**Writer’s Note:** This piece of fiction contains mature language and content. If this is not what you want to read, please choose something else.
Please also feel free to make comments, as this is not a genre I usually produce.
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This bar is not my kind of place at all – I stick out, like the proverbial sore thumb. There are thirty-somethings all around me, drinking and laughing. I can’t make head or tail of what I overhear, because I can’t figure out the context. So I just sit at my table – it was the first open table close to the door. I keep wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
I am 63 years old and meeting someone new.
I described myself to her as skinny fat, and she didn’t understand what I meant. I wear a size small, but I’m not toned even though I am a little taller than average. So I’m skinny but jiggly. She laughed and told me I’m cute. She said she saw the pic I posted on my profile. It’s the only pic I posted. I am not the type to take a boatload of pics of myself.
We planned to meet at 7, but I got here about 20 minutes earlier. I didn’t know the place, so I wanted to get my bearings first. I’ve been waiting for 10 minutes. I got a tonic with a twist of lime, so I don’t look like the only teetotaler in the bar. None of the menu items on the board are on my diet, so there’s nothing for me to munch on as I wait. Probably not a bad thing. I don’t want to drip something all over myself or have grease on my fingers when she gets here.
That is, if I’m still here when she gets here. I’m starting to think it’s a big mistake. She thinks I’m cute and wants to meet – Who am I kidding? She’s 22 years old. I’m an old fool.
From the pics on her profile, I can see that she’s tiny. Small frame. Small hands. Wiry arms and legs. Slim hips. Blue eyes. Short light brown hair. She wears contacts. She has a lot of pics on her profile – typical for younger people. They document their lives in their photos and upload all those pics on social media so that the whole world can see what great lives they lead. She has all kinds of pics on her profile: nudes, clothed, solo, in groups of people, holding a cat, at home, on a beach, in the woods, sexy, sleepy, smiley, bitey… Her life looks like a whirlwind of activity. She’s Little Miss Go-Go-Go. Her username is LuLuBell. My username is Stalledinthe70s.
Me… I never had great looks, which bothered me when I was young. As I got older, I realized it wasn’t so bad to not have great looks. At my age, I’m way ahead of all the beautiful people who go to seed at 50. I look pretty much like I looked most of my adult life – plain face, thick hair, no glasses. My eyesight is probably my best asset. I use “cheater” reading glasses if I can’t get a menu at the right distance to read – but that’s probably also because restaurants like to light the area for atmosphere, not reading. I’m semi-retired, and I posted the last photo taken for a work ID card on my profile. I actually hate having my picture taken, so my face is really rigid, stretched in that tight smile that says, “Let’s just get this over with, okay?”
She’s here. I sat here thinking about leaving until it’s too late to duck out. She waves to me, beaming and threading her way back to me, since she walked into the center of the place looking for me.
“Hi,” she says in a breathy voice, and she kisses me on the lips – just a quick peck of a kiss.
I don’t have anything else to say, so I say, “Hi.”
“What are you drinking?” she asks.
I reply, “Tonic water with a twist of lime.” She grins at me.
She flags a waitress and orders a lite draft beer. When I look at her, she explains, “Other beers are too sweet for me.” When the beer comes, she takes a healthy swallow and licks her lips. I sip my tonic and give her a wan smile.
We chat, mostly about work. It’s a safe topic. Eventually, the talk runs out. She reaches out and puts her hand on mine.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
I must have agreed too quickly, because she flashes a wide grin and says, “Me too! Let’s go.”
When I stand up, she makes as if to hold my hand, but I pull my hand back toward my side. Thank God, she doesn’t seem angry or offended. I told her I’m not comfortable with a lot of PDAs when she first asked to meet me. She said it was okay. She understood. I let her know I was widowed. She only asked if I was still sad about it or if I was okay. I told her I lost my best friend, but I was basically all right. She made a remark that stuck with me. She said, “Sounds like there was love but maybe not passion.”
I follow Lulu out the door and down the sidewalk. I told her I would trust her to make a lot of decisions. This dating thing is all new to me. Lulu turns to me and says, “If it’s all good, my apartment is two blocks away. But if you want to stay in a public place for a little while longer, we can go to a sandwich place that’s close.”
Not sure which to choose – didn’t I ask her to make the decisions? – I pause before saying, “Your place.” I think, what is wrong with me? What if she’s crazy?
After the first block, she keeps trying to walk closer to me, and I just keep thinking about good excuses to find that sandwich shop. I look around. I don’t even see a sandwich shop.
Lulu says, “Looking for a way out?”
I try to deny it, but that’s exactly what I’m doing. I can’t even smile. I try smiling but all I can feel is a grimace stretched across my face.
“It’s all right,” she says. “I think I pushed you a little bit into meeting me. We can go somewhere else, or we can just try meeting up in a couple days. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable or upset with me. I don’t want you to have regrets.”
I shake my head. “Your place is fine.”
She nods and says, “We can talk. It doesn’t have to go any farther than that.”
Lulu’s apartment is on the second floor. Without asking me, she doesn’t take the stairs, heading around them to a dodgy-looking elevator. I don’t know whether I’m gratified or mortified. It’s really decent of her to use an elevator when we both know she could probably take those stairs two at a bound right up to the top. I could have made it. I’m not in great shape, but I’m not decrepit, either. I realize I’m waffling with every step. Everything has to be two-sided and complicated. I want to, but I don’t want to. It isn’t fair, but it is fair. I am of two minds about it all. I just don’t want to come out of this looking or feeling stupid.
“It looks funky, I know, but this elevator hasn’t broken down since I moved in. It’s slow, maybe, but it works,” she says.
When the elevator doors open, we get in. I turn to look at her, and I could almost swear I see stars in her eyes. Her eyes are dark blue, darker than I thought they are, and they’re sparkling. I have this overwhelming urge to tell her she’s cute, but nothing comes out. I must be telegraphing it to her somehow, because she raises up on tiptoes to kiss me on the lips. It is more than the simple brush of lips she gave me at the bar. This is a nice, firm kiss – that she has to break off because she’s short and the elevator lurches. The doors open. She fairly bounces out, and I follow.
She opens her door, and there’s a whiff of pine. Not incense. Not cat litter. Not stale food. I’ve been to various apartments for various reasons – different people, different times – so I didn’t expect a spic-and-span apartment. Lulu doesn’t have a lot of decorations around. No glitter. No unicorns. No stuffed animals or dolls. I feel a lot more comfortable than I thought I would.
“Have a seat,” she says, nodding toward her couch. I sit at the far end, and she seats herself two cushions over. “You want some coffee? Or tea?”
I tell her tea would be nice, Earl Grey would be even better. She has some Earl Grey. I think I even put that on my profile…
Over cups of tea, we talk. I don’t know why I feel like opening up to a stranger, but it may have to do with how well she listens. I tell her about my marriage, and how our sex life never really seemed to get started. To be honest, it was probably all my fault and not my husband’s. In the beginning, he seemed to always want sex – but I didn’t want it very much. I did it to stop the arguments about not having sex. Later, when he developed some health issues, his desire lessened. I tried not to show it – because I did really love him – but deep down I was relieved. I hated telling him no. I hated how it made him feel.
“You never had kids?” Lulu asks.
“No. He wanted them, but we never had any.”
“I’m sorry this is such a personal question, but I have to ask. Did you enjoy sex with him?” She puts her tea cup down and looks me right in the eyes. “You don’t have to answer that, if it’s too personal. I hope I haven’t offended you.”
I have no idea why a tear is falling down my cheek. I wipe it away.
“I didn’t like it very much. It was, oh – uncomfortable and messy. I loved him. He really was my soulmate, but I didn’t feel attracted to him.” Another tear. Damn. “It would have hurt him if I told him I didn’t want him, so I never did. I avoided sex as best I could.”
“You never had sex with anyone else?”
“No. I know it was all sexual revolution and the 70’s and flower power when I was young, but I was too conservative – too uptight – to have sex with different people. I was a virgin until I got married.”
Lulu’s eyes meet mine. Does she understand how I feel? Does she think I wasted years of my life by being so uptight and proper?
To my surprise, Lulu says, “You are so beautiful. Do you know what a treasure you are?”
I just stare at her.
“If you let me, I will show you, Donna.”
I want to believe her. That lonesome teenager inside me never died, and now she’s waking up.
“I don’t know what to do or what to say,” I confess.
She scoots closer, wrapping herself in my left arm, while my right hand holds my forgotten cup of tea.
“You don’t have to do or say anything that you don’t want to. We can just sit here together,” Lulu says. She lays her head on my shoulder.
I put my cup on a coaster on the end table, and settle back onto the back cushion of the couch, Lulu still wrapped in my arm. She snuggles her head against my shoulder.
Not right away, but slowly I feel myself relaxing. There’s something so right and cozy about being here with Lulu, so quiet, so homey. Some weird kind of coil in the middle of my soul starts to unwind, and I realize it’s good to be here. It’s good to be with her. Lulu. Ordinarily, I am terrible with names – like diagnosably bad with names, like brain damaged bad with names. I once forgot my hubby’s name while we were dating. But Lulu’s name is engraved on me. I won’t forget it. I’m in a good mood for the first time tonight, but at the same time, it’s definitely a new thing for me. I look at my right hand, and it’s smoothing her hair away from her forehead. She smiles at me.
“Can I put my head in your lap?” she asks.
I nod, and her head gently settles in my lap, where I can play with her hair.
I say it before I can stop myself. “It’s so peaceful here. I didn’t know it would feel like this.”
She says, “I only said we should meet in a bar because it’s easier to find than my apartment – and less creepy right off the bat. But I’m not really a bar person. I’m much more of a home body. I don’t have a lot in common with other people my age.” She rolls over to look up at me. “Do you like classical music?”
Surprised, I say, “Yes. I like Mozart.” I don’t know why that popped out.
She pulls her phone out of her pocket and starts playing Eine kleine Nachtmusik. She puts the phone on the couch next to her.
“Do you know why I prefer older women, Donna?”
“No.”
“Older women are delicate. Their skin is so tender. Their feelings are more delicate too. I can’t tell why, until I get to know her – each woman has reasons why they hesitate, why they haven’t experienced things, what they like and don’t like. I love getting to know women who have that kind of depth.”
Lulu sits up and picks up my hands. “Donna, look at your hands. They’re so soft. They’re not meaty or bony. The skin on the back of your hand moves when I stroke it. It’s so delicate. I want to touch your body like I would touch a butterfly’s wings – so gently. I know the skin all over your body must be like this.” She looks me in the eyes, and I feel my heart thumping. I want to ask her to feel my heartbeat.
She raises my hands and kisses them, sending a jolt right through me. My hands have been touched by my husband, my family, acquaintances, bosses, coworkers, customers – just hundreds of people over my life – and I have touched my own hands a million times washing them, putting lotion on. Lulu’s kisses are completely different. Dropping my right hand, she holds my left in hers, looking in my eyes the entire time. Then she kisses the cleavage between my index and middle fingers. I can’t help the sudden intake of breath. It’s as though a nerve leads from that small fleshy patch of skin straight to my crotch. Lulu kisses the same spot and sucks the skin. I can’t sit still. Her tongue flicks out and caresses my hand.
In a hushed tone, Lulu says, “I don’t want to take this too fast with you.”
I take a couple breaths. “I don’t know if this is fast or slow. All I know is I don’t want it to stop.”
She gives my hand another moist, sucking kiss on the tender spot right by my knuckles. “If you need a moment any time, or you want me to stop, just tell me.” Her eyes look into mine. “We can stay here on the couch and talk, if you’d like. We can go further if you want to.”
“It’s up to me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
There is a long pause. Then she says, “I really like you – that is the first reason you are the one to decide how far we go. Also… this is a list of firsts. First date you’ve gone on. First girl you’ve been with.” She gives me a sly smile. “I’d like to give you your first orgasm. But if you’re anxious or embarrassed or not in the mood – it doesn’t have to all happen right now.”
My heart is pounding. It feels like I have champagne running in my veins, bubbly and bright. I don’t think I can talk.
Lulu kisses me long and hard, her fingers tangled in my hair. When she breaks the kiss off, I grab a breath. Dizzy, I put my hand on the couch.
“Are you all right?”
I nod.
“Do you want to go to bed?”
I nod.
Standing up, she leads me into her bedroom. The curtains are open, but the sheers are drawn closed. There is a box on her nightstand. It looks like it fell off a stagecoach. It’s wooden, rounded on top, leather straps holding it closed.
“That’s my toy box,” Lulu says.
“Pandora’s box…” I say.
“No, Donna. Only good things come out when you open it.” She smiles at me. “Remember, everything is your choice. You can open the box or leave it like it is.”
I sit on her bed. “And this is my one chance.”
“I hope not! That’s why I want to go at your pace. I don’t want this to be a one time thing.”
She kisses me and I end up on my back. She asks as she removes my clothing. She asks as she touches me. I don’t know what to do with my hands – I end up grabbing fistfuls of the blanket on each side of me. She’s so small, but her hands and lips are everywhere. My breath is getting ragged. I hear someone groaning. It’s me. I’m groaning. My legs are spread wide, and her face is between them, her fingers inside me.
A feeling starts in the pit of my stomach. It’s exciting and frightening at the same time. My heart is jack-hammering, and my body is tense all over. That is when I realize something is coming. I’m scared, like I’m caught on the train tracks with the train coming at me. I’m afraid I’ll be pounded to bits and scattered like leaves. My hips raise off the bed. I’m grabbing the blanket like I’m going to tear it up. I try to say “No,” because I’m going to be shattered – but all that comes out of my mouth is “Nnnnnn.” Then it hits me. My body jerks and shudders. I sob in breaths.
Suddenly, I have my head between Lulu’s breasts and I’m sobbing my heart out. It takes me a couple minutes to calm down and stop crying. But there’s no way I’m letting go of her.
I say, “I didn’t know what it would be like.”
She kisses my forehead. “It’s all okay, Donna. Everything is okay.”
I don’t know why. I don’t understand yet how any of this works. But lying in her arms in her bed, I think that for once in my life maybe everything will be okay.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/hpcvk2/firsts_ff_youngold