Mom explores new wild side, first date, years after divorce.
By Eva_Adams - Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories.
University
The pale vanilla thickly painted cinder block walls that framed a small high window above the twin bed reminded me of the inside of a prison, but to my son his new dorm room was freedom – at last.
I almost didn’t even get the brief glimpse of where he would be living for the next year. At first, he insisted he could carry up his boxes and suitcases himself, as he didn’t want to introduce his new roommate to his newly single, middle-aged mom.
I even promised not to dance or sing while there, but maybe it was the fact that I mentioned those possibilities for ultimate peer embarrassment that got me dismissed shortly after the luggage entered the room.My son was about to test out his suburban survival skills, and at 18 he was ready. Somehow, amid or maybe because of my many mistakes, he had turned out well. There was nothing else to say that I hadn’t told him already that he would be willing to hear. So I gave him a discreet hug in the stairwell with no other students around.
“I love you, honey.”
“Love you too, mom.”
And he jogged back up the stairs to his new life, while I retreated back to the car and the four-hour drive home.
With the green blur of trees in my peripheral vision and nothing but an endless, straight two way freeway ahead for the next 80 miles, I turned up the end of Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation,” just before it segued into the next hit on my 80s dance music playlist. I remembered dancing in the bathroom to Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” while putting on too much eyeliner ahead of a college party with my best friend Wendy back when we were virgins. But truth be told, I managed to stay one all through college too.
Wendy and I were on the phone last month as she celebrated her 48th birthday, wondering why we tried so hard to be perfect, rather than having more fun when we were in our 20s.
She was always prettier than me – at least guys thought so – with her highlighted shoulder length blonde hair, blue eyes and high cheekbones. So experiencing the inevitable part of aging of becoming invisible in public was hitting her harder than me. Her blonde highlighted hair was about 5 inches shorter than college and she still had her high cheekbones etched with the outer edges of wrinkles near her eyes. Like me, Wendy had probably only gained about 5 pounds since college, but unlike me, it looked to be mostly muscle from her part time job as a yoga instructor. If she had cellulite, I had yet to see it.
But like most women, Wendy could be her own worst critic even while protesting the unfairness that women are so judged by their looks.
She said, “I was in the customer service line in Home Depot last week, but the clerk came around the desk to show some gal in a short tennis dress to the hardware aisle for the right size wood screws for her project. Hello – it’s not as if I wasn’t already standing there. Am I invisible?”
“Maybe you need to wear a short sports dress for errands. You could still carry it off,” I said. “Yoga dresses are in style now.”
“That’s not the point, it’s about fairness,” Wendy said.
“Hey we got that attention when we were her age and didn’t complain,” I said.
“Yeah, we made quite a pair. But unfortunately we didn’t do anything with it! Not really,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“We were too good, too uptight, always trying to do the right thing, stupidly trying to have morals,” she said. “Don’t you ever think about it and wonder why?”
“Yeah, if I had known I would marry my college boyfriend three years after graduation only to get dumped as our kids reached whatever age he considered viable so he could leave to fuck a zillion others. Yes, I would have said a yes a few times instead of no to any number of other guys in college,” I said.
“We followed the rules. But for what?” she asked.
“For the nice, appropriate boys who deemed us marriage material,” I said. “But what was the alternative? ”
“Rob Winslow.”
“You always did fall for bad boys.”
“Yeah,” she sighed, nodding unseen against the phone. “He was gorgeous, but there was not enough penicillin on the planet to make me want to really find out how he managed to have a different voluptuous babe every night of the week.”
“Well you ended up well – or at least you’re not divorced.”
“True,” she said, but quickly changed the subject to our kids, and we spent the rest of our call rattling on about this and that.
But that call stuck with me. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Ever since then, I began to notice not getting noticed. In stores, restaurants and the occasional music venue, I was 48 and invisible. Maybe Wendy was right. Maybe we should have been less careful and more care free in our youth if this was where we were headed.
I starting thinking, “So what is stopping me now?”
Was it maybe the disbelief that a guy would not care about stretch marks he had no role in creating, or the extra five pounds? And what about my butt? It still felt round and muscular, but the wrong light highlighted the cellulite that no amount of dieting seemed to fix.
I didn’t mind some wrinkles like the happy ones around my eyes, but not the ones around my chin. Those wrinkled just showed I gritted my teeth at night, the tension of getting through the last several years revealing itself. Maybe I needed botox.
My next insecure thought was my house. I had moved to a smaller home, a townhome, after the divorce and I had not even invited anyone over for dinner yet.
The thought of having some unknown new person in my home was daunting let alone my bathroom. I’d need to store sex toys elsewhere for starters. I had too many of those really. I guess I kept thinking that with the right one I wouldn’t need to actually go on a date. But so far it hadn’t worked.
I was also hesitant about going from a 24-year marriage into some new serious relationship. I had needs, yet no experience with casual sex.
It’s one thing to jump into the deep end with casual affairs at 21, but how does one even do that at my age?
It would take courage to be naked with someone now. Courage I wasn’t sure I had.
What was it Anais Nin said? “Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.”
Hell, I was living it – at least the shrunk part. My days were measured in coffee packets, dish detergent pods, and Netflix episodes at a rate of one each per day at the same time every day. I left the house mostly for the grocery store, and my most regular social interaction was taking my dog to a park with several neighbor dogs. The pup had a more active social life than I did.
Seeing that quote always resonated with me. It was like seeing a “you are here” dot on a map at the mall.
However, as my thoughts wandered during the drive, I remembered one of her lesser-known quotes. It was that Nin quote that awakened the motivation to move from that safe dot on a map of my small world to where I wanted to go.
When I got home, I found the card with the Anais Nin quote a friend had given me years ago and taped it at eye level by the bathroom mirror. “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
I resolved to blossom.
Home, 4 September 2021
My son was no doubt enjoying his freedom from parents and I was ready to enjoy my freedom from day-to-day parenting. I had had a few dinner dates with two different acquaintances over the past year, but nothing further. What could I really do?
No teenager likes to think of his mom out on a date let alone meet the guy in the kitchen. Bringing the date home would have been too much.
I spent my first kid-free week cleaning out closets, donating things I no longer needed and scrubbing everything, marveling at how the floors and kitchen stayed clean with just me. But with nothing else to clean, and my house ready for anything, it was time to either leave it, or invite someone over.
I chose the latter.
I had kissed Don goodnight in his truck after our second dinner date a few months ago. It was brief but nice. Was I turned on? I was too nervous to fully connect like that. But it felt pleasant enough – and I liked that he hit the right range for the occasion and my mood.
His lips felt soft and open against mine with slight but not crushing pressure. His tongue entered my mouth without invading it. His withdrawal left me wanting a bit more, looking forward to more even as he came around the side to open my door so I could teeter in heels I was unaccustomed to wearing to my porch.
But then it was summer. Between work, family visits and our respective vacations, we had exchanged just a few texts in the past few months. So, I texted him, and offered to cook dinner.
“You what?” Wendy asked.
“I told him to come to my place and I’d cook.”
“You know what that means!” Wendy said, her voice one level below shouting.
“That I’ll probably make something basic like meat and potatoes. I don’t really know what he likes beyond what he ordered at that Italian restaurant, and I don’t remember what he ordered on our first date.”
“No! You just offered yourself on a platter.”
“Actually I had planned to serve dinner on the deck.”
“I’m serious,” Wendy hissed, cupping her hand around the phone, but lowering her voice. “Didn’t you see that episode of ‘Coupling’?”
“I’m not remembering.”
“Saying ‘I’ll cook’ means come over and sleep with me, and I’ll cater.”
“I doubt some guy will think that. It’s just our third date.”
“Exactly! How long since you’ve been on a date?”
“So things have changed over the past 20 years? And how would you know?”
“First, women at the yoga studio talk. I hear a lot. Actually maybe dating hasn’t changed much – but you were unrealistic about expectations 20 years ago too.”
“Well I’m not worried about what he thinks. Actually, I hope he does think that.”
“This doesn’t sound like you. What are you thinking?”
“I’ve thought about what we talked about last month – that invisibility is growing by the day and opportunities to live, really live are shrinking. I’m tired of caring too much about what people think, and not enough about what I want.”
“So what do you want?”
“I want to stop being good and start having fun. I want to get past the divorce, to be rechristened, reintroduced to touch, to life.”
“He is an IT guy, maybe he can reboot you,” Talia said, calmer now, giggling.
“Let’s hope!”
10 September 2021
The third dress hit the floor in a ring and I stepped out. I still didn’t know what to wear – just what not to wear.
What I wanted was a casual dress with a zipper for the fun drama of unzipping it later. But the first one emphasized the extra inch of tummy that had remained since childbirth. The second one fit, but would be hard to shimmy out of due to the shape.
I had hoped the green one would work, but was starting to realize most of my clothes reflected my conservative upbringing – not the figure I still mostly had from keeping up dance work out videos. The skirts tended to hit midcalf and covered all of my chest and most of my arms too. I was going for classy, but the result was frumpy. How had I never noticed this?
Before, I picked an outfit based on color and favored greens and browns as my auburn hair clashed with most colors.
I thought of just wearing jeans and a blouse. That would give options to take off one and not the other. That worked well in college. The difficulty of wrestling off jeans tended to break the mood and offer a natural stopping point.
But this was a new phase and for that, I considered a new plan. I decided to go for all or nothing. I was not going to divvy out body parts in hopes of cultivating respect. I planned to just kiss my date and decide by feel – not some preconceived notion of appropriateness,
I hung a green wrap dress on the towel rack in the bathroom to drop out the wrinkles in the steam. I pulled the faucet on and set it to 40 degrees Celsius and waited for the water to heat.
My breasts could charitably be called athletic at almost a B cup. My waist, still indented with a slight trace of abs, could be seen somewhere above the stretch marks. I ran my hands from the sides of my indented waist along the swell of my hips that were firm and brushed down the sides of my thighs, trying to imagine what someone else would think.
My legs were long, slightly thin and muscular, but freckled with a few broken veins. Like the rest of me, they felt better than they looked. Maybe it could be dark tomorrow night I thought as I slide the shower door shut and let the tepid water
I’m sure every woman has a similar list of faults, but if we dwell there, we could too easily loose any motivation for action or connection. I needed to think more like a guy. But soon found that to be better, but not entirely worry-free either.
What if everything doesn’t work as it should? This had not been tested fully in almost three years now. Like other divorced couples, the sex had ended before the marriage actually did.
How long had it been since I had had an orgasm that didn’t involve batteries I wondered as I circled my breasts with suds?
I took the shower nozzle out of the hook and set it to pulse as I rinsed the lather down my puffy pink nipples to my abs and watched the stream of water run down my pale thighs. My senses sprung to attention at the closest thing to touch my skin had felt in way too long. I aimed the pulsing jet at the small triangle of dark auburn hair and gasped as the jet slid through the slit to my most sensitive spot.
Awakened, but not satisfied, I turned off the shower, patted myself dry and dove on the bed face down. I needed to test this, and to do so I needed to replicate the tools I’d have Saturday, well the ones that would be on hand that I had myself, which meant fingers. I was going on a third date and ready to entertain the idea sex with the first man since my husband, since by 20s. But I was not ready for the idea of bringing battery-operated devices to the evening so I needed to replicate the tools or lack of them I’d have on hand for the ending.
I used to be able to have orgasms just from thrusting, but it had been years, and I tried to remember what worked as I lifted my hips and tapped the auburn hair with my finger and then slowly circled my hips against the mattress.
Soon the slickness parted my lips as I tapped. I moved my hand down and pushed my index finger inside about two inches before it caught on a ring of muscles – at least I think it was a muscle – not really sure.
I imagined my favorite moment, when a guy is turned on and knows he is wanted. It’s something about the look in his eye, the confidence when he knows that he has just the tool you most need, and it is in his hands waiting for entrance.
More wetness pooled against my finger and I pushed further with my curved finger until I hit an even more sensitive spot and my hips contracted against it. I imagined it was Don and not my finger, thrusting into me now, as I thrust against my finger and then bent it in rhythm to my twisting hips.
But there I remained on the edge. How long had it been? Ten minutes? I wondered as I thrusted to no relief. I arched my back and pinched one nipple hard. The combined sensation worked, finally as I felt a new focus and a familiar clench in my abs. It wasn’t an orgasm, not yet, but it would be. It seemed to build like rumbles of an approaching thunderstorm, small contractions at first that floated outwards to my long limbs when a bolt seized through, releasing me back to consciousness, back to myself. I rolled to my back, panting as I lay on the cool sheets.
* * *
11 September 2021
“Come in. What can I get you to drink?” I asked, a bit breathless from running down the stairs to answer the door.
But instead of answering he opened his arms for a hug. I smiled, my cheekbone pressing against his solid chest with only my thin green wrap dress between us felt grounding. His presence in the entryway of my home sent flutters through my torso, but his touch calmed me.
My head barely grazed the top of his shoulder even on tiptoes in my bare feet. After a couple years of doing everything myself, I felt instantly safe dwarfed by his size. His head was shaved bald, and I liked the simplicity and honesty of how he dealt with the hair loss some might have agonized over. It suited him.
I found an almost full whisky bottle someone had brought to a house party a few years ago that I had only used to make fudge, and poured him some in a glass with ice. I knew much more about fixing dinner than drinks, and hoped that was to his liking.
We took my wine and his whisky to the deck. I was relieved the weather cooperated so well – mid 70s with a slight breeze as I had yet to buy a comfortable indoor couch. My townhome, an end unit, was private as townhomes go, backing to thick woods. My only adjacent neighbor’s home was set back so my deck that wrapped around the side of my house was not in view.
There was a narrow strip of common ground that connected to a just the side yard of my next closest neighbor, but that neighbor rarely made use of that gate to his yard.
So I led Don out to my outdoor paradise. A dining table to one side and then a comfy outdoor sectional sofa pushed into a corner of my deck, a deck that was bigger than my living room. He sat in the middle so I sat with my back propped against him and my legs outstretched, again enjoying the feel of his bulk, softness and hardness combined, as I leaned against his chest with his arm draped over my shoulder.
After chatting about our work from home conditions and summer vacations, I swiveled to face him and traced fingers from the dark hair on his calf up to his thigh that was mostly covered by long cargo shorts. Probably not subtle, but I was done with subtle. He soon responded, whether it was to my fingers or the eye contact, I can’t say, but I got the reaction I desired. He leaned toward me for a kiss.
If it had been awhile since having an orgasm with someone else in the room, it had been way longer, years, since I had been thoroughly kissed, and I was enjoying the secondhand sweetness of the whiskey.
I don’t know why kissing stopped a few years before sex, but it had. I suddenly felt awkward not remembering how to move my mouth in response to another moving object.
When we both needed air, he moved to my neck, putting every nerve ending on high alert as I arched neck and back to give him more access.
His kisses trailed down to the curve of my breasts pushed to their best advantage by the push up bra, giving me almost the perception of cleavage.
I realized that perception would soon be replaced by actual data, and I briefly wondered whether bras might be an area in life where it was best not to over promise and under deliver, or whether by the time a guy got a bra off he was generally feeling more optimistic than critical.
Thankfully any thoughts and doubts evaporated as Don’s mouth dipped yet again from my neck to the V of the wrap dress while his finger found my nipple through the admittedly thick layers of push up bra and pinched.
“Yes,” I exhaled, my neck bent around his head and my mouth kissed the top of his head as it dipped further to kiss the nipple he had just assaulted. I pulled his head into my chest and arched my back. “Yes, more, please.” I said though muffled against his hair.
One hand scooped that breast from the push up bra and with his mouth spread wide taking in most of it; he deftly unhooked the front clasp of my bra with his other hand.
I pulled at the shoulders of the dress, spreading the V shape held by a side tie even wider to free my breasts for his tongue.
“Sensitive?”
“Very.”
“I love it.”
By Eva_Adams for Literotica
