"Is this the little girl I carried? Is this the little boy at play? I don't remember getting older. When.... did ....they? Sunrise, Sunset, Sunrise, Sunset....." How many people have heard that haunting waltz? How many have listened to those melancholy lyrics, written by Jim Nabors of all people, and sung by the character of Tevye the Milkman in "Fiddler on The Roof"? I'm sure each has their own story about how those emotional words have affected them at one time or another. I'm no different. They have a special meaning for me, but the events in my life that make them especial heartfelt to me didn't happen until about a year ago. For a long time I was just like a lot of guys who were firmly in the grip of a mid-life crisis. I my mid-century birthday was just over the horizon, and it was hard to believe that I was about to hit that milestone. Every morning when I'd look in the mirror expecting to see the 20-year-old that still lived in my head, there would be some stranger staring back. There was some guy with little pouches under his eyes, thinning hair on his head, and what there was of it was peppered with these gray interlopers multiplying like rabbits. Intellectually, knew I wasn't different from many other guys in same boat with me. However, emotionally I wasn't happy being one of those passengers being dragged along by the current of time, headed into the rapids of "second stage middle age", and hoping not to go over the great eternal waterfall for at least a few more decades. I certainly didn't "remember growing older", but there I was, just another ordinary middle aged guy going to his ordinary job every morning, and coming home to his ordinary house every night. Rationally, I knew I had it pretty good. Hell, there were people around the world starving, diseased, and living in grass huts with no toilets. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate what I had, it was that I'd always wondered if it could have been better.
I'd often recall when I had aspirations, dreams, (more likely fantasies) of being a professional baseball player. I was pretty damned good in high school, and held my own in college. Unfortunately, my coach always had the same comment. "Mike, you cover the field like a blanket and have a catapult for a right arm. If you could just do a little better in the batter's box. Struggling to keep your batting average over .250 isn't going to have major league teams lining up to sign you. Now, if you were a pitcher with that batting average and a two-run ERA, they might be pushing signing bonuses and loose women at you." The coach even consented to let me try pitching during batting practice. I could throw plenty hard, but I didn't hit the strike zone often enough for it to matter. In fact, I think he was afraid I'd bean some of his key players. A few times, I thought a couple of them would punch me out after they had to pick themselves up out of the dirt. My dream never happened. I pretended about what might have been when I used to play ball with my two boys. But, that was when they were still kids and before they got too old to think that it was cool to play ball with dad. Now, all that was left of that dream was occasionally hitting balls thrown by the machine in the batting cage at the sports complex across town. It was embarrassing that every couple of years, I'd have to dial back the speed, and wonder when I'd end up playing tee-ball.
Fortunately, my life wasn't a bust and now I'm doing pretty well with a company that does custom lighting design and installation for commercial and industrial facilities. Our clients around the country included restaurants and restaurant chains, museums, art galleries, auction houses, you name it. I'm always surprised that most people don't even notice lighting. They think what they see in restaurants, hotels, stores, etc just happened because some guy put up few bulbs in a few fixtures. It's an art. The right lighting can make customers believe that average food tastes great or make them spend more than they should in high-end stores. Hell, I heard that there was a woman who kept dragging her husband back to the same expensive restaurant, not because the food was good, but because she loved the way she looked in the lady's room mirror.
One area of my life that had been eating at me for the past several years was my marriage to Ellen, my wife of 25 years. Here again, it wasn't bad; not like we fought or were nasty to each other. It was just like the rest of my life; ordinary. Maybe all 25-year marriages are ordinary. Who knows? Overall, we got along well, but, it seemed like our sex life that had fallen to the ordinary (or perhaps even sub-ordinary) level. For me, it wasn't the things we did or didn't do, but her general attitude. Sometimes, I'd try to tell her what I fantasized about, but she didn't like that "fantasizing" stuff. Some of the things I brought up caused real tension. She often made me feel like I was abnormal or weird because I'd talk about things like threesomes or group sex, or mildly kinky stuff. I'd sometimes want to watch videos along those lines. "What's happened to you, Mike?" she'd say. "You never used to think about stuff like that. Don't you love me anymore? You're always looking at other women, talking about other women or about me with other men. It scares me that you seem to be a different guy than the one I married."
I wasn't different. I had just wanted to let out more of the inner part of me that I had always kept bottled up; some part of me that it seemed I should be ashamed of. I'd tell her I didn't necessarily want to run right out and do all this stuff, but couldn't we at least talk about it and maybe bring some the just slightly-off-the-wall stuff to our bedroom. I'd get this "look" or the silent treatment. She had this way of making me feel like things that turned me on were "just not what most people did". There seemed to be some "normal" that she wanted me to live up to. I'd wonder if perhaps she wasn't the one that had changed. My memory was that, she had been a lot less inhibited when we were dating and early on in our marriage. Maybe things just gradually changed during all those "sunrises and sunsets", and we didn't even notice it.
Occasionally, I'd remember something that I once heard from a significantly older married woman that I had the unlikely good fortune to meet over 25 years ago. It was a few weeks after I had met Ellen, and we weren't really serious yet. I had gone to the beach to have a weekend of golf with Frank, a buddy from where I was working. We ended up with a couple of women who were there having a "girl's weekend" to help one of them celebrate her 45th birthday. I was only 23 at the time.
Frank and I had gotten back from golfing, cleaned up, and were sitting on our balcony having a beer. He spied the "girls" on a balcony across the parking lot, and started flirting and joking around with them. After about 15 minutes of banter, we all agreed to meet down on the parking lot to go get something to eat. I'm not sure who was more shocked when we all saw each other up close. I don't think they had been expecting "boys" and we hadn't been expecting mature women. Frank and I would soon learn that they weren't even much younger than our moms. Anyhow, we decided to treat them (Samantha to Barbara) to burgers and beer; or should I say beers. After the burgers, we ended up wandering to a few other bars along the boardwalk. Barbara and I hit it off pretty well, and the alcohol lead to us playing a little footsy under the table as well as letting our hands play around on each other's thighs now and then. At one point, the women left to go to the lady's room, and Frank was going nuts talking about how we were going to "get the wax blown out of our ears," by these "horny old broads". I thought he was nuts. When they got back, Samantha suggested that we all go to some place she knew of about ten miles down the road where they had a great band. Frank was hot to trot. Barbara said she wasn't feeling that well, and wanted to go back to get some sleep. I thought my bubble had burst, but she took my hand under the table, squeezed it, and gave me a look. She also gave her girlfriend a look. Frank and Samantha took off while I walked my new-found friend back to her room.
I still wasn't sure exactly what to expect, but she asked me in, closed the door, and gave me a deep kiss that made her thoughts apparent. Our hands started roaming over each other's body as we started undressing each other. She was faster than me, and had my jeans and jockeys down before I could do the same with her. When she got my pants and shorts to the floor, she took my already-hard dick into her mouth and launched into a super blowjob. This wasn't like college when it seemed that getting head required 20 minutes of begging. Barbara had no hesitation about going down on me before I even had my shoes off. While she was working my cock with her mouth and hands, I was struggling out of my shoes and she was wriggling out of her jeans and panties. As soon as they were kicked aside, she was up on the bed with her legs spread pulling my face to her crotch for a little return action. Now, I have no problem admitting that I've always been a lover of licking pussy, but this was my first taste of married-mom pussy. She pulled my head into her crotch and was moaning as she humped my face. I was in heaven when she picked up my head, looked me in the eye, and said, "Honey, you can fuck me, but you'd better swear to God that you won't cum in me. I mean it. If you do, I'll get my state-trooper cousin on your ass."
"You got it," I said climbing up and sliding myself into her slick cunt.
"OH SHIT, YEAH," she moaned as I pushed into her to the hilt and my pubic bone crashed into hers. "OH JESUS! Fuck it!" she said as I began thrusting into her. I'm sorry to admit with much shame that, in those days, I didn't have what you'd call finesse. To me, fucking was just fucking. However, I suppose what I lacked in skill I made for up in enthusiasm and stamina. Barbara didn't seem to mind. At one point, she grabbed her feet and pulled them up and back, offering herself up completely.
