Camilla Pt. 01

Please just call me Ed. I am a 51-year-old man, divorced and out of shape. Both of those things were not where I thought I would find myself at this point in my life. I am an industrial designer whose trajectory would have, in my early 30s, led me to design cars, but my divorce and following a series of steps knocked me off that route.

Now my design is limited to breaking down other, younger people's furniture designs into convenient boxes for shipping.

I cannot blame anyone but myself for those changes. Only recently, after ten years of getting up in a tiny apartment in a suburb, I stopped punishing myself. I didn't forgive myself; I simply made peace with the lack of things I was capable of. This was me. I stopped asking myself to choose whether I liked it or not.

So my days now were a very loose routine. I awoke at 5:30 am and sat in bed. I often would find myself looking at some area of Reddit, which would lead me to some picture of a woman fucking, pulling down her pants and showing me her ass, or just a good round ass. It was enough for me. By 6 am, I was up and hating myself for jerking off. I berate myself at the frequency of that habit. It probably being some part of the reason Lucille divorced me. Not because of my doing it but how I conditioned my body to cum in seconds with her. Of course, I'd create some overly complicated plan for me to stop jerking off, swearing to never do it again. Only to find me on some lonely night alone and needing some fulfillment. This cycle, my heart lecturing, yelling, and begging my tone-deaf and jaded mind to stop bad habits, happened every day and lasted until right around coffee.

I listened to Bossa Nova over coffee, yogurt, and granola. I am acutely aware that my age is present in my diet. The granola and yogurt are suitable for my stomach and colon. I often wonder why I keep an old box of my children's cereal on a top shelf. They are older now, and visitation rights are more loosely applied now that they can make their own decisions. I look at the box sometimes and think if I should throw it away or try to finish it myself over the weekend. It's still there.

After a shower and getting dressed, I drove to work. I include this bit because driving to work was my moment for me. The trip to work from my apartment was almost an hour, but I listened to audiobooks, could be safe and secluded in the warm thrum of the car, alone with my thoughts, dreams, and plans for what was, what I thought, a future that was behind me.

Depressed yet? Don't be. I read once that men in their 50s are happier, and women become depressed. I think that is changing. In one series of car rides to work, I reasoned the source of that data point was because men, until their 50s, pursued their careers, prioritized work, and being cavalier with their friends and significant others. In their 50s, they'd submit to any survey or questionnaire in the world that showed they were satisfied and happy with their life choices. Why confess it was all a mistake now? From the perspective of that test, married women found life in their 50s was unlived. Had they been married, their needs had been deprioritized in support of their husbands and "family." In their 50s, single and divorced women began to live. Life is about owning or choices or leaving it all behind.

At least for me, in reality, every man in his 50s realizes that all of his plans, choices, and dreams were out of his control. His response of 'being happy' to the surveyor was not from some magical sense of achievement - as a king would look out across his kingdom with pride at what has been conquered - but gratitude; bullets were dodged. Choices others made brought him the ability to afford a bagful of groceries, cable, and rent. I am happy because I was lucky. I accepted that I would not stick my head out of the hole I was in lest Fate would take another swipe. I would even fill in the random questionnaire saying that I was happy. I would dig the remaining seven feet down for however long I needed.

It was Spring where I lived, and I enjoyed the flowers, trees, and people I saw on the drive to work. My route wound through quaint back streets and bedroom communities whose inhabitants were people like me, starting their days jogging or a brisk walk.

The first time I saw her, she was wearing shiny spandex and walking a small dog. The spandex leggings had a cloud pattern, and she had a broad, generous ass that was accentuated by the seam that ran up between the cheeks of her ass.

It was her ass that caught me. I found myself aroused by a body I had only seen on my phone, in my bed, and alone before. Here were the curves and clefts that I admired privately, out tremoring slightly as they walked down the sidewalk.

I stopped myself from slowing down; there were cars behind me as well, and I thought it classes and just slightly above the behavior of a disgusting stalker to break and continue to look. If she saw a fat, somewhat balding man slowing down his car and leering at her - any possible chance of anything ever happening would be lost. But at work, I could not get her and her lovely perfect ass out of my head.

I cursed myself for being so shallow, forcing myself to see that there was a woman underneath the spandex pants. Someone who probably lived on the second floor of a two-family house. Her apartment was filled with fun but eclectic pieces, things that would make me uncomfortable when I saw them. An actual flag she used from an anti-Communism protest from Croatia or a clay figure with a massive dick from South America. She would just laugh at my reactions and flop down on the green couch she had in her sitting room. A stout wood table in front would be littered with books and a handful of magazines. The house would smell of burnt sage or something bohemian that got rid of evil spirits and created positive feelings.

I saw myself standing in her kitchen while she sat, legs crossed in a playful inviting way and still in sexy shiny spandex, on the couch calling to me. I was a dark spot in a happily messy kitchen, shuffling towards her in cheap business slacks and a sturdy cotton button-down collar shirt. The smells and colors of her rooms made me feel fatter and grayer. I found myself dreaming about her, feeling inadequate.

That day, I drove home, hoping that I would see her again.

But the next morning, she was there at my bed. Looking at me as I had inevitably picked up my phone. Her hands were on her full, beautiful hips, looking very concerned at the images I was looking at. Her lips were slightly twisted in a comical look. I smiled sheepishly back.

She flung my sheet aside, and her hands spidered up my legs and stomach to straddle herself atop me. She had brought the fresh outdoor air in and smelled as if she had run to my apartment that morning, waited for me to wake up, and was disappointed that I had started without her.

I felt the pressure of her against my hips, the warmth of her ass as it pressed against my cock. I felt my breathing get shallow.

She didn't kiss me. Instead, she looked into my eyes and began slowly rocking against my hips in long, languid waves. I could feel the plastic texture of her pants as she rose and fell against me.

Her head fell to one side, and her hands reached up to cradle her small breasts over her running shirt. She grabbed and massaged her small mounds, using the tips of her fingers to play with her nipples. Her mouth opened in a quiet sigh.

She picked up one of my hands and drew a finger into her mouth, sucking hard on it while letting out a quiet little moan. Her other hand pulled up her shirt to expose a light pink nipple.

Her rocking became grinding, pressing her crotch against mine and flicking her hips back and forth. Quicker and faster.

Her moans became higher.

She grabbed my hand with both hands sucking on a first, then a second finger, wrapping her lips in a tight band around them. Her sucking noises were loud and sloppy.

I grabbed the exposed nipple between my fingers as it jumped up and down. She let out a gasp and a cry.

I took her breast into one hand, the cheek of her ass in another. We bounced and ground against each to her. Her squeaks and moans were muffled by her sucking on my two fingers in her mouth.

I grabbed her ass harder. Our bodies passionately slammed together.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" She cried.

I came.

She was gone.

I was alone in my bed, left with the echoes of her cries and the shadow of her body on mine.

The fantasy had taken my breath away, or was it the orgasm? My body had the inevitable splash across my hairy belly.

I was alone.

I had been.

I will be.

But I wasn't late. I could stick with my routine and, possibly, get a glance at her this morning.

When I finally met her, the encounter would be far different.