tagExhibitionist & VoyeurCougar and her Five Virginal Cubs Ch. 02

Cougar and her Five Virginal Cubs Ch. 02


Chapter Two - My Four Horny Friends

Now that I remember her and recall her face and her figure in more detail, she was a good looking woman, a huge understatement, and one who haunted my dreams and fantasies for years, after our brief sexual interlude. Even now, remembering her, as I would an old, favorite teacher, I remember her with love, lust, and affection. I remember her in this story with fond, albeit still excited sexual memories of her naked body. If she's still alive, I wonder where she is now and if she ever thought about me again later in the way that I'm thinking about her now and always thought about her. Probably married with kids and grandchildren, by now, I wonder if she'd recognize me forty years later.

It all started innocently enough. What did we know? We were just a bunch of horny, young men hanging around our neighborhood haunt, Slide Park, aptly named because there were two granite slides, when first walking in the park.

She was a woman who lived in our neighborhood and, at first, we never paid her any mind, that is, until she started making a spectacle of herself. My friends used to whisper that she was lesbian because she didn't have a husband or a boyfriend and because they never saw her with a man. I don't think we even knew what a lesbian was back then because everything about alternative sexual orientation was hushed; everyone who was gay or lesbian hid in the closet, and nothing was out in the open and on the table, as it is today. Besides, if we thought of lesbians, the only lesbians that came to mind was the butch dyke type of lesbians, those women who wore men's clothes and who'd beat the crap out of a man for just looking at them the wrong way. In our minds, there was no way that a beautiful woman could be a lesbian. Back then, we never suspected Vivian Leigh, Marlene Dietrich, Joan Crawford, Barbara Stanwyck, and Judy Holiday of being lesbian. They were too damn hot.

Back then, it was just unusual for a woman to live alone in our neighborhood, a place of families with lots of kids. Just as it was unusual for someone to work from home. Rumor had it that she was a writer. Rumor had it that she was a widow, after her husband was killed in Viet Nam. She didn't look like any widow that I ever saw. All the widows in the North End, the Italian section of Boston, wore black for the rest of their lives. Rumor had it that she was evicted out of Charlestown, the next neighborhood over, the Irish section of Boston, across the Charlestown bridge, where Osama bin Laden's relatives lived, before 9/11, after she was caught having sex with young men our age.

She was old or so we all thought, even though she was only 32-years-old. A bunch of goofs, we were all 18-years-old and acting more like 13-year-olds. Our maturity stunted by our closed neighborhood, we were all so very immature. What did we know about life? Not so much.

Without having graphically explicit television, sex education, and X rated Internet videos, we didn't know very much about sex either, that was for sure. Back then in the sixties of censored TV, prime time television consisted of cartoons, Top Cat, the Flintstones, and the Jetsons, along with mild situation comedies, Lucille Ball, Ozzie and Harriet, and Leave it to Beaver. With church every Sunday keeping us in check the whole week, we all answered to a higher power. What fear the Nuns couldn't instill in us with their ruler, the Priest at Mass instilled in us with his sermon and with threats of our souls being damned to Hell. After reading Dante's Inferno and Milton's Paradise Lost in high school, I was already scared out of my mind not to do anything wrong, immoral, or illegal.

With all of us virgins, we did nothing more than look, stare and leer, actually. Innocent voyeuristic perverts and perverse peepers, we spent our days trying to see whatever we could see as fodder for our masturbation sessions later. Jerking off a lot, while waiting and watching for opportunities to see down women's blouses and up their skirts, we welcomed the advent of the sexual revolution and the day of the mini skirt. Whenever we saw an opportunity for a down blouse and/or an up skirt view, describing it in great detail and embellishing it, we told our friends what we saw with enhanced descriptions and imagery getting better every time we retold the story. We were all guilty of jerking off later about imagining seeing that for ourselves. Still, a time just before the birth control pill was accepted as an option to birth control, with so many woman morally modest, a sight of a down blouse bra or an up skirt panty was, as a big deal as it was a rare occurrence. When the mini skirt and tube tops took control of our neighborhood and our horny eyeballs, we were happy to be alive.

"I saw a woman today at the market. She was reaching for the cheese in the dairy case and her blouse was wide opened, wide frigging open," said Joey, playing the part of the woman that he saw. Unbuttoning his shirt and bending forward, as if he was leaning and reaching in a diary case, he was giving us a good story. "I swear on my grandmother's grave," he said raising his hand, while looking from each one of us. "The top of her blouse was unbuttoned and she wasn't wearing a bra. I saw her tits, her areolas, and her nipples. I saw her whole breast and she had big tits. I saw everything," he said breathlessly, while wiping his hand over his face, as if he needed a drink to calm his nerves, after witnessing a murder.

Probably having just seen part of her bra, it was then that we all knew that Joey was making up the last part, but it didn't matter because he gave us something to imagine, while jerking off later that night. He was a good storyteller, our best storyteller and, with us eager to believe all that he said, he always made his tall tales sound believable. Probably, no doubt, he merely saw only her bra strap, but that was enough to spark his imagination and to motivate his creative ability to tell us a story that added to our never ending horniness and give us endless masturbation material later.

"So, what did she look like?" Stephen looked at him with skepticism. Always wanting proof, evidence, and just the details, in the way that Jack Webb wanted just the details on Dragnet, he was the disbelieving lawyer and mistrusting detective of the group. "How old was she? Was she pretty? What was she wearing? How tall was she? Was she fat or thin, Joey? Give us more details than that. You just can't say that you saw some woman's tits, areolas, and nipples and not give us all the other details," said Stephen. "It's un-American. It's just not right. We'd tell you everything we saw, if it was us. The least you can do is give us more details."

We all knew why Stephen wanted details, just as we all knew what he'd be doing and what we'd all be doing later that night. Our own version of Cool Hand Luke with Paul Newman, when that woman was washing an old car and getting all wet in the movie, we all used our imaginations to imagine our own version of a woman bending over and leaning in the dairy case and stretching to reach for cheese, while wearing an unbuttoned, loose blouse without a bra. Yet, Stephen, being so anal, always needed and wanted more details. Now, embellishing a bit on Joey's story and taking the liberty to change the female character, when I imagined expanding more on Joey's story, I switched from how Joey described what she looked like to how Sophia Loren, Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield looked like, while reaching for the cheese with an unbuttoned blouse. Definitely, it was more fun putting famous, sexy, celebrity face to the naked breast, while masturbating.

"That's nothing," said Anthony. "I saw my neighbor, Maryanne, this morning practically naked. She must have just gotten out of the shower because she walked out of her house just wearing a thin, little bathrobe with nothing underneath."

"Nothing underneath? How do you know she was naked underneath her bathrobe?" Joey looked at Anthony, as if jealous that he was stealing his thunder about seeing a woman's tits in the supermarket by trumping his story with that of seeing a naked woman.

"Because, when she stooped to pick up the newspaper outside her front door, her bathrobe opened and she had nothing on underneath. I saw her pussy," he said looking from one to the other. "I saw her big tits."

Immediately Elizabeth Taylor, Natalie Wood, Zsa Zsa Gabor, and Sandra Dee came to my mind, all at once. I imagined walking around Beverly Hills delivering newspapers and waving to one of those celebrities, when they stooped down to get their morning newspaper in front of me, while exposing much more than just their smile. Then, there she was, Doris Day, waving to me, just as a gust of wind blew open her bathrobe and she was naked, totally naked underneath. I imagined seeing her big tits and her blonde pussy, until I was abruptly interrupted from my sexual fantasy of Doris Day flashing me her pussy.

"Fuck you," said Joey. "No way! You saw her whole pussy? You saw Maryanne's big tits? Get the fuck out of here. Maryanne? I don't believe you. You're lying."

"Yeah, I did. Cross my heart and hope to die, I saw her naked body. I swear on my grandmother's grave," said Anthony. "Her pussy was so close that I could smell it."

"Yeah, well, if you could smell her pussy," she Ralph, "then, she needed a bath, which proves that you saw nothing because you said she had just gotten out of the shower."

"Oh, yeah? Your mother's pussy smells like tuna fish," said Anthony. "Besides, maybe she was just about to take a shower."

"Hey, hey, hey, no mothers," said Joey, always so protective of his mother.

Now that I think of it, we were more like a bunch of junior high school kids, than we were old enough to be drafted in the Marines to fight and die in Viet Nam. With no thanks to Senator McCarthy, the television programming and movies that we saw were much more censored, than they are today. We learned about sex and violence from whispering our misconceptions in the dark to one another. Now, kids learn about sex and violence from X Box video games. Game over. I wonder what they'll be like, when they're my age. I wonder what their children will be like, when they're their age.

All we had to get us off were stolen copies of ragged eared Playboy magazines, National Geographic magazines that showed topless African women, and art history books that the librarians kept on the top shelf behind them to stop us from jerking off behind bookcases to the nude pictures in the corner of the library. When I think about my early sexual maturity, sexually and emotionally retarded, we were sexually inexperienced compared to the sexually experienced teenagers of today. We were so immaturely naïve. If I miss anything of that era, I miss the innocence that has been stolen by dirty, lying, stealing politicians, the Internet, and reality TV.

Kathleen was in her early thirties and nearly twice our age. Even though she was good looking, in the way that Spanky of the Little Rascals had a crush on his teacher, Mrs. Crabtree, she was old, so we all thought, that we hardly noticed her good looks. We only always saw her from a distance and we always saw her wearing clothes. Besides, with our hormones controlling our minds and our horniness controlling our imaginations, we more noticed her body than we did her face. Suffice to say that she had a great figure. Still, we were more interested in the neighborhood girls our age, who were more our speed and who tempted us with flirty talking, sexy walking, French kisses, the hopes of getting to first base, and the fantasy of a quickie hand job, something that seldom materialized, even after we spent all of our money taking them to the movies and buying them pizza.

Even after the Kennedy assassinations, it was still a time of prolonged innocence. We learned about sex down the cellar, when our parents weren't home or in the park at night, where our parents couldn't see our desperate humping and hear our excited premature ejaculations. Our morals were instilled in us by the neighborhood cop walking the beat and by the local priest at Sunday mass that continued his lecturing, when he visited one of our homes for supper that night, a different house each week, or saw us hiding behind a tree, while taking a stroll through the neighborhood.

"I didn't see you at Sunday Mass, Freddie, but I see you hiding behind that tree."

"Yes, Father."

By the looks of the state of the world today, I think religion has gone underground with everyone praying to God behind closed, locked doors in hopes of winning the lottery or finding a cure for their sick child or a job for an out of work Dad. From the looks of current events, with all the gang violence and political corruption, people don't fear God in the way they used to, when I was a kid growing up on my knees with my hands pressed tightly together and my eyes closed, while asking God to forgive me for my sins and to raise me to Heaven, when I die. Now, it's all a world of dysfunctional lunacy with everyone out for themselves and no one helping their neighbor.

To be continued...

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