Ageless Erotica

by Ageless Erotica [MF] (retail) (epub)

  “If you’re asking whether I miss Dad—yes, I do,” I say. “Some days more than others.”

  I finish the spinach and turn to face her. Her fingers are stained crimson, and the bowl of raspberries contains fewer than I remember.

  “I still miss Dad so much,” she says. “It must be so much worse for you. I wondered if you’d thought about moving closer to Brisbane.”

  Closer to her.

  “Dad and I worked for this place for a long time.” I reach for the feta cheese, chopping it into small cubes. “I’m not ready to give up our dream.”

  Just because Tom died. The words are like a fog in my brain. I didn’t speak them aloud, but they twist thickly in my mouth. I still find them hard to say.

  Livvy moves closer and snags a piece of feta. “This place is a lot of work for one person.”

  “Jay helps.” Jay’s name rolls off my tongue. It’s velvet, smooth, with a hint of fire, just like the fine-sipping bourbon Jay likes. Jay is anything but smooth though. He crackles with life and enthusiasm.

  “Jay?” Livvy’s frown clears. “Oh, your neighbor.”

  My neighbor, yes, but so much more. Jay is the man who gave me back myself.

  “Are you staying for dinner?” I ask. “If you are, you’ll meet him.”

  Livvy smiles her diffident, gentle-daughter smile. “Actually, I was wondering if I could stay over tonight? I have a meeting in Southport in the morning.”

  “Of course, honey. Why don’t you make up the bed while I finish dinner?”

  When she leaves the room, my smile slips sideways from my face. I’d wondered how to tell her about Jay and me. Now the timing is decided. Tonight is our “date night,” and there’s no way I’m canceling it. Butterflies dance a polka in my stomach. Nerves? I’m nearly sixty, and I’m worried what my adult daughter will think when Jay and I bid her goodnight and retire to the same bedroom. Livvy has a sex life. I found the condoms in her bathroom cabinet when I was hunting for aspirin. She’s an adult, nearly twenty-seven years old. I would be more concerned if I thought she was a virgin.

  But that is her, and this is me.

  She returns as I’m sliding the spinach and feta pie into the oven.

  “Sorry, Mum,” she says. “I didn’t mean to imply you’re not capable of living alone here. I just want you to know I’d love you to be closer.” Her long hair hides her face. “And it would be okay if you had a companion.”

  Her words still my fingers as I hang up the oven gloves, and I have to fight hard to suppress a smile. A “companion.” Is that all she thinks I need now? Friendship, maybe a hug, someone to share cozy home-cooked dinners—is that what I’m supposed to want?

  I turn to face her. “A companion? Do you mean a lover?”

  Her eyes widen. “No . . . Yes . . . Whatever.” She spins away. “I meant a friend. But—” She breaks off in confusion.

  Now would be the time for me to let her know exactly what Jay is to me. I could mention that I don’t need to find a lover since I already have one. That he isn’t the first lover I’ve taken since Tom died. That menopause isn’t the end of sexual desire—you just have to slow down, be more relaxed about it. But Livvy and I have never shared confidences like this, and I can’t find the words.

  I let her—and myself—off the hook. “There’s a bottle of red in the laundry cupboard.”

  Jay arrives while she’s getting it. He kisses me in greeting, a sweep of beard and soft lips, and hugs me warmly. His breath is moist against my neck as he presses a second kiss there just before Livvy returns.

  I introduce Jay and Livvy. Jay smiles warmly. “I’ve heard so much about you,” he says.

  Livvy is friendly, but I can tell by her lack of curiosity that she’s convinced that Jay is just a neighbor. The conversation meanders, touching on several subjects, delving into others. We devour my pie and the bottle of red wine.

  Jay moves into the kitchen to wash up, as he always does when I cook. Livvy dallies with me for a moment longer. “Jay’s nice,” she says.

  She rises from the couch and goes into the kitchen to help Jay. I hear them laughing together.

  I’m wondering how to go to bed. There’s no point waiting for Livvy to go first; she’s a night owl, always has been, while Jay and I are morning types. We generally go to bed by nine thirty, and we are up with the dawn.

  Jay comes back out of the kitchen, Livvy behind him.

  “Livvy, would you excuse us?” he says, meeting my eyes.

  I move to Livvy, kissing her cheek. “Don’t wait up, honey,” I say.

  I can feel her eyes watching us as we disappear into the bedroom and close the door. Part of me longs to rush back to her, to undo Jay’s words. But the rest of me longs for my lover.

  Jay’s in bed before me. He lies with his arms behind his head, the sheet around his waist, chest naked to the slow movement of air from the ceiling fan. His eyes are on me as I shed clothes, letting them lie on the floor where they fall. I climb in next to him, rolling onto my side so that I can use him as a pillow. My fingers toy with the salt-and-pepper hairs on his chest.

  “Should we have done that?” I ask.

  “I like Livvy and she likes me,” he says. The words rumble in his chest under my ear. “She wants her mother happy. Let it go now.”

  Jay’s hand makes exploratory forays, warm, firm sweeps, shoulder to waist. I concentrate on the slide of Jay’s hand over my skin. His other hand tilts up my chin, and he raises his head from the pillow to kiss me. It’s a long, slow kiss that tastes of toothpaste and good humor.

  I raise one leg and rest it on his thighs, high up, just below his groin. His cock presses against my leg. We’re at the stage where we can either take this forward into lovemaking, or settle back down for sleep.

  My body hums, just a little, a buzz of anticipation. I kiss his nipple, tongue its copper flatness, and press my thigh firmly against his cock. It twitches in response: not erect yet but definitely interested. He reaches down, cups my bottom, and draws me closer while his mouth does wonderful things to mine.

  I love Jay’s kisses. They’re like a stream moving toward a waterfall. A gradual building of momentum, a slow increase, a building of turbulence, of passion, until we crash over the edge together.

  We take our time kissing. The urgent rush to completion is absent for both of us. Instead, we’re like kids again, and the journey—the kissing, the petting—is as pleasurable as the finale. Jay rolls onto his side so that we’re facing each other, and we kiss for long minutes, our hands sliding in slow circles over each other’s skin. When he touches my nipple, it peaks into his fingers.

  I kiss his flat nipples, one then the other. He winds his hand into my hair.

  He’s fully erect now. His cock presses against my belly.

  “Would you?” he murmurs and presses gently.

  I know what he wants, and I’m happy to oblige. I kiss my way down his chest, over his pudgy belly. He’s not fat, far from it, but he has a little roll on his tummy, which he hates. I blow into his navel to make a farting sound, as you do with a baby. He shakes with silent laughter, which ceases the second I drop down farther and press my mouth to the tip of his penis. He’s circumcised, unlike Tom, and it still seems strange not to have that little extra bit to play with. His penis seems so exposed without it, almost vulnerable, especially when it’s limp and hanging loose. Now though, he’s hard and purple. I take him into my mouth, pressing my tongue into the slit, tasting his salt. I start the steady sucking motion that he loves so much. His hips undulate in time, never forcing himself into me, content with the gradual buildup.

  I withdraw to ease my jaw, which is aching slightly, and he sighs.

  “Enough?” I say, and feel his shake of laughter.

  “It’s never enough,” he says.

  I smile and move back up to kiss him. Tom hated me doing that; he didn’t like the taste of himself on my lips, but Jay doesn’t mind.

  “What about you?” he asks, when we sto
p kissing.

  I like this about him. He’s not afraid to say what he wants, and he expects me to do the same. I consider whether I want his mouth between my legs, but I don’t think I do, not tonight. I shake my head and roll over to reach for the tube of KY Jelly in the drawer. I hand it to him.

  Jay likes to apply it, and I love it when he does. He squeezes a great gob of it onto his fingers. I raise my thigh for ease of access. The first couple of times he did this, the KY made a huge mess of the sheets when he couldn’t get to my pussy quick enough. He’s defter now. His fingers part my lips and stroke their way inside. Not too quickly, letting me relax, letting the lubricant ease the way, until I’m slippery, sheened, and as wet as I ever used to be naturally. His two fingers are slipping slowly, in and out. His thumb rubs my clit.

  He’s patient, and he finds a rhythm that I like. He kisses me, absorbing my little moans into his mouth. I reach down and grasp his cock, wanking him slowly back to full hardness.

  When I’m ready, I push him over on his back, and I move up to straddle him. It took me a while to be comfortable making love with Jay this way. I was too self-conscious about my flabby tummy and breasts that are far from perky.

  It was different with Tom; we grew old together. Jay and I are suddenly old and exposed to each other. But Jay tells me he loves me as I am, and it certainly doesn’t seem to dampen his ardor.

  I grasp him and with a shuffle here, fingers guiding there, we’re in position, and I sink down. It feels good, having him inside me. I start to move up and down, and Jay pushes up, matching my rhythm.

  I guide his fingers to my clit. I need more now than I used to. More direct stimulation, more intensity. Faster, harder, longer. We find our pace and I settle into it, let myself absorb our motion. I concentrate on the feel of Jay’s fingers on my clit, how he feels inside me. My hip starts to ache a little.

  “Wait,” I tell him, and lean over to retrieve my mini vibe from the drawer and thumb it on.

  He nods and resumes at a faster pace. The vibe is tacit permission for him to finish at his own pace. He grasps my hips and moves strongly up into me as I play the vibe over my clit, occasionally around the base of his cock.

  That little pocket rocket works every time. I press it to the side of my clit and that’s it. My flutters become spasms, and I’m coming, a satisfying, deep-felt orgasm. I clench around Jay’s cock and he grunts in pleasure. When I open my eyes, his face is scrunched tight. I reach around and run the vibe around the base of his cock.

  “I’m coming!” he grunts and his face blooms red, and his hips move in jerky completion.

  My hip aches in earnest now, so I bend to kiss him, then dismount, lying down beside him, our bodies aligned. He holds me close and kisses my hair. He’s already sliding into sleep; he’s a cliché for male response in that way. I don’t mind. I’m always slower to drift off to sleep, so I lie and listen to him breathe. He holds me close, even in his sleep. When his breathing rumbles into snores, I move my head from his shoulder and push. He rolls onto his side without waking. The snores stop.

  I spoon up against his back and wrap an arm over his waist.

  I’m up first the next morning. I make coffee and take my mug out onto the verandah to listen to the morning. Jay emerges, pours a mug, and sits next to me. We sit silently together, listening to the birds and enjoying the early morning sunshine.

  We’re on our second mug when Livvy appears, hair wild and snarled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. I hand her the remains of my mug, and she drains it one gulp.

  “Morning,” she mumbles and shuffles back for more coffee.

  I rise and move into the kitchen, finding eggs, bread, tomatoes. Livvy comes up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist.

  “Just toast for me,” she says.

  It’s what she says every time. The normalcy of her comment makes me smile. I don’t know what I expected from her this morning: a thumbs-up, well wishes for my and Jay’s happiness. But this non-reaction is the best. I don’t need her approval; I don’t even need her comment. Jay and I being together is a good thing, a normal thing. It’s nothing that needs pointing out, analyzing, and stamping with approval.

  “You need to eat more than toast,” I tell her. It’s what I always say.

  She snorts in denial and takes her coffee back to her bedroom.

  I pour another mug and return to the verandah. Jay’s mouth quirks into his slow, lazy smile and he pulls me to his side, pressing a kiss to my hair. Together we stand, our lives touching like our bodies, moving forward together.

  BY THE BOOK

  Rae Padilla Francoeur

  There was no sexual revolution back in the day. No women’s rights. No touting of the simultaneous orgasm. Songs with lyrics like “to know him is to love him” twisted our synapses and shaped our priorities. As for me, I longed for “him” to rescue me from my unpleasant life. So did half the girls in my hometown.

  Growing up in Donaldsonville, Georgia, did have certain advantages. One, you could get both a marriage license and a blood test in the same office in less than five minutes. After that, all you had to do was walk down the hall to the town clerk and finish what you started. I was sixteen and Mrs. Charles Petersham and free to start all over again. It was April 1965.

  Too bad I married a man who was clueless about sex. Then, again, so was I. Totally clueless. And sex was not why I ran off with Charles. I just wanted out.

  Charles and I spent our first married night in a five-dollar motel room in the Georgia woods. The water reeked of sulfur. Freight trains flew by every couple of hours. Dogs howled way out in the swamps. Wow. Even the creaky floors were thrilling. Charles and I were on a great adventure.

  Charles consummated our union. I had nothing at all to do with it. As I look back on the loss of my virginity, I remember feeling like an interested bystander. My body hadn’t caught up to the reality. That took another several decades, actually.

  It was late when I followed Charles into the squat pine cube of a motel room. He put his keys on the dresser and stepped into the bathroom to pee—leaving the door open. He glanced into the mirror over the toilet, caught me looking at him, and winked.

  “This is what it looks like,” he said, turning around to face me.

  “Gosh, Charles.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “No.” The real answer was “yes,” but why complicate things.

  He was about to deflower a virgin, a chore for which most eighteen-year-olds had no skills. He’d better get it right because the next day he had to report to basic training. Charles’s family ran a peanut farm. Peanut farming, he said, was a vocation he’d risk going to Vietnam to avoid.

  “Okay, then. Go ahead and take off your clothes.” His voice quavered. Poor guy.

  I slipped the pretty blue dress I sewed for this occasion down over my hips and stepped out of it. Nylons, garter belt, bra, panties—off they went. “Okay?”

  He nodded. He eyes caught hold of my breasts and held tight. “Good. That’s good. Beautiful, beautiful titties.”

  I reached out a hand but Charles stepped back.

  “No. Just lie down and spread your legs so I can see.”

  “See what?”

  “You know. Where to put it.”

  I did what I was told.

  “More.”

  He was standing in front of me, at the end of the bed, and he could see more of me than I’d ever seen of myself.

  Charles’s penis seemed to have a mind of its own. It stiffened and bounced, horizontal to the floor. Because of the harsh overhead light, his penis made bizarre dancing shadows on the pine board wall beside the bed.

  “Amazing,” I said.

  “Please. Be quiet.” He dropped to his knees. His breathing was heavy, like he’d been running. I could feel his exhalations pushing against my vagina, like waves washing over me. Again and again. I lay back, closed my eyes. It felt so good and yet there came this rousing need for more.

  “I want t
o wash you,” he said, returning to the bathroom to dampen a cloth. His penis, the hyperactive divining rod, let the way to the faucet.

  He squatted back down and lathered my pubic hair with a warm, soapy cloth. He slid the cloth between the folds of my labia. He pushed it gently into my vagina.

  “Oh Charles.”

  “Don’t move, Rosie. Be still.”

  He rinsed me off with another damp cloth. And that was it for foreplay.

  In two minutes it was all over.

  For forty-six married years, I conducted an uncomplaining life. Charles, my friend and companion, paid for my degrees in mathematics. I found peace in my work as an actuary. Peace among coworkers deep in problems of probability. Peace in marriage, knowing that Charles would crawl on top of me sometime during or after the eleven o’clock news and conduct some version of our wedding night coupling. It lasted, on average, two or three minutes. All in all, this was doable.

  A book changed everything.

  At sixty-two, while killing time in a Barnes & Noble in Des Moines, I discovered The Joy of Sex. Where had I been all my life? I hadn’t even known you could use “joy” and “sex” in the same sentence. This cataclysmic reckoning occurred one hour before I was scheduled to present to an actuarial conference next door on damages to art in museums—higher probabilities than curators would like to think.

  I paged through the book in sweaty, uncomprehending shock. I saw pictures of naked, hairy men and women in contorted positions, genitals at the ready, smiling and casually sticking fingers and penises and tongues into each others’ impatient orifices as if tongues were intended for anuses and the erect points of breasts.

  For a moment, everything froze in place. It was snowing outside. I had on Fruit of the Loom cotton panties and one of those Playtex bras you could wear into the next ice age. Pachebel’s “Canon” was playing. I grabbed the book and made a mad dash for one of the fancy stalls in the ladies’ room and locked myself in and the world out.

  Here was the “more” I’d always longed for, suspected, needed.