In the Beginning, There Was John

     Blame it all on John.  He put the dynamite under the dam and brought on the flood.  All it takes is for one young man to notice an older woman is hot and all the young Turks come running.  (It’s not word of mouth, you know:  it’s juju, gris-gris, and pure, unadulterated mojo.)  I am eternally grateful to John for doing just that, but I would trade every name in my Little Black Book if I could have him back and all to myself.  There will always, always be a little piece of my heart in John’s back pocket, as close as possible to his incredibly cute ass. 

     I smile every single time I think of him.

     Just before I met John, I had come out of a marriage that left a lot to be desired in the bedroom.  Forget the reasons: they had to do with religion and reproduction and the Catholic Church.  I’m not Catholic.  I stayed in the marriage because that was what I was taught to do, but I withered, slowly.  I stayed until I simply couldn’t do without real sex any more.

      After the divorce, I went into the Wilds of Denver, seeking a lover.   For about three months, I went out and watched while men in their 40s ignored me.  I turned down offers from men approaching 70.  And I grew more than a little disgusted, incredibly frustrated, and downright angry.

     I mean, sex was going on all around me, dammit.  I saw it everywhere.  I remember sitting at my desk and watching as the young couple across the street felt each other up behind the barrier of their porch rail.  I saw couples fucking in cars.  I saw French kissing on the street with little slight caresses that made my pussy ache.  It was everywhere.  And here I was, an attractive woman, not having my share after having missed my share for years.

     I remember I went into the bar on a whim.  It was a fashionable grill/bar in a very fashionable neighborhood.  I’d come to buy something across the street and decided to try my luck and drop in for a whiskey sour.  I was less than enthusiastic about the odds of meeting someone.

     Dan approached me almost immediately and sat next to me at the bar.  He was a nice looking gentleman who knew how to treat a lady, but Dan was approaching 70.  I was looking for hours and hours of bone-jarring, thigh-bruising sex and he just wasn’t up to the job. 

     All the time Dan was talking to me, I was trying to catch the eye of a very nicely dressed man of about 45 at the end of the bar.  When I saw Mr. 45 lean toward the barely legal waitress and blow in her ear, I’d had enough.  I was livid with the Universe.  I excused myself for a cigarette and went outside.

     As I approached the door, I saw John out of the corner of my eye and smiled weakly at him as I passed.  He was standing, arms crossed, talking to a barely legal girl who was drawing a rather childish-looking penguin on the menu blackboard by the door.  John’s eyes narrowed and followed me as I passed him.  He didn’t smile back, at least not yet.

     About a minute after I’d lit up and was fuming, John followed me out for a cigarette break of his own.  He sat against a retaining wall and began texting on his phone.  I didn’t think he knew I was there.  He knew.

     I’d finally had it and I just blew, venting.

     “What’s WRONG with men my age?”  I said, pissed.  I looked over at him.

     He grinned slightly, then went back to texting.   He sighed. “Whatever do you mean?”  His voice was deep and gravelly, a very, very sexy voice.

     I pointed at the door into the bar.  “There he is, after the waitress who is just after a big tip.  And here I am, at the end of the bar, trying to break away from grandpa.  I mean, what is WRONG with men my own age?”

     “They’re idiots.”

     It sounded like a pat answer.  I wasn’t satisfied.  “You think it’s me?”

     He smiled and looked me up and down, slowly.  “Nothing at all wrong, there.”  He looked into my eyes for a moment, then went back to texting.  “Not a damned thing wrong, there.  You’re hot.  You’re so MILF.”

     I felt myself blush.  This man was young.  Very young. 

     I laughed once.  “They look, but they never ask for my phone number.  They’re all too busy chasing versions of her:  titless wonders without a clue.  I thought women were supposed to have breasts, dammit.”

     He didn’t look up from his phone.  “Give me your phone number,” he said, quietly.  “I’ll call you.”

     “What?”

     He grinned, wickedly.  He sighed.  “Always been a fantasy of mine, you know.  To be with an older woman.”  He crossed his arms and looked into my face.  “I want a woman, not a girl.  Girls are so shallow and stupid.  About everything.”

     I looked into his eyes.  They were brown.  A very, very dark brown.  “You’re serious?”

     He began texting again.  “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.  Give me your phone number.”

     I watched him, for a moment.  He sighed again and shifted his feet, then crossed one arm and uncrossed it.  He was nervous about asking me for my number.   “You really want it?”

     His eyes got big and he held his phone out, as if I were a little slow, showing it to me.  “3-0-3 or 7-2-0?”

     I hesitated for a moment.

     “Of course,” he said, shrugging, “If you don’t WANT a younger man who thinks you’re hot, then, well—“

     I interrupted, giving him my number.

     “And your name?”  He stood up, looking at his phone.

     “Titania.”

     He spelled it out loud as he entered it.  His eyes narrowed and he looked into my face.  “You have your phone with you?”

     “Yes.”

     He chose my number and my purse rang.  He smiled when he heard it.  “Just checking,” he said, and then talked into his phone as he looked into my face.  “Hello, Titania, this is John Garcia.  I’m just calling to make sure you have my number.  I hope to hear back from you because you’re beautiful.  Bye, sexy.”  (Did I say he had a sexy voice?  I did?  Well, I wasn’t exaggerating.  The thought of the sound of it makes me wet.)

     I felt myself blush again.  He walked over and stood close beside me.  I could smell him and he smelled like a man.  (God, I love that smell.)  He wasn’t very tall, about five foot eight – the perfect height.  He pretended to look over my shoulder as I entered his name into my phone.  I heard him smell my perfume and felt his nose brush against my hair.  I felt his hand in the small of my back and my knees got a little weak.

     “I have to get back to work,” he said, quietly.

     I turned and looked up into his eyes:  they were smiling.  His hand slid to the side of my waist.

     “It’s none of my business, yet,” he said, looking into every detail of my face as if memorizing it. “But I hope you don’t go home with anyone else tonight.”

     I shook my head. “I have to work tomorrow.  Early.”

     “Good,” he said, smiling and backing away.  He turned and went back inside.

     He reeked of intelligence and charm.  I could tell he had a great sense of humor, too.

     I went back inside to finish my whiskey sour.  As Dan was talking, my phone rang.  I pulled it out of my purse.  It was a text from John.

     YOU’RE WAY 2 HOT FOR THAT GUY.

     I started to laugh.  I looked into Dan’s face.  “I’m sorry.  A friend.”

     I looked across the room at John and he turned to the side and brushed his finger against his nose, not meeting my eyes.

     Lo and behold, as Dan rambled on, Mr. 45 came over to say hello and ask my name because I was now ignoring him.  I shook his hand and he began to chat me up.  As I smiled at him, my phone rang again.

     DITCH HIM.  HE USES VIAGRA. THE WAITRESS TOLD ME.

     I looked over at John.  He was catching a bite of something, standing up and eating.  He smiled with his mouth full.

     I smiled at him.  Mr. 45 looked over his shoulder to see who I was smiling at.

     “Friend of yours?”  He asked, gesturing toward John with his thumb.

     I hope so.

     Dan cleared his throat to let the 45 year old know he was muscling in where he had no business doing so.

     I decided to take a gamble on John calling and ditch them both.  I leaned across the bar and asked to tab out.

      Dan frowned.  “So soon?”

     “I have to work in the morning,” I said.  “Early.”

     The 45 year old shook my hand and left.  Dan gave me his number, but didn’t ask for mine and I was relieved.  I had no intention of calling him.  I paid my tab and gathered up my purse. 

     John beat me to the door and held it for me, making “mmmm” sounds, his mouth full of cheeseburger.  He looked me up and down, smiling, as he held it open for me.

     When we got to the sidewalk, I laughed.  “That was wicked, Mr. Garcia.  The texting bit.”

     “Mmmmm,” he said, leaning his head back and still chewing. “Dang, I was hun-gray.”  He closed his eyes, savoring the burger for a moment.

     “A sensualist, this one,” I said, quietly.

     He swallowed, then opened his eyes and looked into my face, worried.  “You think that’s a good thing, right?”

     I took a step closer to him and smelled his neck.  “A very, very good thing.”

     He gave a low whistle, his face serious.  “I may be in trouble here.”

     I backed away.  “I won’t promise to be gentle with you.”

     He laughed once.  He looked at me, his eyes smiling.  “You’ll hear from me, sexy.”

     I shook my head, but couldn’t stop smiling.  “I’ll believe that when it happens.”

     He smiled at me and I turned to leave.  He watched me walk to my car and wolf-whistled as I made my way down the sidewalk.

     I’m a fool.  A God damned fool, letting that young man turn my head like this.

     I heard from him 10 minutes later.  I stepped onto the bathmat, dripping, to check the phone.  It was late and I was puzzled why the phone was ringing. 

     WHAT ARE YOU DOING, HOT STUFF?     

     I smiled and texted him back, dripping

     I’M IN THE SHOWER.

     HELL, YA!  LOVE THE VISUAL ON THAT 1.  SEND ME A PIC.

     NO. NOT UNTIL I GET ONE.  QUID PRO QUO.

     @ WORK, SEXY.  CAN’T.

     TOO BAD, SO SAD.

     YOU’RE BRUTAL, YOU KNOW?  NOW I CAN’T STAND UP N PUBLIC W/THOUGHT O U N SHOWER.

     I waited until I was out and dry to text him again.

     I HAVE TO GO TO BED, NOW.  I WORK VERY EARLY IN THE MORNING.

     GOOD NIGHT, SEXY LADY.

     GOOD NIGHT, MR. GARCIA.

      That’s how it began.

     After a couple of days of funny and cute texts, things started to get seriously sexual between us.

     He texted:  I WAS TOTALLY SERIOUS ABOUT MILF.  I WANT U.

      I didn’t know what to say, at first and waited a minute, so he texted again.

     2 SEXUAL 2 SOON?

     NO, I’D SAY YOU’RE RIGHT ON TIME.

     DANG!  I CAN’T STAND UP AGAIN.

     After that, John would send me pics when he was thinking of me – if you catch my drift.  He sent the first pic while I was at work.  I wanted to scream, “Oh, my fucking GOD!” when I saw it, but had to sit down and blush, instead.  And stare.  John had the biggest cock I’d ever seen.  It was enormous.  Short nose, small feet, small hands, and not the tallest man:  throw the wives tales out because you just never can tell.  I felt like I’d won the lottery.

     While I was in shock, admiring, he texted:  SO U THINK U CAN WORK W/HIM?

     HELL YA! YOU R N TROUBLE NOW, MR. GARCIA.

     U GONNA SPANK ME, BABY?

     U BETCHA. U’VE GOT THE CUTEST ASS ON THE PLANET.  I NOTICED.

     IT’S ALL YOURS, BABY.

     The first time he came home with me, he was a little nervous and so was I.  He came into the house and stood in my kitchen, unsure of what to do.  He turned as I pulled the glass door closed and drew the curtain behind us.  I looked up into his face.  He looked worried.  I slipped my arms around his waist and he kissed me.

     That was when the chemistry exploded, during that kiss.  It was a long, delicate, but passionate dance of lips and teeth and tongue.  At the end, I took his lower lip between my teeth and flicked my tongue back and forth across it, delicately and rapidly.  John groaned and let his head fall back, eyes closed.

      After a couple of seconds, he looked down into my face, stroking my hair.  “I think I’m gonna like this.”

     “Hell, yes,” I said, bring my hand around and sliding it over the front of his jeans.  “You drive, this time.  Next time you come over, I get to drive.”

     Most men fuck like their friends are watching them.  There’s an element of mind in the dance that keeps them from truly participating, truly enjoying a woman’s body.  Passion doesn’t enter into it and the dance becomes a semi-intellectual exercise, a test as to whether they can make us come with various techniques or angles, as if a panel of judge is going to hold up numbers as soon as the condom is full.  I have no idea whether, in the long run, women are responsible for this phenomenon:  I’ve never even remotely wanted to be with a woman, so I have no clue whether other women are afraid of a man’s passion.   But I wasn’t afraid of a man’s unrestrained passion: I had prayed for unrestrained passion.   

     I got unrestrained passion.

     John enjoyed sex in a way I’d never before seen: he spoke to me, made ecstatic noises, smelled me, tasted me, felt me with his body, moved gently, moved violently, changed positions every time I came and, most of all, he took his time.  He forgot about the finish line and took pleasure in every moment he had with my body.  He feasted on my breasts, my pussy, my mouth.   He explored every inch of my skin. His hands guided me, grasped me, clung to me, made a plea for me to let go right before I came.  His eyes watched me, devoured me, smiled at me, and finally, closed as his body stiffened along with mine.

     It was three hours later that we were standing on the back porch, smoking one of John’s cigarettes.  Neither one of us could wipe the shit-eating grins off our faces.

     “You’re a keeper, you know that?”  He said, passing the butt to me.  “You realize every time I even started to go soft, you went down on me?”

     I laughed.  “I wasn’t realizing much of anything.  I was having too much fun.”

     He burst out giggling and couldn’t stop for a moment.  He crossed his arms and held himself.

     “What?”  I was a little dismayed.

      He wiped his eyes and sighed.  “It’s just that you look like such a nice lady.  No one would ever know you’re a freak.”

     I grinned.  “Maybe that’s my problem with guys my age.  I look too nice.”

     He moved closer and took me in his arms.  “Fuck them.  You’re with me, now.”

     I looked into his eyes for a moment.  “Will it always be like this?  You come over, kiss me, and suddenly, it’s 3 hours later?”

     He sighed and looked worried.  “Is it a bad thing?”

     I laughed out loud.  “Are you nuts?  Oh, hell no!”

     He grinned and kissed me passionately, then put his head back and sighed, looking at the sky.   “Thanks, God,” he said, then looked into my face, smiling. “I’m used to women – well, girls – saying, ‘What’s wrong? Why aren’t you coming? When are you going to be done?’  I like to enjoy a woman, take my time, but girls just want to get it over with.  That’s why I wanted a woman.”

     “Stupid, deluded bitches,” I said, running my hand over his chest.  I looked up into his face.  “You up for another 3-hour session?”  So I’m greedy.  Sue me.

     He smiled.  “Sure.  But it might be a bit shorter, this time.  And right after this one, I’m calling every one of my friends and telling them they’ve got to get themselves an older woman.”  He thought for a moment, still grinning.  “You’re going to do that reverse-cowgirl thing again, aren’t you?”

     “If you like.”

     “Oh, I like.  I like very, very much.  I like running my hands over your ass and looking at your little pink starfish and playing with it.”  He leaned forward and whispered in my ear.  “You’re a freak.”

     I punched him in the arm.

     Another couple of days passed with texts and pics of John’s monster cock.

     That same week, he called me around midnight on Thursday.  Thursdays were special for John:  he and his brother would go out.  It was a night for John’s brother to get away from his wife and just have fun.

     “Hey, baby,” he said, quietly.  God damn, what a sexy voice.

     I could tell already he was drunk.  “Hey.”

     “I was just wondering if I could come over tonight.  And see you.”

     I heard someone speaking in the background.  “Who’s that?”  I asked.

     “My brother.”

      John’s brother leaned over and spoke into the phone.  “I’m a lot better looking than he is.”  John sighed into the phone.  “All the women think he looks like Val Kilmer.  Lucky bastard.”

     I laughed. “So you’re giving me a drunk bootie call?”

     “No, baby, no.  It’s not a drunk bootie call,” he said.  “I just want to see you, is all.”

     “This is a drunk bootie call.”

     He sighed, frustrated.  “No, baby, no, it’s not.  I just –“

     “Yes, it is,” I said, laughing. 

     “I wouldn’t do that, I just want to see—“

     “Get your cute little ass over here.  I get to drive this time.  I just want you to know I know it’s a drunk bootie call.”  I listened for his reaction.  I knew mine wasn’t what he was expecting.

     There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment.  John’s brother said, “Told you she’d tell you to go to hell.”  I heard John say to him.  “She said to get my cute ass over there.”  There was another silence.  “DANG,” said John’s brother.  “She said what?  You didn’t even buy her dinner, bro.”

     “I’ll be right there,” said John.  John’s brother kept speaking in the background.  “Dang.”  He leaned forward and spoke into John’s phone again.  “I’m a lot better looking.  Really, I am.”

     “Shut up,” said John.  “You’re married to Satan.”

     I laughed.  “You come, John, not your brother.  I’ll drive you home.”

     He wasn’t quite as drunk as I’d anticipated when he arrived.  He made a beeline for the couch and sat on the edge of it, doing his best to act contrite.

     “I’m sorry I made a drunk bootie call.  I really just wanted to see you.  I’ll sit right here and behave myself.”

     I sat beside him.  He kept his hands clasped between his knees and looked at me.

     “I just wanted to see—“

     “Fuck that,” I said, pushing him back onto the couch.

     He grinned.

     I moved up and looked down into his face.  “You’re in trouble, now.”

     “Am I?”  He was still grinning.

     I nodded, solemnly.  “Yep.  Cause I’m driving this time.”

     “Oh, hell, yeah.”  He said, quietly, as I kissed him.

     Two hours later, John was sitting up in my bed, legs splayed, as I was hanging off the headboard, feet against it, moving between John’s legs while he had his hands on my hips and watched his penis disappear and re-appear again. 

     “Oh, fuck,” he said for the hundredth time.  “God damn.”  The alcohol had burned off long ago.  “I can see everything.”

     I put my feet on the bed and moved my hands behind me, still fucking him as he watched.  “Oh, fuck, this is even way better than on x,” he said.  “God damn.”

     “Don’t come,” I said.  “Stop me when you get close.”

     “Stop me, she says.”  He rolled his eyes and reached out to stop me.  I froze for a moment, letting his urge pass, then let him slide out of me.  I knelt over his legs and kissed him.  Then I moved into reverse cowgirl position.

     “Oh, hell, yeah,” He said, running his hands over my ass.

      We went on for another two hours, then it was time.  He wanted to be in the missionary position.  He began to tremble before he came and looked at me in surprise, his eyes wide.  Then, he screamed.  He panted for a moment, then his whole body shuddered as he moaned.  He began breathing deeply again.

     “OH, MY GOD, YOU BROKE MY DICK!”  He sat back on the bed.  He screamed one more time.  “Oh, FUCK!”

     I smiled, satisfied.  There, you sexy fucker.  I’m every bit as good at this as you are.

     He laughed once and looked at me in surprise.  “I can’t move my legs.”

     “They’ll work again.  Just wait a little.”  I got up off the bed.

      He leaned back and watched me put on my bathrobe.  He moved one foot, then the other.  “God damn.  That was fucking AMAZING!”   He yelled the word.

     I sat on the edge of the bed and waited for him to recover.  He was still breathing heavily and a little dazed.

     “I knew it,” he said, quietly, looking into my eyes.  “I knew you could fuck like a porn star the first time I saw you.”

     I ran my fingers through my hair.  “I thought I looked like a nice lady.”

     He grinned.  “Yeah, but I could tell.”

     He moved both his legs and scooted to the edge of the bed.  He started to pull on his pants.  He looked into my face.  “I need a cigarette after that.”

     I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and we went to the back porch.  He lit up. His face was serious.

     “Where’d you learn so much about sex?” He asked.  “You’re freaking me out.”

     “I like it.”

     “Yeah, but there’s knowing and then there’s knowing.”

     “Like I said, I LIKE it.  I like it a lot.”

     He looked at me through narrow eyes, unsure.  “You’re the best I’ve ever had.  You sure you’re not a professional?”  He groaned.  “My legs are still shaking.”  They were.

     I laughed out loud.  “Good Lord, John.”  I put my arms around his waist and looked up into his eyes.  “Thanks for giving me my mojo back.”

     He grinned and stroked my hair with his free hand.  “Did I do that?”

     I nodded, trying to keep the tears back.  “Yep.”

     He backed away as he put out his cigarette.

     “We got a couple more hours before it gets light,” I said.

     He giggled.  “Oh, no.”  He pointed to his penis.  “He’s dead.  He’s got NOTHING after that.  I’m wondering if he’ll ever work again.  I think you scared him.”

     “You want me to drive you home?”

     “I could get a taxi.”

     “I’ll drive you.”

     The next day at work, I got a text from John.

     BEHOLD, SHE WILL FUCK YOU RETARDED SO YOUR LEGS DON’T WORK.

     He’d given me my mojo back.  Other men started to notice, especially the young ones.  At first, that part didn’t matter, because I had John.  But then I started to get a gut feeling that things weren’t quite right with Mr. Garcia.  But not at first.

     At first, it was more than fun.  He actually did have the cutest ass on the planet.  He was funny, fun to be with, tender at times and incredibly sexy.  I began to like him.  A lot.  Then I began to love him.  Just a little.

     But we were from entirely different worlds.  Sure, there was the age thing, but there was a hell of a lot more than that to overcome.

     One night he got into the fight at the bar and called me.  I went over to his house and made him forget about his bruised jaw and sore muscles.  We’d set up a date for the following night and he cancelled as I walked out the door the next morning.

     “See you tonight,” I said.

     “I didn’t say anything about tonight,” he said, testily.  He had.  We had dinner plans.

     I kissed him softly on the cheek as I left, my heart breaking.  I was becoming Plan B.

     “Be careful,” he said, quietly, as I made my way down the stairs of his apartment house.  “Be careful driving home.”

     I turned to face him.  “What keeps you in this?”

     “The incredible sex,” he said, touching the bruise on his jaw.  “Our sexual chemistry is fucking amazing.  And the company.”  The last bit was added as an afterthought.

     That’s how I knew then it was just a matter of time.  But I wasn’t quite ready to let go.  I wanted to make this thing into something it wasn’t and couldn’t be.  My gut told me the truth, but I didn’t want to listen.  Instead, I was enveloped in a blanket of quiet despair, seeing the inevitable, knowing it was inevitable, but trying to put it off as long as I possibly could. 

     John was becoming a player.  See, I’d also given him his mojo.  All along, I knew this as a possibility, given where he worked.  It was a place where aggressive young women came to suck in their cheeks, strike a pose, and take someone home for the night.

     I get crazy when men lie to me.  I start to analyze everything because I know they’re not being straight.  And nothing pisses off a man more than having a woman catch him red-handed at a carefully planned scheme.  It would have been a lot better if he hadn’t lied, if he’d been truthful.  But I don’t play second string pussy: he knew that about me, so he tried to string me along as long as he possibly could because we were so good together in the sack.

     One night, I finally gave in to my gut.

     I was supposed to meet him at his place after he got off work at midnight.  Then I got a text.

     I HAVE 2 WORK TIL 2 AND THEN CLEAN.  I’LL CALL YOU.

     I sighed, knowing exactly what was going on, knowing it was time to put this thing out of its misery.  I texted back.

     I’LL COME SEE U @ WORK.

     And, as I knew it would, all hell broke loose.  You see, I knew he wasn’t at work.  He tried one story, then another story, and I knew exactly what was in the plan:  he had another woman set up for midnight.  I was to be the second fuck for the night. 

     I refused to come over and he pitched a fit like a spoiled child.

     And that was the end.  That was the end of it.

     I can’t hate him, ever.  Not for pretending he wanted more than he did, not for lying, not for the damage done to my pride.  I can’t ever hate John.  He gave me my mojo back.  He brought me to life again.  He gave me much more than he ever, ever took.

     And I smile when I think of him.  Several times a day.