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Page 5.
Chapter 2. The Story of B
 It was summer, and I was past that first wonderful May/July relationship with A, when I met B. I was walking a friend's dog on the beach, when this tall, attractive woman sort of towered over me. I think she fell in lust almost instantly. She had this glow that beamed out in all directions. She was a tall blonde in her early 30s, 6 feet tall to my 5'10" with that modeling agency poise. Great face, squarish but soft. Great hairdo, done professionally and amplifying her noble lines.
She wasn't a movie star, but she worked for a motion picture production company, and had actually done some modeling in both New York and Los Angeles. She had married a company executive, made trips to places like Bimini or Antigua and what not, and became a photo shoot producer herself. As with A, the perennial symbol of this paradigm (for a young twenties guy) was the incipient crows' feet around the corners of the mouth and the eyes. But geez, I soon began to compare the experience of the younger man/gorgeous older woman to driving an incredibly expensive car that was just a few years past its production date, having come into its prime.
Women seem to get started rather slowly in the passion department. They are so intent on dating right and marrying right and @ing right and cooking right, and above all obsessed with their diet and figure, that it usually takes a brisk, awful divorce and some soul searching for them to let go—at least for a while—and say the hell with it all. Which is when I, the younger guy, step in. Face it, she's between geeks. First there was the guy she divorced, and next will be a guy just like him, but in the meantime we have a little of what I call wedge time, in-between geeks. She'll whisper in my ear, as we lie naked and entwined, that I am just a cute behind, a full mass of wavy dark hair, sweet in my naïveté, and I look good on a bicycle or playing my guitar on the sea wall.
There might be some truth to that. Tanned, relaxed, muscular, I had to laugh quietly to myself when cars would crawl past in beach traffic, and women nearly fell out the window as I took their breath away. Don't misunderstand me—I don't say this to brag. It was all an illusion. I was still the same poor church mouse working crappy jobs and almost hating myself. I was ashamed to tell people I shoveled shit for a living. I was still writing poetry, but starting to think of switching to songs. That was another illusion, or delusion, but I think it made me interesting. I was passionate about my pipe dream, if not about my lousy jobs. One or two Summers told me they thought I was a young stud who looks like he stepped out of a jeans commercial.
B didn't appreciate poetry as much as she liked my flat stomach, which she liked to palm with her hand at odd moments. Like I'd be driving us to the movies or to lunch or the beach, and her hand would sneak over and rest flat against my stomach. There were like these waves of sensuality that emanated from her hand as she did this. Apparently it really turned her on. I'd glance over and see her half-closing her eyes. She'd be looking around at crowds, at people passing as I drove, but I would swear she was in stage one of a ten-stage orgasm. She'd lift my shirt and reach underneath and put the palm of her hand against my stomach. I don't know if she rubbed back and forth, or if it was the molecules in her hand marching in step, but I could sense her sucking sex out of me. Women do stuff like that. Men have to stick it in and @. Women can suck sex out of you with their eyes, or even by not looking. They can be turned on by seeing out of the corner of their eyes, while pretending to be aloof, that you are staring hungrily at them.
Talk about hungrily. B had breast implants. Why, I have no idea. Sometimes she just wanted me to hold them, squeeze them gently, to ease the discomfort. I love small breasts. I love breasts of all sizes, but small is a specialty for me. A, the first older woman in my life, had small unremarkable breasts with wimpy pink nipples, but she made up for it in other ways. B had maybe had small breasts once, but now they were bazooms. They were the kind of bazooms that hang a little, are a little long, and not balloons. Talk about hungrily. When she wore a bikini, and we walked along the beach, I could feel the laser-like searing beams of men's eyes following her. She was tall, and her blond hair was long and straight and flipped this way and that. Being a model and actor, she conveyed that surfer look. Did I mention that she had a few freckles? She had them on her boobs, too. Her boobs terminated in these brown nipples that pointed right at your loins if you stood there talking with her.
B was taller than I, and this helped us have an interesting sex time together. It turns out that if a woman is slightly taller... a matter of proportion, her legs, her torso...I'm talking just the right combination of strengths and lengths...then you can @ her while dancing, and she will enjoy it just as you will. If you are capable of standing up and having an erection, and maintaining that boner, you can enter that tall woman and dance with her while @ing her. We did it all the time. It was addictive. This is what tears me up. In each of those relationships, there was at least one remarkable, wonderful aspect that I miss to this day. This was one of the things I missed about B. She had the hots for me, which meant that she got wet right away. I could drive to her place and get out of the car and knock on her door, and as she opened the door, she'd get wet. She didn't get on her knees and start sucking me like A, but I knew. Early on, in the time when a woman is at her hottest in a relationship, I came to her apartment once and saw that she was wearing this navy blue bikini. I noticed that the crotch had a dark spot. Being bold and very intimate with her, I wrapped one arm around her and scooped her to me, while reaching down there. Being nimble-fingered, I penetrated through the webbing in her bikini bottom and into the moist folds of her oyster. "You are very wet," I said, and she pressed against me with a kind of guilty moan. She said: "I was looking out the window and when I saw you pulling in, I felt myself get all hot and wet below."
I learned that B was passionate, in a way different from A, especially at certain moments. Like the time I walked in on her while she was bent over looking for something under the bed. I just walked up behind her, lifted her skirt, got my Wang out in one quick motion, and penetrated her. She was wet and ready in an instant—she'd heard me coming, and some ESP must have radiated my desire to her on a subliminal level. As usually happened when we dance-copulated, she'd weaken in her passion and beg to be laid down.
Now, @ing her oyster from behind, I let her toss that long body of hers onto the bed, never falling out of her because I was so hard for her. My dong isn't extra long, but it's extra wide. I have what you might call a thick dick rather than a long dong. When a man inserts his cock, it fills an emptiness that desires filling, the way a napoleon longs for custard. So B liked it when I pushed her forward, bumping my hip against her butt, so that she sprawled across the bed.
How long her legs were! I was in her oyster, pumping away, while feeling her buttocks with my fingers. She didn't want me to penetrate her anally though. That would be another day, another lady. I did glimpse a nice tight virgin bum. I remember that much, and some clamorous orgasms together, and not much else about that relationship. It was the Paleolithic period of the Spring/Summer epoch in my life. I didn't quite know how to draw things out and make them exquisitely breathless, hungering, delicious. I do remember that B wanted to be in love, and I honestly admitted early on that I wasn't ready, and she moved on. She was the one who stopped calling. In a way, I was glad she rescued herself before she fell too hard.
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