This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters are over the age of 18.
From Famine to Feast
Does losing one's virginity at twenty-two seem late to you? It did to me too. I wasn't a bad-looking guy. I was told I was "cute" pretty often. Not "hot" or "handsome" but, "cute". I really learned to hate that fucking word. I was the nice safe guy that girls wanted to be pals with. I was firmly entrenched in what would later be called "the friend zone" all through school and into college. And I fucking hated it. But when you're
in
the friend zone, it's hard, you know? It's hard to give up on the idea that eventually one of them would see you for who you are and appreciate it. Because to you it makes sense that it should happen. But I found out that women in general, just don't always make sense.
In my second year at community college, I met a girl named Tina. I won't bother you with the year, but let's just say the world had become a lot less hungry like the wolf, and things had started smelling more like teen spirit. Tina was the daughter of one of my parent's nearby neighbors, and she
did
want to get nasty with me, but as my luck would have it, she wanted to save her virginity for her future husband. So, it was entirely oral sex and hand jobs. We didn't date or anything, we just hung out at her daddy's house and got each other off. That was all she was looking for. A way to get her rocks off without it impacting her reputation. She'd been in the elite social circle in school, and I guess I wasn't dating material in her eyes. It was a bit of a shot to the ego, but no real loss I suppose. I didn't care much for her either. She was vapid, vain, and uninteresting. But she was hot and did suck cock pretty well if I'm any judge, and some sex is better than none.
***
At the age of twenty-two, I was in the middle of an existential crisis. I'd recently quit college, got a job, and moved out to my own place, with absolutely no idea what I wanted to do in life. At that age, that can be a little scary. I found a little studio apartment that I could barely afford.
I got a job as a security guard, for a big, well-known security company. I made enough to meet my needs, plus a little beer money. At first, they had me filling in wherever they needed a warm body, but eventually, I ended up with a permanent post. The Bayshore Heights Condominiums. On second shift, 2 pm to 10 pm, Sunday through Thursday.
The Heights was an old building dating back to the 1920s. Ten floors, ninety units. Balconies, a pool, and a hot tub. With scenic views overlooking the bay. If you're thinking that ten stories tall isn't very for a place called the Heights, you'd be right, but it must have been in 1924. A well-thought-of Italian eatery called Geno's occupied half of the first floor.
The cost of buying a condo in that building was somewhere in the middle, I figured, based on my study of the folks living there. That was all there was to do there. People paying for security take a dim view of a guard camped out at the front desk with a paperback. We could occasionally get away with a crossword puzzle in the wee hours of the night.
Our tenants were about half retirees and half yuppies. We don't really seem to use that term anymore, do we? It was slang for "young urban professional". They were generally college-educated, twenty-six to thirty-eight-year-old office dwellers of some sort. All of them sporting mall-bought clothing, and the expensive sedans that typically denoted a yuppie. You couldn't swing a cat by the tail without hitting a BMW in the parking lot.
Most of our security issues were noise complaints and car stereo thieves. Back then people were stupid enough to put a huge sticker on the top of their windshield bragging about what stereo system they had. Then they were shocked when the thieves would target them over and over. It doesn't always pay to advertise.
Aside from watching the tenants as they walked past me, and occasionally passing the time of day with them, the only other thing I had to occupy time with was talking with the second guard on shift. One of us sat at the desk at the front door and the other patrolled the parking lot. We switched off every hour. Between rounds, we'd come inside and chat for a few minutes. My partner was Cleo, a beautiful black woman, originally from Philadelphia. She was somewhere in her mid to late forties as I recall. And my goodness, she was yummy.
Twice divorced, she was an empty-nest single mom. She had beautiful dark skin the color of coffee with just a hint of cream. She was hippy and busty with an hourglass figure, that I had a hard time not staring at. And that butt. My God. When Sir Mix-a-Lot wrote that famous song soon after, it was Cleo he was dreaming of.
All of that, I could have resisted and maintained my professional decorum. But her vivacious personality made that quite impossible. She knew she was attractive and sexy, and it oozed out of every pore in her body, and her mouth especially. The way she talked, would be very frowned upon today where sexual harassment is to be guarded against at all costs.
She was a tease, and nearly every conversation usually ended up mentioning sex in some way. Or she'd just straight up ask me if I'd found a pretty young thing to fuck. She always knew the answer, so I never justified it with an answer. I'd just grumble and walk back out for a round in the parking lot, while she giggled her ass off.
After about four months of working together, and we'd gotten to know one another well, she got even more raunchy. She'd often comment on how she hadn't gotten any dick in some time and was going to have to go home and fuck her vibrator. The first time she mentioned it, my brain shorted out. I went home and masturbated to that mental image until I was chafed.
After about the third time she mentioned it, I finally got the balls to offer my services in that regard. She looked at me in shock.
"You? Humph. College boy, there's no way you could handle a woman like me." She opened her arms to indicate her amazing body. "This is just too much woman for a young fella like you, Brett." She leaned in and her voice took on a low growl. "I'd wear you out."
Once again, that night I stroked it until my arm cramped. The idea of being between those thick thighs would make me hard in an instant.
But I'd continue to make the offer every time she mentioned it, each time with more confidence and conviction. And each time she mentioned that she'd wear me out, I'd mention what good shape I was in. I was an avid cyclist. Trying to save money, I'd often cycle the ten miles to work on days when rain wasn't in the forecast, plus I'd do organized bike tours throughout the Bay area. I was also a rabid outdoor three-wall racquetballer on my nights off. That indoor four-wall shit is for pussies.
I had an outstanding Trek touring bike that had served me well for years. I'd come into the building in my cycling shorts and a tank top, clean up in the small restroom that we were allowed to use, and put my uniform on. I'd occasionally catch her staring as I went by, so sometimes I'd just stop and chat for a minute before changing. I'd just stand there and talk about the weather or whatever, in my Lycra shorts with my body covered in a sheen of sweat. I wasn't a huge physical specimen, but at that time, I was in the best shape of my life. Five foot, nine inches with brown hair and eyes, lean, toned, and tanned.
After months of teasing and eyeing one another, it all changed. Cleo became quiet and wasn't her usual raunchy self. I thought maybe she wasn't feeling well or there was trouble in her family. She had two grown children. A son who was serving in the Marine Corps, and a daughter who was studying at the University of Georgia on a full-ride scholarship. She was very proud of them both.
In any case, I didn't pry. I figured she'd talk to me about it if she wanted. In hindsight, I think she was making a decision.
***
Tuesday night, after we'd been relieved at ten o'clock, we walked together to our cars that were parked in the spots reserved for security. We stepped between the cars together and opened our car doors.
"Well, I guess I'll go home and wear out my vibrator again." I heard her say, without much enthusiasm.
I didn't turn, figuring I'd get shot down again. "Or you could come back to my place," I suggested.
She didn't reply immediately, and I heard her feet on the pavement as she turned. "You're serious, aren't you?"
