A 55-year-old Virgin

"Wow! I can partially understand what you're saying, it's just that I believe you are in a very small minority to think that way in the eighties."

I tried to assure her that we would remain friends and we could still go out from time to time. But circumstances can change quite rapidly when a young man is twenty and horny nearly all the time. Within ten days, I had begun dating a new girl and, from our second date, she was hot.

Chapter Three

Amy at Fifty-Five

So, here I am now at 55, a widower, lonely and single again, being advised by all around me, even my grown-up kids, to get out and start dating again. I have reached out to Amy through a Facebook page and she is on the phone.

"Hi Amy, how are you?"

"I'm fine thanks, Jason. It's interesting to hear from you ... after all this time."

"I have so many questions, Amy, but what do you think of my suggestion to have lunch? Maybe we should leave all of that until we catch up face-to-face."

"I would love that very much, Jason. I always wondered what happened to you."

"Pretty basic, Amy. Got married, family man, three kids, grandkids now, but no wife anymore."

"I am sorry for you, Jason."

"Thank you, how about you, Amy?"

"Oh, very boring, I'm afraid. Nothing interesting to report with me."

"Oh, come on, there must be! It's been 35 years. So, what day would suit you to have lunch with me? Sounds like I may need to draw some details out of you."

We both still work, so we made the lunch arrangements for a Saturday.

I didn't recognise the woman who walked up to stand in front of me outside the restaurant, "Hello Jason, it's nice to see you again."

She proffered her hand for me to shake. While I took hold of it, I drew her closer to me, planting a kiss on her cheek. "Amy?" I checked, embarrassed that I obviously didn't recognise her while she appeared to identify me straight up.

Kindly, she let me off the hook, "I always think that women change a lot more than men through the years. You look much the same as I remember you, but with a touch of grey in your hair, which is nice. Makes you look distinguished, it suits you."

"Thank you, you're too kind." I tried to be surreptitious in scanning her body up and down, hoping not to come across as too pervy, but happy to be in the company of a woman I once found desirable. One thing not to change, she is wearing a pleated skirt to just above the knees and a cashmere sweater up top. At 55, she appears to have retained quite a good figure, certainly no excess weight. It could be that she is wearing a suitable uplift bra, but within her sweater, those breasts that I only once got to gorge myself on, look to sit up quite nicely. "You look wonderful," I add, hoping I have not left too big a gap before complimenting her.

"Should we go inside," Amy quite rightly suggests, and I place my hand lightly on her back to steer her into the restaurant, where we are directed to a table toward the back. When I booked, I asked for a table where there might be less noise. Isn't it difficult as we age and our hearing may diminish a little, to be in a noisy place and only hear every fourth word of our companion?

Once we are sitting, I open with my leading question, "So Amy, I am curious, tell me in five minutes or less, what has happened in your life over the past 35 years?"

"Oh dear, me first? Well, I can tell you one thing, I won't need five minutes."

"I ... err, I ... um, I travelled a lot as I told you I wanted to do all those years ago. To lots of countries and across our own a couple of times. I guess by the time I got over the travel bug, all the good men were taken, so I ... err. I never married." She looked embarrassed to be admitting that.

"That's ok, Amy, not everyone finds someone they really connect with. Better not to marry than end up in a loveless relationship that drags you down."

"That's a nice way to look at it, thank you. You make me sound almost normal."

"So, what do you do for work?"

"I'm a librarian."

Looking across the table at this woman I had briefly dated when we were both so young, I am seeing an attractive mature woman, but is she the archetypal aging spinster working in a library? Thoughts flash through my head ... recalling our last date all those years back. She explained then that she was saving herself until she found the right guy and married? Was the saving all in vain, or with travelling to exotic places, had she changed her thinking, surrendering to some Mediterranean lothario?

I am curious, hopefully not obviously so, "So Amy, no special man in your life?"

"No, never! Isn't that tragic. I know you're sitting there thinking what a waste."

I had to deny, "No, I'm not thinking that."

"Oh come on, it's what everyone thinks about a woman of my age, never married, no man in my life, and working in a library." She pauses, gives me a sly grin, and adds, "And to answer the unasked question, no woman either. I've never met one who appealed to me in that way."

So, Amy has cleared the room of elephants and we settle into chatting. She wants to know all about the woman I married, and about my kids and grandkids, what they all do and what they have achieved. She is a great conversationalist, and we never have an awkward, silent moment in the whole three hours we spend over lunch.

Spontaneously, as we prepare to part, I ask, "Would you like to do this again some time or even see a movie? You mentioned a couple I want to see."

She gives me a gorgeous smile, "That would be wonderful, Jason, I'd love that."

I have obviously sat around brooding about my new single life for way too long. The next day, I call Amy and ask her to go see a movie and she responds with, "How about tonight, I'm not doing anything special."

So, Amy and I hit it off almost immediately. We begin dating regularly, just as we did at 20. The big difference now is that at the end of each date, I don't drive down to the lake foreshore. For a start, I can't. Over 35 years, homes have been built almost all the way around the lake. My old parking spot is long gone. But we don't need to go parking. If we happen to be overwhelmed by a sexual urge -- more likely for me than Amy -- we are both single, and we live alone in our own homes.

I am already finding that I have a sexual urge whenever I am in her company ... it has been almost two years since I was last able to have sex with my wife before she became too ill to participate. But I am determined not to rush this woman this time around, so I politely kiss her on the cheek at her front door when I drop her home after each date.

As we stand on her doorstep at the end of our fourth date, only two weeks since reconnecting, Amy asks, "Jason, I was wondering if you'd like to come here for dinner one night. You don't want to be always buying me dinner. It's time that I showed you my cooking skills."

Hmm, this is interesting. Am I to draw any assumptions that she is comfortable to have me alone with her in her home? Of course, I accept ... hopefully not too eagerly.

We settle on Friday evening for dinner at Amy's home. End of the working week, nothing urgent to attend to on Saturday morning. I arrive punctually at seven, carrying a bunch of flowers for Amy. She gushes her excitement at having a man buy her flowers. I wonder if, at 55, she has previously had any single man come to dinner in her home.

None of her preferred sweaters this evening, she is smartly dressed in a skirt and blouse. I chose a smart, casual, open-neck shirt and slacks with loafers.

Amy offers me a choice of wine, and I select white. She insists that I sit in the living room. She offers to put the TV on, but I decline. The kitchen is a room away, so it is difficult for me to carry a conversation with her while she tends to our meal.

Several books are scattered on a coffee table in front of me ... I must be sitting at her preferred spot to read. Since she is a librarian, I am curious to check out her reading preferences. Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, D.H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers, all in hardcover, indicate a preference for some of the classics. But then, almost buried beneath those is a paperback copy of Fifty Shades of Grey. Curious choice for a 50-plus spinster ... 35 years ago, she didn't want the complications of sex in her life.

Bored at having nothing to do while she prepares our dinner, I leave my spot in a comfortable lounge chair to go stand in the doorway of the kitchen, "Can I do anything to help, Amy? Peel carrots or mix up some gravy or sauce?"

"Oh dear, you sound like you might be very good at this cooking caper?"

"No, not at all," I attempt to reassure her.

"Don't hold any great expectations, Jason."

Deliberate misinterpreting her great expectations comment, I ask, "Are you talking about the dinner?"

She turns her head to look at me, appearing nervous. I walk over to where she stands at the kitchen bench, noting her hands are shaking. Intending to calm her if she is finding it confronting to have a man she once dated - and is again - in her home, I press the front of my body to her back, my hands each grasping an arm to give her a hug.

Amy tenses ... I bring my face to the side of her neck, placing a light kiss there. Her body melts back against me; she turns her head around. Her lips are slightly apart, and seeing her tongue slip out to wet them, I place a second kiss, this time on those lips. She kisses back eagerly, and our lip lock intensifies, becoming so passionate that she turns her whole body around within my arms to face me.

I wrap my arms around her back, pulling her body against me. It is a nice, deeply passionate tongue kiss, reminding me of how we used to kiss while parked in my car down by the lake. A hug, only intended to calm her nerves, is unintentionally becoming an amorous romantic kiss. What do I do now? She has obviously worked hard to prepare dinner for us. As much as I would like to move this to her bedroom immediately, I need to extricate us from this embrace and let her finish cooking.

She kisses like it has been a long time since she's kissed a man. I am averse to say desperation, but her lips and tongue express an urgent need. But my recollections return to how our eight weeks of dating ended and her fear of sex back then.

I am the one to end our kiss. Will the next few moments be awkward? Still holding her body against mine, she lets her head flop against my shoulder. The kiss was so passionate and, coupled with my lack of sexual activity for so long, my cock is half hard. She must feel the pressure of it against her belly, will it scare her? She may never have married, but surely, she's had some experiences with men in all the years since we dated, especially during her travels in her twenties.

Her breathing is heavy as she rests her head against me. At last, she speaks, "I didn't expect that."

"You didn't expect me to kiss you, or not so soon in the evening. It's not like it was our first kiss."

"No Jason, but our last was a long time ago. Don't get me wrong, I like that you would want to kiss me, and, since we've been out four times already, I hoped you would tonight. I just didn't expect it while I was preparing dinner."

"You're right, Amy, perhaps it was ill-timed, but it just seemed the thing to do at that moment." I pull my body away from her, "You have put in a lot of time and effort to prepare dinner, I'll leave you to finish in peace."

Turning back toward the kitchen bench, she adds, "Thank you, but that was nice, I liked it."

Is Amy sending a signal that she has moved on from her reluctance for a sexual relationship all those years ago? One would expect she must have by now.

I return to stand in the doorway so we can chat from a safe distance. When dinner is ready, she leads me to the dining room. The only illumination there comes from two candles on the table and a lamp in the corner. "This is romantic," I observe.

Amy lifts a glass and raises it to toast, "To us, Jason, I am so pleased that you found me again. I am having a good time with you."

The dinner is great. Casting aside the steamy kiss that distracted us pre-dinner, we are patient and quite controlled, taking our time over the main meal, even having a gap before a wonderful dessert that caps off the evening superbly.

We share that neither of us are big drinkers, yet together we manage to consume all of the bottle of wine. Amy suggests we adjourn to the living room, and we sit together on a two-seater. The coffee table containing the books is in front of us, and I can't stop myself from commenting, "Some interesting reading choices there, Amy?"

"Yes, I love to read. I suppose that's natural, given my chosen profession. Oh, I did intend to put that bottom one away. It's not in the same class as those classics."

"Fifty Shades of Grey may go down as a classic itself one day, Amy."

"Oh, I think not, Jason."

"Have you read it yet or are you about to?"

She brings a hand up to her face and appears to blush, "I ... um ... am ashamed to admit that I read it when it first came out. Then, only this week, I dug it out and started reading it again."

Is she genuinely embarrassed at reading such an erotic piece of literature or is this her subtle way to convey to me that her attitude to sex has changed from when we first dated? I feel compelled to ask, "Have you learned anything from reading it?"

Another blush, "Oh, err ... um, I'm not sure if I have. I, err ... I guess only that there are various ways that people can get pleasure from sex."

"Amy, we wouldn't have had this conversation when we were twenty."

"There wouldn't have been books like that around back then."

"Oh, I don't know. I think there were, you just had to know where to find them."

I lift my arm, placing it behind her along the back of the sofa. She immediately drops her head back onto my arm, turning her face toward me. It feels so natural for me to lean in and kiss her again. She has no hesitation in allowing her tongue to greet mine and our tongues play and entwine within each of our mouths. Amy whimpers between the clasp of our lips.

Her kissing seems more willing and participatory than it had so long ago. Am I being fair to keep comparing this mature woman to the 20-year-old I dated then? Maybe not, but it is the only clue I have as to gauge when to make my next move. I don't push her, allowing us to both enjoy our kiss for quite a while, maybe as long as a quarter-hour before I decide the time is now for my free hand to start to roam, lightly touching down on her arm, the back of her head, her hip, thigh, then knee.

Back up to her arm, hesitant now because my target must be those breasts that I only ever saw, touched and kissed once. Hoping that our ongoing and passionate kissing might distract her, I move my fingers to her blouse and begin to unbutton. I struggle with one, she must feel the garment being opened, but never flinches or pauses our kissing.

Our lips still lustfully locked, I push the two sides of her blouse apart, my fingers trace across the smooth skin above the top of her bra, as I did 35 years ago. A few more whimpers but thankfully no attempt to stop me. Unable to squeeze my fingers into the tight clamp of the bra cup against her left breast, I slip my hand under her arm toward her back.

Amy breaks the kiss and I tense, anticipating rejection, but it is only a pause, not a stop. Smiling warmly, she says, "These days, they open in front, Jason," and, using both hands, she releases a catch between the cups and the garment parts, her twin mounds floating free. The one nipple that I can see is firm and stiffened, the way it was on the one and only time she allowed me to feast on them years ago.

My face dips down to her chest and my lips close over that tempting nipple. I begin avidly suckling on it. More whimpers come from Amy and she folds both hands over the back of my head to hold me steady at her teat, later using the hands to steer me to her other, perhaps slightly ignored, nipple.

I feasted on her still very entrancing breasts for as long as I had engaged her in passionate kissing. The evening was going very well, but this was as far as we ever progressed a sexual encounter, and only once. What will happen when I make my next inevitable move, and when should I try? Previous experience tells me that I cannot approach the seduction of Amy like I did with all the other young women I dated before marrying.

I am extremely patient, spending longer on her breasts, as foreplay, than I ever recall doing with other women. But, now that my very hard and complete erection is conveying its urgent need to my brain, I slip a hand tentatively down onto her knee, just as I did that last fateful night long ago. No reaction, I begin to slide my hand slowly up under her skirt, my fingertips softly caressing the smooth soft skin of her inner thighs.

Am I imagining it, but did Amy let her thighs slightly drift apart as my fingers push ever upward? There it is again, definitely a widening. My fingers creep ever deeper under her skirt. Not only whimpers coming from her now, but a pleasurable moan. Is this reaction because I am still suckling her nipples or is it her anticipation that my fingers are now mere inches from her pussy. How long has it been since she let a man touch her there?

My fingertips reach and touch the crotch piece of her panties. No reluctance from Amy at all as I feel wetness through the material. Not cotton, feels like something sexy ... satin or silk perhaps. Is this a standard pair from her lingerie drawer or has she bought something special for our reunion?

I trace my fingertips up and down along the line of her lower lips, the material of her panties is so skimpy that I can feel every part of her intimate treasures. Amy is constantly now emitting a range of whimpers and moans, seemingly lost in wanton desire.

"Y-E-S!" escapes from her mouth as my fingers prise the crotch of the panties to one side and I apply two fingertips to slide in the wetness of her pussy lips. Amy may have ended our relationship at twenty for fear of me wanting to be in here, but she appears to be a changed woman now.

I slip my middle finger into the opening of her pleasure passage; she is extremely tight there and I find it difficult to push inside. I withdraw and send the two fingers north to find her clitoral button, massaging it in circular motions. "Oh, that feels so nice, Jason."

Vocalising her appreciation causes me to maintain my digital attention to her clit, and her whole lower body lifts up off the sofa in response. My lips still at her teat, Amy brings a hand down from the back of my head ... I am surprised to feel that hand touch the bulge in the front of my trousers, feeling for it, seeming to test its rigidity and maybe curiously gauging its length.

My lips continue to gorge on her nipples, darting from one to the other and back, while two fingers work her clitoris into a frenzy, judging by the sounds of Amy's heavy breathing and gasps. Her hand continues to feel the shape of my hard shaft, still confined within my clothing. The sounds that flow from her moans and heavy breaths reveal to me how close she is to an orgasmic climax. My lips intensify my suckling on her nipples and my fingers encircle her clit firmer and faster.

Her hips hump up and down, her body almost out of control, and she is loud as I draw a frantic orgasm through her lower body. Her head slumps back on my arm that lays across the back of the sofa. I reluctantly lift my lips from her breasts to look into her eyes. They appear glazed, unseeing as the remnants of her orgasm wash over her. I continue to watch her face until she descends from her peak and opens her eyes.

"Ooh! That's scary, why are you looking at me like that?"