Auld Lang Syne

Last week I got a strange message on LinkedIn. "Do you ever get to L.A.?" was the entire message from someone named Janet.

I didn't recognize the last name or the blurry photo. I have several consulting clients, current and former, in the Los Angeles area, but the name didn't connect, I'd never heard of the company, and the LinkedIn profile revealed very little. I didn't respond, but the message nagged at me, and I kept returning to it. After a few days, I wondered if it could possibly be "that" Janet from long ago.

Sitting in my home office that evening, I found myself reliving an event from my teenage years.

*****

It's a week after graduating from high school, and I'm washing my mother's car in the driveway and notice Janet pulling her new Chevy convertible into our driveway. The car is a graduation present, and we'd all admired it in the school parking lot the day she got it.

I've marginally known Janet all through high school. She's a tall girl, maybe even 5'9", and very well assembled. I think she's very pretty, but she's part of an elite social set that has existed, as best as I can tell, since junior high. They're out of my league; I'm what will, one day, be referred to as a 'geek." She has exquisite taste in clothing, managing to look extraordinarily sexy and much older than she is. She also has a reputation for being "a lot of fun," but I'm unclear what that implies. Janet has, however, been one of the two women from that social set who has been in every one of my accelerated learning classes.

I'm standing there barefoot, wearing sodden khakis and no shirt, with water dripping off my body when Janet climbs out of her car wearing shorts, heels, and a wispy blouse. Her long brown hair is windblown but somehow still styled. I've never spoken with her outside of school, so I'm unsure why she's here.

Janet struts up to me, pokes her finger in my chest, and says, "Why haven't you ever asked me out?"

I'm stunned. Until last summer, I was just a fat, short kid, and that's still how I see myself, although my mother assures me that I'm now very handsome due to a tremendous growth spurt that puts me at just under 6 feet.

I don't know how to respond. I'm not about to admit that every one of the women in her group terrifies me. Every pretty girl terrifies me! In desperation, I fall back on a ridiculous excuse, "Karin and I have sort of been going together for a couple of years."

(Karin is a cute little blonde whom I've hung out with since our sophomore year, taken out on an occasional date, driven home from school frequently, and made out with fewer times than I wish to admit.)

Janet laughs. "Lame," she smirks. "You're just friends. Karin told Sandy that many weeks ago. And Karin is too mousy for you."

I have no idea how to respond. I'm just standing there, with the hose running into an overflowing bucket. I've rarely been at a loss for words, and I'm entirely off-balance.

Janet rescues me, "There's a party on the beach tonight. I'll pick you up at 8. Bring a blanket." Before I can respond, she steps in, pushes her breasts against my chest, gives me a long, sloppy kiss, then turns back to her car, slides in, waves at me, and backs out. I notice that the front of her blouse is now soaking wet.

I'm a nervous wreck. I've never been to a real beach party, I haven't a clue what to wear, I'm concerned about Janet's expectations for the evening, and I don't own any condoms (and both fantasize and fear I might need one).

It's after 8 p.m., and I'm even more nervous, wondering if she will show up. I've showered, shaved, found a clean pair of khakis and a not-too-wrinkled shirt, anguished over whether to wear socks with my ratty tennis shoes, pulled an OK beach blanket out of the back of the family station wagon, and rounded up a measly few bucks to put in my pocket.

At 8:15, she zooms up. The convertible top is down, and there's another couple in the back seat. When I get close, I notice that the other couple is the spring homecoming king and queen, the peak of the high school elite. I open the passenger door, mumble "hi," give a little wave, and slide in. I'm so far out of my comfort zone I'd like to melt into a puddle on the floor mat. To make it even worse, Janet slides over and kisses me, rubbing her breast against my arm!

Janet is wearing a Mexican peasant skirt over several petticoats, which are exposed as she drives. She's also wearing an almost transparent blouse and, I suspect, a push-up or similar bra. (I've had minimal experience with bras at this point in my life, so I'm not sure what type of structural support, if any, is involved.)

We're soon cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway, and Janet, Tom, and Susie are chattering about who's going out with whom, what happened at grad night, who's going to college where, and what happened the previous night at the drive-in movie. I haven't uttered a word and have no way to participate. I am sure this will be a disaster that will embarrass me for the rest of my life! On the other hand, the wind blows Janet's skirt around, exposing more and more of the petticoats and her beautiful legs.

It doesn't take long to arrive at the beach party, already in full blast. A bunch of people I've never seen are clustered around a substantial bonfire. Some surfboards are standing upright in the sand, there's music from somewhere, several couples are dancing, and many kids are sitting around.

Janet finds a place to park her shiny new car, close enough so everyone can admire it, and pulls a picnic basket from the trunk. The four of us amble over to the crowd. I'm about to spread my blanket on the sand, but Janet pulls me along, threads her way through the masses, and finds a spot not far from the bonfire and even closer to a beer keg. While Susie and I spread the blanket, Janet and Tom head over to the keg and soon return, each with two overflowing cups.

I'm not fond of beer. My parents have served wine to us at dinner since I was about twelve, and I much prefer it, but I swallow a good gulp of beer while Janet chugs an entire cup, then takes my cup, hands me hers, and tells me to refill it, which I do. When I return, Janet is dancing with Tom, and Susie is alone. I've always been in awe of Susie, who is beyond beautiful, extremely endowed, the only child of a wealthy couple, and already a minor TV and movie actress, clearly destined for much more.

Much to my surprise and delight, Susie also turns out to be very easy to talk to, quickly engaging me in a far-ranging conversation. She's much brighter than I ever imagined; I always pictured her as a dumb blonde. My ego is seriously bolstered when she remembers that I won the high school science fair the past two years. She's also aware that I have been engaged in some computer stuff and is very curious about what computing is all about.

Janet and Tom return, cutting the engaging discussion with Susie short, and Janet wants me to dance with her. I'm a terrible dancer, a real klutz, but I'll try it. By now, Janet has consumed enough beer to be a little silly, which helps cover my inept dancing, and we're having a fun time, laughing and sort of dancing.

The next song is slow, and Janet has both arms around my neck, which obliges me to put my arms around her, and we're just rocking back and forth with her boobs mashed against my chest. This results in an unavoidable response from my body, which I'm sure she can detect, much to my embarrassment. Janet worsens the situation when she begins pushing her crotch against my erection! She also pulls me into a lush kiss with her tongue deep in my mouth. I, of course, respond, although awkwardly.

Janet breaks the embrace, takes my hand, and leads me back to her car, where she retrieves another blanket from the trunk, then leads me along the beach to an area protected by large rocks. We weave through the rocks, avoiding some other couples, until she finds the spot she's searching for, spreads the blanket, lays down on her back, and beckons me to join her.

This is a situation I've fantasized about but never experienced. At her instigation, we're soon in a deep embrace, with her on top and driving me crazy. She takes my right hand and places it on her left breast. I feel a firm nipple through the blouse's fabric and begin a gentle, slow rotary motion with my palm. This results in a sound of approval and a substantial increase in the intensity of the kisses. My self-confidence gets a minor boost.

I roll us onto my left side, which makes it much easier to use my right hand to caress her breast. I'm unclear about what to do next, never having experienced this situation other than in my fantasies. Janet ups the intensity when her left-hand rubs over my erection. It gets worse when she whispers in my ear, "Nice."

I briefly break the embrace to mention, "I don't have any rubbers," to which she replies, "we won't need any; I'll take care of everything."

Janet takes the opportunity to unbutton her blouse, sits up, reaches behind her back, and releases her bra, which I can now see didn't cover her nipples but pushed up both breasts.

Once her breasts are free, she commands, "kiss them." I take her left nipple in my mouth and gently suck and lick it.

"Harder," she says, "bite it gently." I do, and her entire body stiffens.

She rolls onto her back. "Now, the other one," she says.

I have my hand on her left breast and her right nipple in my mouth. Her left hand is caressing the front of my khakis, and I'm getting much too turned on.

Her right arm is around me, pulling me against her, and she's making various sounds of pleasure while kissing the top of my head.

The intensity has built to an intolerable level when Janet asks, "Do you know how to help a girl finish?" I'm unsure what that means, and I'm embarrassed to admit I have no idea, but she quickly figures that out.

I'm still devoting all my attention to her delightful breasts when she gently pushes me away and says, "stop for a minute." I pull back just a bit, and she has my absolute attention.

She holds my head in both hands and says, "Don't get your hopes up. I don't fuck. I'm still a virgin and intend to remain that way, at least for a while. But I know other ways to relieve the tension for both of us, and I promise you'll enjoy it. Taking care of me first is best, and I'll teach you how. Sit up for a moment."

I sit up. She examines my hands; I don't know what she's determining, then apparently approves because she reaches down and pulls her skirt and all the petticoats up to her waist. "Pull off my panties," she orders. The panties are beautiful black lace, and I'm afraid I'll cum if I even touch them. But I do, carefully, and get my first look at a woman's genitals.

She takes my right hand and says, "give me your index finger." I do, and she steers my hand to her crotch, then guides my finger right into a damp opening.

"Turn your finger up slightly and carefully slide it in, a little bit at a time. While you do that, bite my nipple gently."

I'm leaning over her, moving from one nipple to the other and back, with my right index finger inside her as far as it will reach. Her left hand is doing something in the same general area and keeps bumping against my right hand. I will later guess that she's rubbing her clitoris.

"You can use two fingers if you want," she says, so I pull my index finger out, push two fingers in very carefully, and begin sliding them in and out. She is really wet, and I don't know what I'm doing, but her reaction is encouraging. Her left hand is moving quickly; I have the fingers of my left hand squeezing her right nipple and my teeth firmly around her left nipple. Her body is thrashing beneath me.

"Bite me hard, now," she commands. I do, and her entire body is thrashing. "I'm coming," she announces, and it seems her body is in rapid motion forever. My brain seems to have quit working.

She pushes me away from her breasts. "They're very tender now," she explains. "Thank you. That was wonderful. Someday I hope we can do that with your cock inside me." The picture that forms in my head nearly causes me to ejaculate.

We just lay there with Janet breathing heavily and a massive smile on her face. I'm still painfully hard and wonder what will happen next.

After a bit, she sits up and says, "Your turn. Lay on your back." I do, and she bends down to kiss me, then runs her left hand down my chest to the bulge in my khakis. "I'm looking forward to discovering what you've got here."

Janet moves down and undoes my belt. I'm shaking, and she laughs. "I won't hurt you," she promises. "I've done this twice before. You're my third, and there have been no complaints." I briefly wonder who the first two were.

She pushes my khakis down, then my boxer shorts, while pulling my shirt up. "Very nice," she says, then gently kisses the tip of my cock. "Do not cum in my mouth," she demands. "I don't do that. If you can't hold it, warn me." With that, she slides her mouth over my cock and down the shaft.

I've heard of a blowjob but never understood what that meant. What an incredible feeling. Her mouth is gentle and warm, and the light suction overwhelms her. I'm convinced that intercourse can only be a consolation prize. This is heaven.

Attending to her warning, however, I quickly need to stop her, much to my regret. She pulls her mouth off, keeping her left hand firmly wrapped around my cock. If she squeezes just a tiny bit, I'll cum all over her.

Janet lays beside me, pulls up her skirt again, then pulls off her slip from under the petticoats. "I've dreamed about trying this," she announces, wrapping the satiny nylon around my cock. It's not her lips, but I don't care.

Janet is stroking my nylon-wrapped cock tightly and firmly, then leans over me and bites my left nipple. I'm immediately cumming into the nylon while she rapidly strokes my cock. It feels like I cum forever, and she keeps a solid grip and continues to stroke, although now slower.

"Wow," she says. "You were really turned on."

"No more than you," I retort. Now that the pressure has been released, my self-confidence is slowly returning.

Janet sort of cleans me up with the slip, then rolls it up and sets it aside. I pull up my underwear and the khakis, still lying on my back, but don't bother with the belt. Janet hovers over me, gently kissing me, and says, "That was fun. We should do that again soon. Let's just lay here together and enjoy the glow."

Eventually we straggle back to the bonfire, where the crowd has considerably diminished. Janet and Susie stroll off for some "girl talk," which I hope isn't about me. Then we pile back into Janet's car. She drops Tom and Susie off at Susie's house. It's very late when she drives up in front of my home, and we spend another half hour intensely kissing and fondling, reluctant to part.

Finally feeling comfortable, I ask, "When can I see you again?"

"Are you asking for a date?" she asks.

"Sure," I say.

"About time," she says.

But it's not to be. She's leaving to be a camp counselor the following Wednesday. I'm leaving two days later to care for my grandparents at their summer home, coming home for two days in August, and then immediately going away to college.

*****

I reluctantly return to reality, struggling with how to respond to the message. Finally, I work up enough courage to reply, "Are you 'that' Janet?"

The reply was quick, "Yes, I am 'that' Janet 😊 Do you ever get to L.A.?"

I'm a bit leery of why a woman with whom I had a very brief, although memorable, one night affair would want to connect. But I did have an L.A. trip scheduled, although with a full schedule. Cautiously, I replied, "Possibly. What did you have in mind?"

The reply was brief, "Dinner???"

My reply was an email address, and later that night I received a lovely note reminiscing about "old times" and what might have been, followed by a brief biography. She'd been married twice, had three children, now grown and with families of their own, and three great-grandchildren; her second husband passed away several years previously, she owned a successful business, lived in Malibu, and was reaching out to old acquaintances 'just because.'

I responded with a brief version of my story, three wives, two kids, both grown and with families of their own, a successful consulting business, mostly retired, too many hobbies to itemize, a small ranch in Colorado, and a brief trip to L.A. in a couple of weeks.

Several emails later, I agreed to extend my L.A. trip by a day and invited her to join me for dinner. Her reply was excited and enthusiastic, but she insisted that dinner would be at her Malibu home. Considering our advanced age and the resulting changes in appearance and physical capabilities, I was mildly concerned about her expectations.

As the date drew closer, we agreed upon a time, and I requested directions to her home. Her response was mystifying; she declined to provide directions and explained that her driver would pick me up. That seemed unnecessarily pretentious, but I vaguely recalled that she did like to take charge.

Friday evening arrived, and I was surprised to find myself as nervous as the day when she approached me while I was washing my mother's car. I was unsure what to wear, whether I should take a bottle of wine or some flowers, and was unclear about what she expected. I finally relaxed, forgot about the flowers and wine, dressed in slacks and a sportscoat, and a gentleman picked me up in a Tesla.

I attempted to quiz the chauffeur, but he explained he was just Mrs (name omitted)'s driver and declined further conversation "to concentrate on the traffic." I must admit that the traffic was awful.

Janet's home was on Point Dume, just north of the Malibu Colony, above the ocean. Real people lived there the last time I had been on Point Dume, decades ago, and the houses were small and far apart. I was appalled, but not surprised, to find the entire area overtaken by large, expensive mansions, crowded together.

Janet met me at her front door, barefoot, wearing slacks and a sweater. She pulled me into a tight hug and kissed me on the cheek. I returned the kiss.

She appeared far better preserved than I was! She was still beautiful, although in a different way. Her long hair was still brown, although probably dyed, lustrous, and well down her back. Her posture was firm, her breasts were even more prominent, her waist was relatively small, and her face showed minor aging. She would later tell me about the wonders of surgery for removing the traces of aging and insanely intense exercise for maintaining her figure.

"Wow. Still as gorgeous as ever," I said, holding her hands and standing back.

"You've done OK yourself," she smiled. "You still have a full head of hair, and the gray highlights make you look very distinguished. You certainly don't look our age!"

She took my hand and led me through a spacious and elegant house to a deck with a view over the ocean. An open gas fire provided a bit of warmth against the ocean chill, a young woman served us a delicious white wine and some canapes, and we sat on a very comfortable loveseat and caught up. At some point in the conversation, a young chef served us a light and fantastic grilled red snapper, followed by a decadent, small chocolate dessert and an exceedingly smooth Armagnac.

I inquired whether the "staff" were relatives or employees, and she explained that she had several household employees, most of whom were off for the weekend, or soon would be. The chef and his wife, who served the wine, lived in the apartment over the garage but were off to a party as soon as they cleaned up.

We lost track of time and continued to imbibe the brandy while sharing our lives and loves, successes and failures, dreams and realities. I was amazed at how relaxed we were with one another, never really having known each other beyond one teenage sexual encounter. Perhaps that's one of the few benefits of age and experience.