Coming of Age

"If you want a Daddy, go find one and stay away from my father."

You know, I think we all have those moments when we wish we had a do over, when we had the ability to freeze time for a moment, to compose ourselves, think through an answer, and make it sound great like it does in the movies. That wasn't one of those times. I should have told her to fuck off. Or to mind her own business. If I was a better person, I would have told her that she didn't know me and that I was a nice person.

Instead I fumed inside, averted her look, and walked away. Greg returned a few moments later with wine, I apologized, pleaded a headache and offered to take a cab home.

"I'll drive you home."

"Your daughter is here. You've got wine. Talk to her." And I walked out the door.

Greg started called me a little later and I texted him that I was home. I turned the ringer off on my phone on Sunday and didn't take his calls or texts. I sulked, or at least that's what I called it, and spent the day in bed feeling sorry for myself.

I went to work the next day and ignored Greg's calls and texts that night. I finally texted that I felt under the weather. He offered soup, juices, a grocery run. I turned it down. I felt bad, not physically, but I was an emotional wreck.

I'm not proud of what I did; it was probably illegal, and maybe I could have gotten my friend into trouble, but that's water down the drain. I talked to a friend who worked at the hospital and somehow she could access work schedules. With my class in the morning, I had a tight timetable, but I was at St. Thomas at six thirty in the morning on Wednesday, at the elevator to Kerri's floor. I caught her by surprise. She didn't recognize me at first, and before the glimmer of recognition matured into anything else, I started.

"I don't know your problem, but it's usually teenagers that get all weirded out by their parents starting a relationship. I'm an adult, as is your father. We're just two people that bumped into each other and hit it off. And you know what, I like him. And I'm not going to make him choose between you or me, because that's petty and immature, and really sort of twisted. If that's your gig, go for it, but you tell him, and let him decide. You don't have to like me. Or even acknowledge me. But don't think you can judge me."

And I walked away.

I found a bathroom on the first floor and stood in a stall and shook for five minutes. Then I realized that I had twenty four second graders who wanted to get ready for a Valentine's Day party and I went to work.

That night I called Greg and apologized for not answering the calls and texts.

"Friday is Valentine's and I know we're just friends and all, but I'd like to invite you over for dinner."

"Let me think about it," he said.

I felt a lump in my chest. I had trouble sleeping that night. He called me Thursday when I was walking into my classroom.

"Does the offer still stand?" I told him it did. "I'd love to join you."

My grandmother was an incredible cook. She never used a cookbook or a recipe. She made other dishes her own by subtle changes in spices and textures. My mother couldn't make Jell-O without help. So I thought that cooking skills were one of those things that skip a generation and then return, a weird genetic mutation with variable dominance and penetrance and all of those genetic phrases I can't remember.

It isn't. Cooking is one of those things that you have to work on. Every day. And while I got my Grams stare and I could wilt granite with a good look, instant mashed potatoes are a challenge.

So here was my dilemma. Greg was coming to my house Friday. I had to work all day. I can't cook. So I improvised. The internet is a wonderful thing. "Google" foolproof appetizer, entrees, luscious deserts and there are thousands of hits. Now my idea of foolproof and reality may be light years apart. But at least it was a start.

The timer on the stove started to beep and I moved pots around from hot spots to cold. It was six forty five and Greg was to arrive at seven. It was at that moment that I realized I was totally screwed. The salad and starter were ready. The desert was an idea and plan in my brain. The entrée was unassembled in various heaps and mounds around the kitchen. And I still had not gotten dressed.

I turned up the Nora Jones CD and whipped through clothes in my closet. I really wondered what the hell I had been thinking when I invited Greg. It's hard to concentrate when you're anxious and stressed and I sure as hell wasn't feeling real romantic.

I found a pair of red tights and a lacy black skirt. I had gotten a pretty white blouse for Christmas and finally had the chance to wear it. I dug out some of Grams costume jewelry, dusted my face with glittery powder and slipped on my shoes. The doorbell beckoned me.

I swallowed hard when I saw Greg. The man was gorgeous in a black single breasted tuxedo jacket with a red bow tie and cummerbund.

"Damn."

"Am I all right?" he said, a look of panic washed across his face.

"You are more than all right. On the other hand, I look like I walked out of a ..."

"Fantastic dream." He stepped closer and kissed my forehead.

We stood in the doorjamb for a moment, our foreheads resting against each other until I came to my senses and invited him into the apartment.

"Something smells fabulous," he said. He put two bottles of wine on the dining room table and handed me a wonderful bouquet of cut flowers with carnations, irises, and tulips.

"Thank you for lying. The super bowl is the biggest day for pizzas, but I've got a twenty to order one if needed.

Greg acted like he had been in the apartment forever. He opened the wine and poured two glasses. He held his up to his eyes, looked through t at me and said "To friendship." We sipped the scrumptious, tart red wine. "Okay, put me to work."

I took him up on the offer and lead him into the kitchen and pointed him toward the salads. He added carrots and olives and dressed them before carrying them to the dining room. I dished the soup and got rolls from the oven and arranged the table. I had originally set us across from each other, but after a moment Greg moved to the seat next to mine.

A funny thing happened. We started where we had left off earlier in the week. It was if the week itself had not happened. He dropped into telling me a story from a class he was teaching and I talked about my kids. Soon we were laughing and joking and comparing the eight and twenty year olds and discovering that there were actually very similar. We had finished the first bottle of wine, the salad and roasted squash soup were gone, and I realized that dinner was unassembled in the kitchen.

"We may need to call for the pizza."

"I think we can think of something."

He took me by the hand and led me into the kitchen. He looked at the assembled ingredients and my recipe that I had printed earlier in the day. He rummaged through the refrigerator. He barked orders like a drill sergeant and I stood at the stove like an automaton following a program.

"Lower the heat, stir slower to caramelize the onions."

Greg stood behind me and placed his right hand on mine and moved it through the buttery onions frying on the stove. He slid his left hand around my waist and rested it on my belly. I closed my eyes and stepped back and leaned against him. I dropped the spoon and wrapped his arms around me. Turning, I took his head in my hands and lowered his mouth to my lips. I tried the chaste kiss, and then attacked his lips and tongue, savoring the taste of his tongue against mine and his skin against mine.

"Onions are burning," he said.

"Fuck the onions," I said. I turned off the gas.

I took him by the hand and lead him into my bedroom. I stood next to the bed and turned and searched his eyes.

He placed his hands on my chest, under my arms, and I swear to you the man dead lifted me off the ground and held me in the air over him. I get spastic with heights, but this was a real turn on. He lowered me onto the bed. He lowered himself onto me and we started to kiss. He raked his tongue across my neck, nibbled my nose, and caressed my ears. I nipped at his Adam's apple and massaged his neck. All the while I moved my hips, trying to rub or push or bump his pelvis.

Greg kneeled over me and unbuttoned my blouse. I started to help but he ceremoniously took my hands and placed them beneath my head as to immobilize them. My blouse fell open and he placed his hands on my breasts and rubbed my nipples with the feathery silk fabric of my bra. He found the button to the skirt and peeled it away and tugged down my red tights. He made a production of sliding them off my legs. I lie in front of him in a pair of pink boy shorts and my open blouse. He was still dressed; okay, he taken off the tie and cummerbund.

Greg knelt on the floor, had me point my legs up and managed to slide the lacy shorts off my long legs.

The sensation of his tongue on my pussy lips sent a jolt through my spine like I had never felt before. He placed his hands on my thighs, gently holding them apart to expose me to him and he continued to gently, lightly move his tongue across my lips. Then he did it. He zeroed in on my clit and it felts as if an orgasmic tunnel from my pussy to brain had been formed. I moaned and growled and probably used words that cannot be found in any English language dictionary. Just when I thought I had felt as good as I could without coming, he raised the intensity level a factor of ten and sent me to a new plateau. Then he took me to a new place.

He slid a finger into my tight pussy and moved it in a circle while he licked the nub of my slit. The competing sensations were phenomenal. I put my hands on his head and pulled him into me, pushing harder on my clit, encouraging the continuous licking and pressure on my clit as he continued his slow finger dance inside me. The first wave was like a pebble dropped into a still pond, small and contained that rapidly escalated and exploded as a wave of pleasure exploded from the tight confines of my pussy and spread in rippling waves into my back and spine down my legs and into my chest, washing over me in a warmth that I have never experiences before. I collapsed into the bed as I covered by clit to avoid any further stimulation.

"Wow," I said in a barely audible breath, too tired and satiated to put any energy into the word.

"So that was a three or four?"

I smacked him on the head.

"The chart isn't long enough for that one."

Then he did it all again. And it was even better.

Greg climbed onto the bed and lie next to me. We rubbed noses and I smelled my juices on his face; his breath and lips tasted like me. I continued to kiss him and slid my hand down to his groin and rubbed his cock through his pants. He was already hard. I opened his shirt and bit and licked his nipples while slowly applying a circular pressure to his cock. He rocked his hips, trying to maximize the pressure on his cock while I suckled him. I kissed my way down his belly, unzipped his pants and slid everything off and through his pants onto the floor. His cock slapped his belly.

"Well, look at this," I said taking his cock in my hand. I spit on the head and slid my hand up and down the shaft.

I slid him to the edge of the bed so his feet were on the floor and I knelt between his legs. I continued to slide my hand up and down the shaft, very slowly and then I touched my tongue to his balls. He moaned and squirmed, trying to push his balls against my tongue. I pushed back, licking the base of his balls while slowly jerking him.

Greg was naked. I only had my lace bra on. I straddled his face, hovering my still buzzed clit just inches from his face.

"Don't touch it or I stop," I said with a giggle.

I lowered my head to his cock, sliding his head into my mouth and I resumed my stroking. I varied the pace, fast and slow, putting pressure on the head and stopping the stroking when I thought he was getting ready to come. I cradled his balls in my hand while I stroked.

"Please, I need to cum," he said, a tone of utter desperation in his voice.

"Where?"

"Anywhere!"

"Cum in my mouth," I said as I started to swirl my tongue around the head, and jerked him harder and faster. It only took a few seconds and he sent four long shots of thick, ropey cum into my mouth. I swallowed it and licked him clean.

I pulled back the covers and we lay on the crisp sheets and kissed, making mewing sounds as we cooed. I fell asleep with our lips touching.

It was midnight when I woke and found myself alone in the bed. I heard crackling from the other room, threw a robe on and walked into the kitchen. Greg was standing at the stove wearing my red microfiber fleece robe. There was water boiling on the back burner, the skillet was sizzling, and bread was baking in the oven.

"Ready for dinner?"

We opened the second bottle of wine and we ate a lavish pasta dish with peas, carrots, onion and cream with shaved parmesan and a side of Italian spinach. I still don't know how he did it.

We giggled and laughed all through the meal. We started our conversation where we had left it, talking about our students.

"I'm sorry about Kerri," Greg finally said.

I felt myself flush. I didn't know what he knew.

"She was out of line. But that's my daughter. She means well, but then some days she turns off her social regulator and says things that shoul never leave her lips."

"I went to St. Thomas Wednesday morning."

"I know."

"You do?"

"She told me. Or tried to tell me without telling me why you would do such a thing. We had words, said a few things that we shouldn't have said. But she eventually told me what happened Saturday night."

"So?"

"So, she and I have had a talk, or several of them. I raised her since she was fifteen. We've had lots of talks over the years. We're good."

"And us?"

"Well, let me say I haven't had that much fun," his eyes darted toward the bedroom, "In years. No, ever. And you?"

I closed my eyes.

"Susan says age is just a number and I'm working hard to believe her. And then I wonder what people will think."

"They'll think that that guy has got one smart, hot woman with him."

"Or how did she find a guy like that."

I leaned over and whispered in his ear.

"Honey, I'd love to, but there is one thing with the age difference. The equipment takes a while to recycle and recharge."

"Oh really? Isn't there anything I can do to help it?

I turned his chair, straddled his legs, lowered my bare pussy against his soft cock and started kissing him. We weren't there long, just a few minutes, enough to show him I was eager to try. I felt a little surge in his cock against me. I lead him to the bedroom, threw him onto it, and knelt between his legs.

I may not be any good in the kitchen, but I can find fun things on the internet. I got a tube of lube from my bedside table and smeared it all over my fingers. I put my finger against his asshole and slid it into him.

"Ooh!"

"Yeah, that's right, baby, 'ooh'".

I turned my finger upwards and slid it in and out, pushed against the firm bump.

"That's nice."

"I thought it would be." I rubbed back and forth, making small circular rings, and pressing harder at times. His cock started to get bigger and I bent down and took him in my mouth again. "That's it, get hard in my mouth."

And he did. I rubbed inside, pushing against his prostate, pumping it, and sucking him at the same time. It took a bit, but after about ten minutes his cock was hard. I think it was even bigger than earlier in the evening. I pulled my finger out.

"What did I say I wanted?"

"You wanted my cock in your cunt."

"That's what I still want."

I crawled on the bed and hovered over him. I took his cock, put it at my opening, and lowered myself onto it.

"That. Feels. So. Good," I grunted the words as I slid his thick, hard cock into me. I rested on my arms enjoying the sensation of being completely filled.

"Look, if we're going to do this," he said, "We need to do it right."

He pulled me to him and rolled, like a fancy wrestling move. a tangle of arms and legs, sweat and sex until I was beneath him.

"Like this. I'm going to fuck your cunt, Julia, until I cum inside you."

And he did.

My grandmother was a great cook, I'm not. She could put you in place with her eyes, so can I. She was extremely passionate about everything she did: her work, her family, her garden. Since I met Greg, I realize that I am a lot like my grandmother. And that age is just a number. And that I love him dearly.