Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!

This story is at least 85% true--too bad it isn't 100%, but that's life.

*

The quinquennial celebration of sloppy sentimentality, coupled with blackmail and extortion, had come upon me again. Another reunion at dear old Alma Mater; how nice once again to see classmates who had far more hair, much less fat, and a great deal more money than I. And hear them discussing the relative merits of skiing Gstaad and bareboating the Caribbean. Every reunion I get older and they get younger. This time one showed up with his 30 year old wife and ten year old son: my kids could have kids that age (except they don't).

I went, of course. I even like most of them. I think of my life as a bad John O'Hara short story; the kind no one has read for fifty years, but which I always liked.

So I registered the minute the first registration packet arrived in the mail the previous September, and made sure at year-end to send a tax-deductible grand to the old calaboose on The Hill. That got my name on the "moderate givers" list, and entitled me to what the late Damon Runyon called "an E-flat hello" from the latest Dean (number five since I graduated; Deans at the dear old calaboose had a relatively short shelf life). I even remembered his name, although I'm quite sure he didn't know me from the Holy Ghost.

So cocktails, more cocktails, the Class dinner (not bad, they held it off-campus at what passes for a class joint at the nearest upscale mall) and the barbecue.

Then I could ditch the suit (wash-and-wear travel special), put on cargo shorts and a top (thank God for the gym! Torture is good for the gut) and see what the younger generation is up to.

Thank God, they were up to no good, just as we were, although they sure were getting more than I got. There's that bastard of a virus now, and that's no joke, but The Pill is established, everyone bags it, and there are good times on The Hill.

So it's ten p.m. and I'm under the big tent in the middle of the arts quad, sipping lukewarm Bud Light from a wax paper cup, and finding out where the children are. Diversity being the PC brew du jour, we have eligible vulvæ attached to young and no-longer-young persons of every land, race and language. Mostly they're five years out or younger, some even of last year's or this year's crop of graduates, and all warranted to be over the age of 18 years. The local Deputy Dogs are carding everyone younger than me before letting them in to sample the Bud Light.

The band isn't bad, but as usual they make decibels substitute for major-league talent.

Then I see her. It was the hat at first, one of those light tan would-be Aussie bush hats, brim buttoned up on both sides, the back of the brim pulled down like a sunflap and the front rucked up like a three-corner Revolutionary War special. She had an aristocratic smile, amused at the antics of the peasants yet not condescending or disdainful, but she was dancing like tomorrow would never come.

I could see the spaghetti bra straps, but wondered why she needed one. Now I am a tit-man. The Girl of My Dreams is well equipped, which first brought her to my notice two seconds before I decided to marry her forty years ago. And they're still fine by me, two kids and forty years of life later. And to keep them in view I keep my nose (and other parts) clean. Nevertheless, I ain't dead, only married, so I admire a well-hung, properly displayed rack on any lady. My motto is "Baby, if you hang 'em out, I'm gonna check 'em out."

But despite her greenapple sized tits, the smile got me, and the stare, and the oval, perfectly-proportioned face. She was dancing, not just moving but really dancing. She and a Hispanic girl, who was low to the ground, barrel-with-boobs, lots of black hair and lipstick, just on the decent side of slut.

I turned on the Gaydar, adjusted for range and bearing, and awaited results.

"Cannot determine," the reading came back, "but strongly trending negative, click 'reset' for next scan."

She turned away from me. Now I like a well-turned butt. Not only should a woman look good forr'ad, she should look good aft. Bows are easy, said the skipper, but it takes skill to make a good stern. The GoMD provided enough to hold onto, although she was no bubble-butt. This young countess hid the goodies under a pair of cutoffs and a scoop-necked float of a shirt, but her ass showed muscle. Good.

Now the band started on "Sugar Pie Honey Bunch". That took me back maybe forty years. And she started jumping to the music, bouncing up and down on the grass in time, her last dance partner having moved on somewhere, and some guy standing next to her enjoying the view close-up and personal. Legs are not my thing, but hers were toned muscle from the top down.

She was hot, just a little shorter than I am, but nicely built. And her arms and back showed lots of muscle--the girl is ripped!

Although I knew nothing was going to happen, I waited for the music to end and followed her over to the beer table. I grabbed a second Bud Light and sent it down to give my regards to its brother and the six ounces of Knob Creek I'd already taken aboard. As she walked away carrying four Buds very professionally, I looked at her name badge: "Caroline Post." No year.

She gave me a split-second glance, the kind I once got from Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mum as she rode past, years ago in London, on another June day long before Ms. Post first appeared on this planet, but the same look of someone from another planet, a greener, happier planet.

Let fantasy reign. Why not? As John Lennon would have said, "Imagine." Imagine that smile, how nice it would be to part those teeth with my tongue and find out whether Bud Light had flavored her spit. I wouldn't want to wrestle her; she could probably kill me.

Big nips, little nips, strawberry, raspberry, light brown, dark brown? Let's say really nicely formed large raspberries on top of a firm base, not quite a handful but certainly an amuse-bouche; "worth a detour" as Michelin used to say. Bite or suck? Suck definitely, this one's a thoroughbred, and biting is so plebian.

I bet she has a cunt that tastes like a really fine sauvignon blanc, acid from a little piss and lots of sweat, but grass-and-summer at the midpalate. Not bad--another glass please, Sommelier!

Fuck getting a blowjob! Let's get with the program!

Time to thrust home, it's the real thing--tight, good kegels, but not too tight, the girl's been around enough to get into shape. Moves like a champ, plenty of stamina, doesn't need much from me to come all over the place. She's not a squirter but gives plenty.

Let her have some fun--I'll close my eyes and think of whatever--listen to her moan or shriek (she's a moaner, but that smile is still there). She's amused, as always, not looking down, not disdaining the peasantry, but genuinely amused and happy.

And I come, good and hard, in my mind.

A happy, interested, amusing lover, plus good Bourbon and rock 'n' roll, followed by a blasting good orgasm--is this a great country or what?

Alas, daydreams, like all good things, come to an end. She left with some friends, and I went back to the dorm.

Yes, the dorm. Call it nostalgia, but we were the first class into that dorm too many years ago. My old dorm room is an office now, but the place still smells the same. The difference is WiFi. When I was there, it didn't exist.

So I accelerated onto the Information Superhighway, after first rinsing my mouth with Listerine and shaking my head several times to try, but fail, to induce sobriety.

I remember a philosophy lecture, from a past millennium. John Hume said everything was a solipsism; we know nothing and nothing exists save inside our own heads. Nonsense, said Bishop Berkeley; everything exists in the Mind of God. Well, nowadays the Internet and Google have replaced the Mind of God; everything and everyone exist on the Internet, or they don't exist at all.

Google to the rescue! Ms Post was class of 2010, film and theatre major, from outside Philadelphia, PA, and a renowned athlete both in high school and at our dear Alma Mater. Besides adding power to our crew, she won four gold medals in rowing at the 2009 Maccabiah Games, allegedly the third-largest international sporting event in the world, with athletes from 50-plus nations competing in the "Jewish Olympics". She won gold medals for single sculls, double sculls, pairs without coxswain and the quad.

That explains the energy, the cool detached look coupled with real joy at being alive, and the back, legs and shoulders.

Funny, she doesn't look Jewish.

Next night was farewell at the Nostalgia Night (it isn't called that, but you'll have to figure out our school yourself, if you haven't already Googled the whole thing). I always went, hokey as the affair might be, even missing having some more drinks with my class. One of my fellow Literotica writers said that reunions were only tolerable if you're thoroughly drunk. Not quite.

The crowd at Nostalgia Night sang the old songs, but best of all, art imitated life as we sang the Crew Song (I swear this is true; I haven't the imagination to make this up):

Onward like a swallow going
Roused is every nerve and sense
Oh, the wild delight of knowing
'Tis our power that does the rowing
Oh, the joy of life intense
Rest was made for feebler folk
Onward make her cut the water,
Onward make her cut the water
And for fame of Alma Mater Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!
And for fame of Alma Mater Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!

You got that right: Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!