Old Guy Gets a Blow-Job at the Carboot Sale [FM]

I wrote this shortly after it happened. Ten years ago now.

Like most young guys I was obsessed with sex, used to walk around with a constant hard on. When I look at old photos of myself and see how good-looking I was, I could cry for my wasted life. All those women I didn’t shag! All the gorgeous girls I looked at but couldn’t be arsed to spin a line to — didn’t try. There’d always be tomorrow, or the day after that. You know, that day when some gorgeous young thing would offer it you on a plate.

They never did though.

At least not back then, that is.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d had girlfriends, and then a wife, and a second wife, but if I’d put my mind to it I could have fucked more pussy than is decent By my early fifties I’d stopped even trying to catch the eye of pretty girls, or halfway decent older women for that matter. I don’t remember the actual year women stopped looking back when I gave them the eye, but stopped they had.

But one day when I was fifty-one, I had the shock of my life when I looked at a young girl. She returned my interest, actually held my gaze, didn’t blank me like they usually did. Mind you I’d been staring at her. Not trying to flirt or anything, just staring.

I wasn’t trying to flirt. As I said, I’d given up on that front. No I was staring because of how she was dressed. She was all done up the way girls used to be when I was a young man back in the early seventies. It really unnerved me to see a gorgeous young thing from right now looking like a gorgeous young thing from back then.

I think any given female fashion that is in vogue when a male is experiencing his first sexual stirrings stays lodged in the back of his mind for the rest of his life, becomes a template for how a woman should look. It imprints itself on his brain in the same way some animals get imprinted on the first thing they see after hatching, or being born. Not always their mothers either; an old bucket, or even human being, is sometimes what they get.

For me it was girls in mini-skirts, knee length boots, ten denier pantyhose, leather biker jackets, and earrings as big as the rings they put through the nose of a bull. In the small north of England town I grew up that was the look most of the girls in my neighbourhood went for. This girl was wearing all that stuff. I suppose she was making a statement, being ironic. Retro, they call it. I don’t suppose she intended to freak out an old guy like me — or even to turn on a younger one, for that matter. She was not to know the effect that particular look would have on a man who’d first found his way to pussy by way of the inside of nylon encased inner thigh.

As soon as I saw those legs alighting from her car I felt sensations I’d not had in years. I was at the big car boot that’s on every Sunday on Johnson’s Farm, just out of town. I was hoping to get rid of the remaining stuff my second wife had left behind when she left me for that twat Carl Miles. I couldn’t do with it being in the house any longer. I was always coming across something to remind me of her. I’d given her an ultimatum to come and shift — which she had ignored. So there I was in the middle of a field at six on a Sunday morning. What an ungodly hour. I’m a night bird really. This was like a visit to another planet. I’d had to get up at five in the morning to get there on time to be sure of a pitch.

I discreetly watched the girl with the next pitch as she laid out her stall. When she saw me staring she actually smiled. And not just with her mouth — you know tight lips and dead eyes. No, with her eyes too. Eyes so full of mischief, blue eyes that sparkled with youth, with life. A look like that could set an old fool like me me up for the whole day. But I didn’t dare speak to her, flirt like I used to. I knew wouldn’t be able to take the sneer that was sure to follow. No, that would have hurt too much after the beauty of the gift of her smile. All the same, I couldn’t help look over at her whenever I got the chance. I even thought about taking a snap with my phone but decided that would be too sad. Best not be reminded of what is out of bounds.

The sky had been cloudless and still when I left the house, the air clean and sharp in the cool of the morning. But by ten-o clock the wind picked up and big, dark clouds came tumbling across the sky from the west, making it obvious it would soon rain. I watched the girl staring up ith a worried look on her pretty, young face.

Plucking up courage I said, “Just a shower. It’ll blow over.”

She turned and smiled. “But my stuff will get ruined.”

“I have plastic sheeting. You can have some to cover your stuff.”

I had loads in my van. I fetched a long sheet and spread it over both our tables. While I did so she examined one the old records she’d fished out from under the table. A T. Rex vinyl. Tank, I think it was. I’d found this particular box in the attic. It contained a few things that had belonged to my first wife, Carole. I’d forgotten they were there. Carole had left me in nineteen-seventy seven.

“This is so cool,” she said.

“You like T. Rex?”

“Love him.”

“What about the early stuff — when he was with Steve Peregrine Took.”

“Wasn’t he a hobbit?”

We both laughed. Just then the heavens opened.

As we frantically tried to cover our stuff, I called to her, “Listen — if you like, you can shelter inside my car and I’ll play you something: A Beard Of Stars. It’s best thing they ever recorded. There’s an old tape in that box.” She rummaged deeper. “Yes that’s it,” I said.

“I’d like to,” She said.

So I played her the music. After listening politely for a few minutes and saying she liked it, she became quite chatty. We got talking about fashion and how things change and come back round, change again. I told her I liked the way she was dressed and explained that because she was so young –about nineteen I guessed – to see her dressed as she was, well it was sort of like time travel for me. I told her she could have been one of the girls I used to date, that she looked just the same as Jane Hanson, a girl I once drove up to Stanton Woods with in my old Cortina Mark One. As I talked I relived those days, how eager and full of anticipation I was when I had a new girl in my car and was wondering how far I’d get with her
.
The rain rattled down on my van roof, splattering in big drops on the foggy windscreen, I asked about her husband — I’d seen the ring on her finger. “He must be mad to let you leave his bed and come here,” I said.

“He’d rather play rugby with his mates on Sundays.”

“You’d never get me out of bed if I had a girl like you to wake up to.”

“Aww, that is so sweet.” She reach across and touched my hand

Even though I had said how much she reminded me of my past, I think it was only then that she realised how piquant having her besides me was. She saw the nostalgia about to drown me and said, “I suppose seeing me dressed like this brings back loads of memories?”

“You could say that.”

“Want to touch?”

I couldn’t take in what she had said. I just stared, “Sorry?” I said.

She looked at me intently, “I said, would you like to touch me?”

“What, a sad geezer old like me.”

“I don’t mind old . . . in moderation. You’re kind of cute, in a way — for an old guy.”

It was in that moment I Knew there was a god; a god who wired certain in a way to make them attracted to older men, and she was his finest effort to date. She took my hand in hers and placed it between her knees and gently guided up the softness of her inner thigh while opening her legs a little more with he passing of my palm. My mind span when I took back control of my own hand and moved it up further hose-clad so-soft flesh. When I touched her dead center, she moaned softly and I felt shivers – literally – travel from my fingertips and up the length of my arm.

She let me stroke her legs for ages. Really it would have been enough to just rest my hand between her soft inner thighs, but she was kind and knew what this moment meant to me. And so took my cock in the palm of her hand while I continued to gently caress her, my fingers now feeling the seam of her hose running tight against her panties, soft and warm, thrilling me even more than her hand on my cock, if truth be told.

I followed the seem of her tights and moved my hand up and over her belly, then my finger pulling gently at the elastic of her hose so as to angle my hand inside and move it down inside her panties. Once more I felt like that young man I once was, excited and dizzy when about to feel nylon-covered pussy for the very first time.

Her cunt was moist and warm and I wasted no time burrowing my fingers into her. Oh God! The feel of her young, tight pussy. So many memories. My breathing become shallow and fast. You hear about old guys like me dying on the job. My heart was pumping like I was running for my life. I became quite concerned and had to take deep breaths. But still I let me fingers continue to wallow inside her seeping cunt.

She slowly wanked me off while I fingered her sweet pussy, and even though she was skilled, her hand was not enough.

“I know what you’d like,” she said.

Wriggling free of my fingers still inside her panties, she went down on me and gave me a blow job like none I have ever had. The thought of her youth, her eagerness to please me, made me feel so alive, so grateful. When I ejaculated into her mouth I felt like shouting out thank you God! Thank you God! Thank you God!
I gave her tissue and she wiped her mouth. She looked at me, held my gaze, and smiled.

Outside the Sun reappeared again. People started to browse our stalls, and so we had to go and serve new customers. Strange, I’d not even thought to kiss her.

Later, as she packed her remaining items back in boxes, she asked for my number.

“Surely you don’t want a date?” But I was hopeful all the same.

“No . . . well in a way; I want to do something special for you. I have a friend I’d like you to meet.”
“A friend?”

“Yeah — Alice. It’s really her who’s into all this sixties and seventies stuff. She’s the one who got me into it too. I think you two would get on. She’d find you interesting. You could tell her all about those days. I’m sure she’d love to hear stuff like that.”

“How can I refuse,” I was looking at her and wondering if she were perhaps an angel. “Would she want to . .
.” I actually felt myself blush “You know? What we just did, in the car?”

“Depends. Maybe . . . if she likes your stories.” She laughed.

Soon she was all packed up. When she was just about to drive away I realised I did not know her name.
“Wendy,” she said through the driver’s window as she started the engine. “Wendy, my name is Wendy. I’ll call you. . . ?”

“Mick.”

“Mick,” she said, making me part of her. “I’ll be in touch. Promise.”

I watched her driver away. I doubted I would ever see her again.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/5kx3jz/old_guy_gets_a_blowjob_at_the_carboot_sale_fm