This is the first in a series of e-mails I recently received. Enjoy!
Hello, my name is Rita Goleta (let’s get one thing out of the way: no, I don’t know who Rita Hayworth was; no, I’ve never been to Goleta, Calif.). I’m flipping over your incredible blog, like a door opening to a new, forbidden girl’s paradise! Even though I’m 39, married too young, had a kid too young, got divorced still young.
My current live-in, Skip, is already 40, a “good catch” everyone tells me. He is gentle with me, kind to everybody, and what a – the word I’m looking for, a friend told me – he’s an Adonis. Whatever the hell that is, but I saw pictures of Skip as a javelin thrower when he almost made it to the Olympics, and he looked like a Greek god. I see his sleek abdomen, rippling pecs, the big round deltoids on his broad shoulders, the kind developed by spear tossers and pole vaulters. Best of all is the arm cocked back, not a bulbous steroid type, just long, smooth, real big biceps and triceps leading up to a massive forearm and hand holding the javelin, ready to heave it. Oh, mama, why didn’t I meet him back then?!
Okay, now he’s developed a little bit of spare tire, but he keeps fit pumping iron, gives me shivers when he wraps those still sleek and muscular arms around me, yet…..and yet, not to make a downside, sorry to say, good sex but something missing and I couldn’t figure out what, would get so close to climax, never quite make it, like everything is so good, so kind, so loving, so damned bland conventional vanilla. Until...
Over time I learned to trust Skip to stay with my teenage girl – call her Vanessa – when I went out for an errand, because he clearly had no interest in underage anybody of any persuasion. He preferred adult women with fully developed figures and pretty faces, experience and equipment to go with maturity, in other words… me! No wrinkles yet, no sagging yet, been told I’m an exotic Mediterranean brunette (genes of one grandmother from Barcelona?), not to mention a set of boobs and buns I can still be proud of. Oh yeah, I see those young men gawking, and I play it to the hilt. Let ‘em suffer. Suffer? Now what did I mean by that?
I don’t know how the hell I came across your blog, but save my soul, I began to get a hint of what I’d been missing. When I was about Vanessa’s age, I had what I thought were shameful thoughts and fantasies. I would read and hear about professional fights with bruised faces and puffed-up lips, and even after-school bloody mix-ups, but they always seemed to be attended by males, you know, men, boys. Not for girls. Why not? How I wished I could be right at the front of the crowd. But then I, ha ha, “grew up,” conformed to the rules of civilized society, being feminine meant gentle, caring, doing good deeds. In my work as a podiatrist’s nurse the old farts who came in because they couldn’t trim their own toenails said they wanted to take me home, I was so sweet and smiling and painless. Yet I had pangs of guilt for thinking how, when some pompous old ass blabbered away at me, oh jeez how I’d love to say Oops! and “accidentally” snip a piece of toe just to hear his masculine voice go all girlie-girlie as he squawked in pain. In my fantasy I’d say, “Oh, Mr. Garlick, I’m so sorry,” and then trip, lunge forward, and “accidentally” ram the clippers into his balls. My brain-movie came to The End before I got fired from my job.
Then came your blog and, around the same time, the incident…..
...to be continued!