I actually held onto my virginity past Christmas my freshman year in college, which is more than I can say about most of my roommates. That thing with Robby I spoke about in my last story was fun, but he was a friend, nothing more, and he remains a friend to this day. He is married, like me, and has two children, like me, and never told his spouse I was the first to give him a hand job, like me.
We still see each other, but again, platonically.
My first real sexual relationship—let me be frank, blow job—came under an entirely different set of circumstances. Penis #2, if you're looking for a succession of events, belonged neither to Robby, a high school football star, or even a first love at college.
It belonged, rather, to my college roommate's father, a man thirty years older than me. I was 19. He was—50?
My dear friend Kathy. We are still friends to this day, much like me and Robby. I love Kathy. I loved her then. She was the sister I never had, and I was the sister she never had. It's just the way it was between us. We became close very quickly, and told each other secrets. We still do to this day. We were best friends almost immediately.
She has long chestnut hair and lives an hour from me with her husband Tom. She lost her mom many years ago, and when I was first invited to her house that cold wintry Christmas vacation, it was just me, Kathy and her dad. For purposes of this story, I'll call him Stan. And when I met Stan, he was widowed, since the young age of 45. Kath and I were to spend the holidays between my house and hers, and we chose her house first. Her dad was lonely, after the loss of his wife. Never picked himself up again, and was having a rough time.
Stan, old enough to be my own father, was remarkably handsome. He was in shape with wisps of gray I found simply intoxicating. In one way, he was so much like dad. And in another, he was a very handsome and sexy man. Older, yes, but with that came many charms, like kindness, maturity, and self confidence—so many virtues I find missing in younger men. I admit, I was only 19, but was smitten almost immediately.
My chance encounter with him happened night two of my three day stay there. Now, I do admit, as a petite little blonde, it probably wasn't the best thing that I find myself at two in the morning in a teddy in front of their living room, reading a magazine in front of the fire. Yes, that was a mistake. The teddy was pink, and my legs were curled up on the couch, with just my little painted toe nails sticking out. True: I really was having trouble sleeping.
So when I heard the "Oh, excuse me!" behind me, I wasn't sure who startled who more. Kathy—well, she was sound asleep. And Stan mosied downstairs in his less than forgiving pajamas.
"I thought I left the light on," he said.
I looked up and smiled. "I'm sorry. Just reading a bit. Had trouble sleeping."
The fire crackled and sparks went up the chimney. It was so cozy warm, and it took the chill out of the room. Stan stood there in those stupid pj's, not moving, frozen in time. I knew he wanted to talk, but was embarrassed.
"You can sit down and join me," I said, tapping the couch next to me. I closed my magazine and put down my glasses, so he wouldn't think he was being a bother.
"Sure?"
