Four Star

The young don't know about love—love how it is lived out over years, over life. Nor should they, of course. It isn't yet their time.

Edward is a good man, but tired. For the last several years we have been happy, I guess. We travel and we golf. Sometimes we go to movies or the theater. All in all, we are comfortable and get along. Edward is intelligent and converses well, but the passion is no longer there. After twenty-five years of marriage, I suppose those feelings wane.

There is still sex, of a kind. I am, to use the animal phrase, serviced. Usually twice a month, on alternate Fridays. It is mercifully short, though not sweet. One or two kisses, passion optional, clothes off, dick in.

I now use lubricants. We have no children.

There are times I wonder about this. Edward is an attractive man. He's quite handsome and reasonably thin. His hair is thick, his body toned from gym. I hope I am at least so well preserved. My figure is as trim as ever, thanks to the Stairmaster. The crow's feet are still faint and even they, I've been told, are becoming. They're little smile lines, Ellen. They make you even more beautiful. I wish I could believe that. When I notice men watching me, I am pleased and reassured. I don't know why our love life has gone cold.

We both have jobs of significance. Edward is partner in an accounting firm and I am an architect, so quick cook or home delivery is common for our meals. Ordering out usually means classic fast food cuisine: pizza or Chinese.

I know what you're thinking—sex-starved wife, hot delivery boys. Ooh-la-la.

In my dreams, perhaps.

The pizza guys look young and hung, but also dumb. They suffice for the idle fantasy that accompanies a swift afternoon buzz with my vibrator, but that's all. The movie they play in my mind has sound but no dialogue, if you catch my drift. But the Chinese takeout guy? Let's just say that there, sometimes, is a more subtle flavor. One in particular—tall and angular—a guy with wire-frame glasses. Dark hair, cut neatly and styled short. His name is Tim. I asked. He looks well in jeans.

I always go to the door. Edward is too busy. He still has his job, his work, brought home. Says there's too much for one man to do, during normal hours. It saps his time.

And it does take time. I have to stand in the living room actively looking out for the delivery car. The entryway is on the side of the house, facing the blank wall of the neighbor's garage, and the porch is set back from the front of the house. It's easy to miss our street number and more than one driver has gone sailing past, taking our food off into the sunset. Tim found the house first try.

I always overtip Tim. It's that nice smile, the dimples like those on Dennis Quaid.

Over time, I've gotten to know a bit about him, the way you do when you chat with someone you see now and then. Nothing too intimate, of course, just things like he's a college student, that he wants to be an artist. Things like that. That he likes baseball.

I like baseball too and we sometimes talk about the local team and commiserate. You know, two games out of first, should we pick up a bat or left-handed relief? Or we talk about art and architecture. I tell him about buildings and line and form. He talks about impasto, stipple, wash.

"Stipple" always makes me giggle.

We see each other perhaps three times a month. I look forward to it.

Tim, now, gives my fantasies some detail, some depth. I've often wondered if he finds me at least a bit attractive, thought that given the right circumstances I might even take that step to approach, to ask . . . but I wouldn't know how to ask, how to proceed, where to go if he said yes. I wouldn't know what I would do if he turned me down, either. So it always remained friendly talk with just a hint of flirtation to it. And, of course, my steamy dreams.

Then there was tonight. Edward and I had ordered a good meal, though not an unusual one: salt and pepper prawns, potstickers, rice. Tim smiled as he handed me the bag. I blushed and overtipped again. Edward came downstairs as soon as he heard the doorbell, so I merely thanked Tim, brought things inside, and doled the food out onto plates.

Edward picked up chopsticks. He always uses chopsticks with Chinese food.

I wasn't hungry and walked out to the living room. Looking down at the street, I could see Tim's car was still in front. I pulled the gauze curtains slightly apart for a better look. The streetlight is half a block away from our house and although the moon was out, it wasn't very bright. If there was someone in the car, I couldn't tell.

Edward walked past with his prawns and rice. "Work to do, Ellie," he said, "Work." He rumbled off upstairs.

It was very quiet in the house. I listened intently to the silence.

Then, a light tap at the door. Like a ghost's knock.

Again.

I cracked it open. Tim was there.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Pierson." His eyes flipped up at me then down, then up and down, like a switch cycling on and off. "I . . . I want to say goodbye. I'm leaving next week for Chicago. Going to grad school there." He looked up again. His face turned a lovely shade of red.

My stomach climbed toward my throat.

"I know I'm just the delivery guy, but you've been so nice." He hesitated, then said, "I've enjoyed our talks."

I made myself smile. "I've enjoyed our talks as well, Tim," I replied, suddenly flushed between my legs.

Tim looked into my eyes and turned his grin full on. All at once it was like everything was Technicolor, and I was wild—wild like I was twenty-two again. Wild and irresponsible and stupid young.

I turned off the porch light, stepped outside, and closed the door.

Tim moved back, confused. Softly I said, "I'll miss you, Tim. I think you need a special tip." In the dim light, I could see his eyes soften with understanding. We came to each other's arms and kissed.

I had often thought of how he would taste, how he would respond. Well and strong he did, but also somehow shy. His kiss was full, but tentative, like some part of him was holding back. "I want you, Tim," I said into his ear, "I want you once before you leave. I want you here, outside. I want you in the open, on the porch."

The young are so predictable, so wonderfully predictable. As we embraced, his hardness pressed toward me through his pants. After one last long kiss, I knelt and worked his belt, his fly, and pushed things down. Out sprung his beautiful thick cock, still only half-erect, sleepy, but interested and eager. I licked it once, just below the head. It bounced in the air, moving toward stiff. Then again—tongue flick/heartbeat/more erect. A small pearl of moisture appeared at the slit. A light dab of my tongue captured it. I licked along the ridge underneath his shaft from base to tip, swirled my tongue around the helmet—once, twice. Then, greedily, I took him in my mouth.

His warmth was incredible, his heavy scent intoxicating. My skin warmed and I felt myself getting wet. As I took him deeper, into the back of my throat, he let out a long low moan. I began to work his cock steadily in and out of my mouth, reaching up to gently massage his balls and rub the tender area just behind them. In. Out. Fast. Slow. When I looked up at his face, his head was thrown back, his mouth open. His breathing became ragged.

Then he put his hand on my head and gently pushed me away. "No," he said in a shaky voice, "I want to fuck you. Let me fuck you." He pulled me to my feet and gave me a deep kiss, then reached up under my shift and pulled my sopping panties down my legs. I kicked them away.

Tim turned me around, toward the railing, and bent me forward. He pushed my skirt up over my hips. Looking over my shoulder, I saw him hold his prick up ready to enter me. I arched my back and he pushed himself slowly, steadily, all the way in. I gasped at his size.

"God, Ellen, you're so wet," he sighed.

Just the feeling of his cock filling me made me tremble. When he began to thrust in and out, my legs were suddenly so weak I had trouble standing up. Tim's hands were on my hips, pulling me back onto him as he pressed forward. My throat hurt from the pressure of shutting down the moans I barely held in check.

Shifting his weight and leaning forward, he angled differently inside me. At the same time, he reached around and with two fingers began to stroke my clit. My skin flashed all over, as if doused with alcohol and set aflame, and I knew it wouldn't be long before I climaxed. The way Tim was groaning, I knew he was almost there as well.

We were so damn close. I bit my lip to keep from screaming and blood ran down my chin. He thrust again, one last deep plunge, and I felt the jerk of his cock and the warm spurt of cum inside me and I came and came and came again. . . .

"Mrs. Pierson?"

My eyes refocused on the camellia next door, its leaves glossy in the bright porch light. I was standing in the doorway and had to step forward onto the porch to look at Tim, who was part way down the steps.

"I've really enjoyed knowing you. Our talks, I mean." He grinned, showing those wonderful dimples.

With my right hand, I steadied myself against the doorframe. "I have as well, Tim," I said. My nipples felt hard and raw against my bra. "Good luck to you. Send me a postcard! And go see Farnsworth House. It's near Chicago. It's an architectural masterpiece."

He waved and bounced down the steps to the street. "I will." His teeth were Cheshire Cat-like in the moonlight. "Thanks." Then he was gone.

After a few minutes, I began to feel chilled. I went back inside, closed the door, and turned the lock. In the kitchen I scooped the leftover food into plastic bins and put them in the refrigerator. The few dishes were loaded into the dishwasher, the kitchen chairs straightened about the table. Then I turned out the lights and climbed the stairs. Edward tap, tap, tapped at the keyboard in his office.

Alone in my bedroom, I opened the dresser. Took out my Magic Wand.