I possess a secret pheromone that attracts women between the ages of thirty to forty-five. It’s true. I can walk up to the hottest milf/cougar at the bar, and, more often than not, hook up with her. I tend to confuse or anger younger girls, who ultimately accuse me of “being creepy.” But when it comes to older women, I have a magic potion.
Woody’s Wharf had emerged as my favorite bar. It wasn’t a huge bar, but it had a certain dynamic that made it perfect for my style. I loathe bars that are simply one giant room. The animal in me thinks it essential to hit on girls without the whole damn bar as witnesses. Woody’s was different; there were four separate areas where I could work: the hallway, the bar and table area, the dance floor, and the smoking area. Girls in any one area couldn’t observe the other areas. Hopping from one space to the next gave me a fresh start no matter how many times I got rejected. I wasn’t concerned whether my new target had seen me hit on the tall cougar in the smoking area moments before.
Me: “Are you really married?”
Her: “Yes I am. But it’s an open marriage.”
Me: “Are you serious? You both agreed on this?”
Her: “Well yeah, hence the term ‘open marriage.’”
Me: (My conscience cleared) “Oh yeah. Well, I think you need to tell your friend that I am going to buy you a drink, then walk with me toward the hallway so we can make out.”
Her: “Good idea.”
Barb whispered something to her friend and took my hand.
She was a terrible kisser. I thought that by the time girls reached the age of forty-two they’d evolve into decent kissers. Her tongue was moving so fast that kissing her became more of a task than a pleasure. When I was in college, a girl told me coldly, “Okay, you know what? You suck at kissing! Slow down and stop moving your tongue so damn fast.” I was baffled because I seriously thought I was good because my first girlfriend had said so. Since that day, I had adjusted my tongue velocity, and now I receive compliments all the time. Obviously, Barb’s men had remained quiet and tolerated her poor kissing skills. Thanks, guys.
We made out in corners and on the dance floor only when her friends weren’t looking. After an hour of this, Ron approached us. “Hey, dude. I’m out of here.” The three of us walked to a table and discussed our desires.
Ron’s desire: Leave. Now.
My desire: Fuck Barb.
Barb’s desire: Party with her friends until the bar closed. Fuck me afterwards.
We didn’t voice our actual thoughts, but after much negotiating, Barb decided she wanted to dance with her friends until the place closed—in forty-five minutes—then call and “meet up with me.” Perhaps I should have stayed with Barb, ditched my sure-thing ride home, and taken my chances. For whatever reason, I believed in her “phone call afterwards” thing. I’m no expert on open marriages, but when I was stealing my dad’s Penthouse Letters, half the articles in those magazines involved true open marriage stories. I understood that women in open marriages don’t toy with sex. They take what they want.
As Ron and I drove home, I became anxious. After last weekend’s blown opportunity, I didn’t want another repeat. I considered having Ron turn around. “I’ll turn around if you want, man,” he told me. “It’s up to you.” I thought about it, but in the end I put my faith in Barb’s phantom phone call.
When we got back to Ron’s place, I lay on the couch and dozed off. Ron has always had a slight apprehension about letting me crash at his pad. One time I had gotten so drunk that when I awoke in the middle of the night to take a leak, I didn’t know where I was. Although the bathroom was eight feet away from me, I went into the kitchen and opened every cabinet, trying to find a toilet. I eventually opened his front door and urinated in his condo hallway. The cabinet racket awakened Ron, and when he walked out to see what the commotion was, he saw me shaking out the last few drops in the hallway.
“What’s up!” I made my voice sound wide-awake, ready to party.
“Hey. I’m leaving now,” Barb announced.
“Cool. I’m stuck.”
“You’re stuck. What do you mean you’re stuck?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll explain later. Just come pick me up. Exit Jamboree.”
“Okay, but I can’t start my car until this fucking cop leaves. I’ve been waiting like seven minutes.”
“Yeah, no hurry.”
“So how do I get there?”
I gave her directions and got up to take a leak—in the bathroom this time. I waited out front for her. It took Barb almost a half-hour. As soon as I opened her car door, she asked, “So what did you mean about being stuck?”
Ron was wrong. Barb wasn’t “pretty thick.” She was fat. I hadn’t noticed it at Woody’s, but she was huge below the waist. While her fake breasts were gorgeous, her colossal ass actually made her waist look slim. Her legs were the size of a drinking fountain I once saw at a tennis court. I ignored it and fucked her anyway.
As I nailed her from behind, her ass undulated like a tidal wave. I had never fucked anything like this girl. She had the loosest pussy of all time. The saying “throwing a hot dog down a hallway” wasn’t quite appropriate; it was more like throwing a flashlight into a Fun House. As I fucked her doggy style, a disgusting aroma permeated the room. I had noticed this smell, a combination of pussy and shit, on at least five different girls, all over the age of forty. It has only occurred while screwing older women from behind. I wondered what that’s all about.
As Barb walked out, few words were said. She yelped as she nearly tripped over a duffel bag on her way out, her final words: “Well, I’m going to call my friends. I hope they’re at Denny’s.”
Twelve years ago I was the kid masturbating to Dad’s secret stash of porn. I lost my virginity in the passenger seat of my car nine years ago, and four years back marked my first rimjob.
The older, wiser, sleazier me had an epiphany: I have become what I jerked off to. I am “Penthouse Letters.”
Leave a Reply