hear your problems. But as I say, I'm a curious type. I locked the truck and walked around to the other side of her van. The instant I was in she had the thing in gear, rolling swiftly out of the parking lot.
I studied my abductor. She looked quite tall. I guessed she had at least an inch or more on me. She was also extremely slender, with exceptionally lovely long legs nicely displayed by very snug and very brief white knit shorts. The rest of her was equally spare, with the exception of her chest.
My gosh, those boobs stuck out a mile, made even more prominent by comparison to a tiny waist and trim hips. The blue halter displayed a mind-numbing expanse of freckled cleavage. She had to have extremely strong back muscles or she'd walk around arched over like Ichabod Crane. I don't even know what method of measurement is used for something of that volume. When she swung the steering wheel the inside of her arms rode up and over the mountains - she couldn't reach around them.
I'm not normally intrigued by a huge rack. Tits are part of a woman, and I've always gone by the old standard that anything much more than a handful (or mouthful) is a waste. But these were so stunning I couldn't help staring.
I was so bemused by her chest I didn't realize where she was driving until she pulled into a large park overlooking the river. She turned the engine off and tossed her sunglasses on the dashboard. When she turned to lean back against the door that awesome burden swung like a battleship gun turret until those things pointed straight at me. I had an incredible urge to back away to allow clearance.
Her eyes are lovely emerald green, deep and clear. They help distract attention from the massive mammaries. "They're hereditary. All the women in my family have them. No, not the eyes. You want to know why Karen told me to talk to you." It was a statement. A group of statements, actually. I chose to respond to the last. There was no sane response to the first part.
"Yes, of course. She didn't give me any explanation. I expected her to show up at the parking lot. So some enlightenment would be welcome."
"Since I was fourteen years old men have been trying to figure out ways to get their hands on my tits. I've heard every story you can possibly imagine and a lot you can't. I finally married the one guy who didn't seem to care, who loved me for who I am, not for my structure. He died five years ago. The first couple of years I didn't care to keep company with any men at all. I was still in mourning, I suppose you could say."
She looked absently out of the windshield and scratched a mosquito bite on a long thigh, then focused back at me. "After a while I discovered that even though I'm crowding fifty sooner than I like to think about, I had the same problem I had in high school. Too many men too eager to take me anywhere, buy me anything, with the frenzied hope that their final destination would be on top of me, bouncing up and down on these goddam things." She made a small gesture toward herself.
"It hasn't been easy," she continued. "Okay, I like sex. I like it a lot when I know it is based on respect for who I am and not on pure physical lust. As you might guess, I haven't had much luck finding a man to meet that requirement." That seemed to require some response so I nodded.
"Karen and I were talking. She told me about how you seem to have an instinct for making a woman feel like a total person instead of just a hole to shove your dick in. I wondered if she thought you might know somebody else with your kind of objectivity."
Ah shit, she wanted me to fix her up with a date. Now I've heard everything. Even if I knew any single men of proper age, which I don't, I know damn well virtually any male in modern America would spend so much time plotting to get his hands on her flesh Everests all thought of her personal feelings would be shoved aside.
"Look, uh...."
"Jean."
"Jean, I am not a matchmaker or procurer or whatever the proper term is. I really don't know anybody who would be suitable. All I can do is advise you to cover them up as much as you reasonably can and keep on searching. I'm surprised you haven't learned to deal with it over the years. In spite of being married I can guess that plenty of men have hit on you."
