Wham Bam Thank You Ma'am
I’m gonna do it. Dammit, I’m thirty-eight years old and I’m going to find a twenty-one year old to fuck. The stereotypical young stud.
I dressed in my favorite jeans, my anti-gravity-approaching-middle-age bra, navy blue striped cotton thong panties, and my hides-the-belly brown boho hippie top. A last check of hair and makeup. I don’t look thirty-eight, thank God. Time to go. Go where? Library? Home Depot? Titty bar? Ah, the grocery store. I need some tortillas and sparkling water anyway.
Thank you Safeway. Aisle 12, frozen foods. His cart overflowed with enough ramen noodles to feed a small country. Beer, soda, and now those disgusting microwaveable frozen pizza nugget things my mother used to think were food, being haphazardly tossed in. Those and Banquet frozen dinners: fried chicken, mashed potatoes and corn. A veritable starch-fest. I shudder at those childhood culinary flashbacks.
I inspected him. Tall, somewhat muscular in a Vin Diesel-in-training way, blond, clean shaven. Wearing faded Levi’s and a t-shirt from a presumably new band of which I had never heard. Sauntering past, I accidentally on purpose elbowed his ribs.
“I’m sorry, excuse me.”
“No problem ma’am.” He smiled. I hate that word, ma’am. It is my duty during my short duration on this Earth to inform, preach, harass, and enlighten the male public – if a woman is more than three years past puberty and, in fact, a ma’am, don’t call her one. Just the other day I had some moronic, penis-wielding male comment on my generation. He was twenty-seven and I’m in another fucking generation? I saw him later that week crossing the street and had to summon my inner multigenerational superhero, Wonder WoMa’am, to restrain the overwhelming urge to flatten him with my SUV.
Miss is great. Ms is acceptable. Ma’am ranks up there with hey lady or broad or dame. Although “hey lady” uttered a la Jerry Lewis is comical. Even babe and hon are easier to swallow, depending on the situation. I mean, when I give a couple of dollars to some guy holding a God Will Bless Your Generosity sign at a freeway exit, “Thanks babe” is not what I want to hear. Then, a good ole “Thanks ma’am” would be fine. I even prefer bitch. Lord knows, my ex-husband overused that term of endearment, decorated with colorful adjectives like fucking, cock-sucking and goddamn. But I digress.
Pizza rolls sufficiently stocked, stud-boy resumed his Don Quixote quest for non-nutritious quasi-food items. I shamelessly stalked him, ensuring he’d take notice, grabbing my lowfat wheat tortillas and lemon-flavored sparkling water along the way. I thumbed through the latest Cosmo while behind him in the checkout line, not reading a word. I followed him into the parking lot. He drove a 2004 midnight blue Ford Mustang. Figures.
I tailed him to his apartment, hoping he hadn’t notified the police via cell phone. I parked beside him.
“Can I help you ma’am?” He spoke with an expected fusion of apprehension, amusement, and awe. A what-the-fuck smoothie with an aphrodisiac additive. Thanks for the ma’am Sonny.
“I’m horny. Are you busy?” I amaze myself sometimes.
“Um, no, um, come on in?”
“Want help with your bags?” I grabbed a few, the sickly frozen odor of the pizza pockets polluting my nostrils, and followed him up the stairs, watching his ass beneath the taut denim.
Typical bachelor pad. Messy, poorly decorated, poorly lit and reeking of 1989. I was so ready, I surprised myself.
“What’s your name?” I heard.
“Liz, you?”
“Quick.” No shit?
“Are you a student?” I pointed out the window, indicating the local university somewhere out there.
“Yeah. I’m majoring in Communications.” Must be a football player. “I’m here on a football scholarship. I play linebacker, but my coach thinks I’d be a better strong safety because of my hands and my speed. I’m a junior.” Twenty-one. Blackjack. I-21. Bingo.
“And Quick is your last name?”
“Um, no, it’s Johnson.” He smirked. “Thanks Mom and Dad.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “And my middle name is Richard.” He rolled his eyes.
Oh poor, poor guy. Good thing he’s rather handsome and reasonably literate or he could have some sort of complex. A mother shouldn’t be allowed to name her child immediately after giving birth. Drugs coursing through her veins, temporarily disabling the rational portion of the cerebral cortex. And dad, no, he is too busy recovering from witnessing the miracle of birth and contemplating the miracle of collagen and elastin and if there’s a pussy cream sold at Walgreen’s to firm and youthen. No, childbirth is too traumatic. To ensure the sensibility of children’s names, as well as the cost reduction for future therapy, a mandatory waiting period directive must be established. Maybe three days or so, akin to purchasing a handgun or signing a contract to prevent Moonbeam Rainforest Goldstein or, worse, Quick Dick Johnson from having the horrific possibility of tarnishing the birth certificate. Yet I digress again.
He took off his shirt, threw it across the kitchen, and began unpacking his groceries. I watched his arms and back and ass from a small clean spot I discovered on the sofa after moving a crumb-filled pizza box leftover from Super Bowl XXXII. I love asses. I love the way the male buttocks contour without the use of highlighting cosmetics. I took my clothes off, sitting there in my gravi-bra and damp panties, aroused, figuring it wasn’t possible to stain the sofa any further.
He turned to me, “Want something to...?” Amazing how a semi-naked woman can stop a man mid-sentence. Such power.
“No thanks.” I stood up. “And the bedroom is ... ” I shrugged.
He pointed, mute, following me like a loyal puppy. I shot him a sexy glance over my shoulder, then tripped over an empty Coors can, slamming my shin into the metal bed frame.
“You OK ma’am?”
“Liz,” I scowled.
“Liz.”
He cleared a spot on the unmade bed for us. Such a gentleman.
“Take your jeans off Quick.” How forward of me. And how punny. He wore those form-fitting, ultra-sexy Jockey boxer-briefs. I would wear them, they look comfy. “And those,” I commanded, indicating his erection visible behind his skivvies while rubbing my soon-to-be-bruised tibia.
I kissed him, tasting an unusual concoction of frat boy mingled with the bitter taste of ma’am stuck in my throat. He kissed back, the way I remember twenty-one year olds kissed. Like ballroom dance lessons with a seasoned pro and a hopelessly uncoordinated student. Broken toes, whiplash, and the sad inability to hear the beat. Not pretty. My tongue – a 1940s Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers beautiful foxtrot in the moonlight on the Champs d’Elysses. His – an off-strip Las Vegas road troupe production of Riverdance. Up and down, in and out, a jackhammer, a saliva flood, a geyser. My mind raced through the Physician’s Desk Reference – grand mal seizure, diabetic shock, demonic possession! Call Father Damien or Linda Blair!
I disengaged his tongue. “Slow down a bit,” I chuckled. “Are you hungry maybe?” I tasted blood. Better blood than pizza nuggets.
“Sorry Liz. It’s just, well, I’ve never been with an older woman before.” Note to self – add Geritol and Metamucil to the shopping list! Excuse me while I remove my dentures so you don’t knock them out with your spastic tongue.
I unhooked my bra, simultaneously thrusting my chest forward with the pathetic hope of keeping my boobs mid-chest, and casually tossed it in one fluid motion. It landed on the football helmet bedside lamp. My nipples were stones, hardened by the mixture of anticipation and the breeze wafting through the open windows. I peeled off my drenched panties. I positioned myself atop the bed, quickly scanning the what I prayed were really gray and not used-to-be-white sheets, and contorted my body to look as sexy as possible. The Michelin Man in Cirque du Soleil.
“Wow!” was all the foreplay I needed.
Ogling me, mouth agape, he clumsily slid his underwear over his erect cock, getting them stuck on the way down. I thought about saying the Pledge of Allegiance as I glanced over at my bra, expecting it to combust at any minute.
Quick grabbed a condom from the tureen on his nightstand, slipping it on and tossing the wrapper on the floor. He pounced, lying atop me, kissing my face. “Is this better?” he asked, gnawing on my lips.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” my mother’s voice emanated from my larynx. I cringed. Yes better, not so much resembling my Siberian husky’s show of affection.
Moving down, he kissed my breasts, tonguing my rock-hard nipples. I felt teeth, then a stab of pain and was witness to my own private Fourth of July fireworks display behind my eyelids. Are you sure you aren’t hungry? I looked for blood. He kissed my painfully sucked-in stomach, concave to the point where I could happily see my hip bones. His hands remained glued to my breasts, now Play Dough. I foolishly wondered if my boobs were where they were supposed to be, like some silicone-endowed porn actress, or did they slide into my armpits. Damn Isaac Newton and his fucking apple.
My hollowed belly would pass any military quarter-bouncing bedding inspection. I wrapped my quasi-lithe legs around his six-pack-ab adorned waist to eliminate any thigh jiggling. I felt like a bodybuilder on display, only without the incredibly ripped muscles and baby-oil-shiny tan.
His tongue found my wet pussy without a map, all the while playing Rodin with my breasts. His lap dog talent was better suited down there. Convulsive tongue and clitoris works well. I came in less than a minute, despite the breast torture.
He moved a hand from one sore breast and stroked my inner thigh. I felt a finger, then two, slipping inside of me, deep, deliberate, as if I were a six-pack. I was so wet, I could extinguish my bra if necessary.
I pulled him on top of me. “Fuck me now! “ How cliché!
I could taste my essence on his lips, his tongue. Knees up, thighs flexed to maintain the illusion of tautness, I felt him slide into me. Then I remembered how twenty-one year olds fuck – fast, deep and hard. I watched his frenzied eyes roll back into his head as I held on for dear life, not caring about seismic body ripples, merely trying to prevent injury from flying boobs.
He reminded me of Space Mountain at Disneyland. Fasten your seatbelts, here we go. Ride over. Except with Quick I got wet.
He rolled over, eyes closed, blissfully lost in his denouement with his first older woman. Maybe his parents knew something on his birthday. I’m sticking to older men. Men my age. Thank you ma’am.
Copyright © 2005 by NS Faulk. All rights reserved.
Brand spanking (no pun intended) new to the erotic genre, N.S. Faulk is a stay-at-home-mom to her two amazing daughters. She is thrilled to see her B.S. in Criminal Justice being put to practical use almost as much as her husband is thrilled to see their sexual exploits immortalized in print, and thanks him for listening, ad nauseum, to every draft of each story.
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