The Ey to Falling in Love

Here is a little story about way back, when I was fucking every thing that moved and it seemed that every sweet thing that was move'n was wanting me to be fuck'en 'em.

I was younger then on the outside, but you might be surprised to know I am just as young on the inside now as I was back then, but maybe a little wiser. At least I hope so.

Her name was Rita, and she was a perfect five foot two blond, that honey blond color that is a little nastier than the regular blond. I don't care for that weak dried stripped whitish blond, that ain't what I'm talk'n bout. For me the only plat blond worth watch'n was that old time movie Queen, Jean Harlow, and no one is gonna' replace that puss.

Anyway, Rita was the perfect five foot two, she was tiny with two nice well formed natural soft breasts and short legs that would strain to get round your waist if you know what I mean. And those little feet- damn they were the most perfect little feet, size 5's, I ever did see. Problem was she was married.

I was living on the second floor of an old Manhattan walk up, on the outskirts of Greenwich Village, hang'in out at night with the poets and start'n to look for day work in the early mornings when I was getting tight on the little money I'd saved. Rita lived on the fourth floor, damned if that hiking up and down the stairs didn't account for the roundness in her calves and the coiled muscles in her thighs that were oh so visible when I followed her up the staircase when she was wearing that striped black and white mini skirt. If I close my eyes I still can clearly see her cleft pussy straining against her tight pink panties.

In those days, the postman would ring the front door bell with three long toots, if you had any mail to give him, you could come down stairs, or you could wait in line as he put the mail into those old fashioned brass mail boxes with the little cards that held all our names, or sometimes the names of people long dead and gone. On one of those empty cards someone had penciled in the name of a notorious gangster who is said to have been a tenant so many years ago.

And there was Rita every morning, I don't know what the fuck mail she was look'in for, but there she was, cute'r than anyone had a right to be, big eyes, shiny red lips, her nips pushing against the thin blouses she usually wore, the shorts or mini hiked up higher than anyone had a right to. My eyes had never seen anyone like her in that building. I'd follow her back up the first two flights for a few weeks, just look'n, my dick hard as a zucchini neatly outlined in my jeans, not saying anything until she kind of knew I was a tenant also, and one morning she turned 'round and smiled that come hither smile asking me "so you live here too, Honey?," in a sugary southern accent when she already knew the answer to that question.

And that was how I came to know her name and in a short while how miserable she was, married to that hard working slob who I'd see pass me running up the stairs after a long hard day of work, stinking of the sweat and grime, stale coffee and cig smoke from wherever the hell he was earning at, and you gotta give him credit, he was gone before sun up and back near sundown, and stinking like hell but what do ya expect? I never quite knew what Rita disliked about her husband, maybe it was his smell; but, my dear friend, you don't leave a honey pot like Rita smoldering on the fourth floor of a hot summer walk up when her blouse stuck to her tits like a wrapper on a toffee from Atlantic City.

So we got to know each other, Pretty soon I was inviting her in for a coffee, we'd watch a little TV and before long she was running her fingers through my curly brown hair and we were sharing a few hungry kisses and gropes that lasted from the kitchen to my little coverlet bed 'till we were nested like two Russian dolls, my cock so deep up her tight puss, that I started using a dab of Brylcreem on my cock, cause I was afraid I'd get it stuck up there.

I've been with many women and I don't rate them by the number, however Rita was a wet dream come true. She could give and she could take, and she'd take your cock from hand to mouth in in full swoop as gracefully as a flamingo preparing to fly. Even in the middle of intercourse, she would pull away, grab my cock and mouth it for perhaps two minutes and when I was stammering I was going to cum she'd slip me back inside like a hot dog into its roll. There were times she'd roll over and tell me to fuck her in the ass, and you could tell she had prepared beforehand because she was as clean as a rose blossom. And even as I was draining myself into her she'd reach back to squeeze out the last drops of cum from my balls. On one occasion after we'd made love and lain together for a while, slipping into a twilight sleep, she'd realize my cock had awoken and was firm and she wouldn't let me leave until it was in her mouth again, until I'd cum for a second time, needless to say she'd swallow it saying, "I don't want to wet your bed." What a dream girl she was. And yet there was something missing, we could have sex like long time lovers but we had little else to talk about. But at that age what else is there of importance then a good fuck?

Our affair went on for some six weeks. They say the walls have eyes and some of the old bitties must have seen the action between us 'cause Rita got scared and said it was too dangerous for her to follow me upstairs and she suggested that I give her a key, so when the coast was clear, she might sneak inside without a knock or a bell tone and that was fine with me. And we went on like that for a few days, nice and smooth like my tongue along her thighs on the way to Xanadu!

I'll be damned if I wasn't falling in love with Rita and it is those first days when love is so strong and nothing has happened that will reveal the cracks that lead to love's breakdown, that you really feel on top of the world. And Rita was talking 'bout leave'n her man and she was looking for somewhere to go and I think she was seriously thinking 'bout me. I was thinking too, I was a sucker for a blond and I was falling, growing fonder with each hour we spent together; maybe it was what they call "fucked-into-love." But it was all happening too fast.

Like I say, I was a young man, and naturally I had a girlfriend, her name was Lara and she was tall muscular Italian girl, big tits, narrow waist, and an ass you would have liked to back up into, hair raven black but with a shine, like a pony after it is curried. She worked days in the bakery over on Bleecker Street. They started at around four or five a.m. and her day was over around two in the afternoon. In she'd come, smelling of fresh bread and toasted sesame seeds, she would wind her way up the two flights and pass a few hours of "amore" before she went back to her family's home in Brooklyn. Back then I was young enough that I could handle two women without a problem, my balls seemed to regenerate in about two hours and as soon as Lara walked in I was all over her, even before she could get her white baker's uniform off her sweet butt. Now in case you never dated an Italian girl, they take to cock the way American girls take to ice cream cones. So of course I was well washed and showered so none of Rita's pussy juice would betray me. I would often change the sheets as well and wash any lipstick off a coffee cup and my dick if you catch my drift.

On one special day, without much notice, the Mayor threw a parade and the marchers worked their way at last thru the Village from Sixth Avenue, they were carrying signs and shouting and I don't know whether it was a celebration or a protest, but they closed Bleecker Street at around eleven in the morning and the Bakery, that had sold out early, shuttered the doors around eleven. Lara showed up at my place with hot bread and a bottle of homemade wine, some cheese and there was salami in the fridge that we cut into before retiring to the bedroom.

There we were, naturally as naked as the Lord made us, and Lara had her legs spread wide, and I was on top of her thrusting like I was digging out a salted gold mine, and just as I paused to say "Oh baby," ... her eyes opened wide, the bedroom door flung open and there was Rita, as totally naked as a Jaybird having flung open her bathrobe just as she opened the door, expecting her morning treat as well.

You can imagine, Lara went crazy and chased her out of the apartment, and then came after me with the knife we used for cutting the salami. Just before she shortened my shaft, I got on my knees, sobbing and begged her to let me explain, and in that instant when I knew I would be bleeding like that yokel whose wife cut off his pecker and fed it to the dog, she paused and the words came pouring out of my mouth like a torrent. Of how I'd left my key in the door and how it was missing that morning, and how the super had to jimmy the lock to get the door opened and this married woman, who had been harassing me for weeks to come to her apartment must have taken my key and God only knows what she had in mind, and Lara let the words clear the air and she leaned forward and slammed the knife deep into my bed table, taking away what little of my breath that was left and then smooth as silk, she leaned forward and kissed my forehead, saying,

"This time ti perdono; next time, I cut off your cazzo."

I made a choice that afternoon, on my bare knees at her mercy, and the choice was made, I wanted Lara more than anyone else, including Rita. I never knew if Lara believed that cockamamie story. In all the years after she never mentioned it and neither did I.

I hope she believed me. I was never was quite sure, but I was sure that the next day I got the key back from Rita and told her our jig was up. She looked strangely world wise and said,

"I know, I am pregnant."

I didn't think it was me but in honesty I don't like to use rubbers, and I never asked, I just looked deep into her eyes and said to her,

"Now you are really fucked," And she nodded her head slowly up and down in agreement.

I would see her from time to time, as the months rolled forward, then it was her and a beautiful curly brown haired big eyed baby, that she and her husband would take for walks in a shiny black patent leather baby carriage on Sundays. She had put on some weight during the pregnancy and it stuck to her, now her legs were swollen and her face no longer that of a young girl. There was something about her lips, they seemed pulled to one side, and her face seemed a bit swollen. Her hair was still the same, maybe a little shorter but still that honey gold color. Although she seemed happy with the baby, there now was a far away look in her eyes, like someone looking to the future and afraid to think about the present.

Then one day, I looked out the window and I could see a big moving truck parked down below. When I went down to check the mail I could see there was Rita, out on the street telling the muscled short sleeved movers where to put what. When I walked outside the door to take a quick smoke, no, really to see what was going on, Rita saw me.

She came over to me, it was the first time we had spoken in months, and she looked at me like she had thought about what she wanted to say.

"We are moving. Thanks for what never was and what might have been," and then she added, "the kid is yours." And as quick as a ballerina spin, she turned and walked back to the men who were hefting a large bureau onto the truck. I never saw Rita again. But when I see a five foot two blond, with that kind of honey blond hair walking ahead of me on a crowded Manhattan street, I always pick up the pace, till I get close enough to see if it is Rita, but it never is...