Flamingos Ch. 01

"You're sure about this?" I asked, making one more walk around the travel trailer. No matter how many times you do it, you still double-check. Chocks in place, check. Everything level, check. Steps down and handrail up, check. Propane tank open, check. Stabilizers set up, check.

Paula, my wife of almost 40 years, was following me closely.

"Yes," she said.

She's still delightfully pretty in that way of some plump women. Her face was round, nose small, mouth generous. Her hair was still the same almost-red auburn color it had always been. We never talked about it but I'm sure Miss Clairol or some specialty product from a beauty salon was involved in that. Anyway, she showed no grey.

She was still as flat-chested as always as well. She had talked about enhancement, or enlargement I suppose, from time to time but I had always told her she was perfect as she was. And she was, to me anyway. It was her magnificent ass that mattered. She was a pear, damn near a perfect pear of a woman.

So I reached into the bedroom and took out the five-foot-tall metal flamingo and set it out on the corner of the indoor-outdoor rug that prevented the worst of dirt from being tracked into the trailer.

And there it was. We were officially swingers. Me leaning real hard on 70, my bride getting ready for her medicare card in a year and a half.

Well, anyway that's what we had heard. Okay, and on some level that's what we were hoping although we were nervous as hell.

I was nervous as hell. Paula had the shiny eyes that told me she was excited.

I chuckled and kissed her. "You can call this off any time you want to," I said.

"I know," she said, "but I think we should give it a try."

If you aren't an RVer (that's recreational vehicle if you aren't) then you probably don't know what I'm talking about. Sorry about that, as Maxwell Smart would say in my youth. It's kind of an inside joke. A flamingo displayed outside of your RV is supposed to indicate you swing. A pineapple hung upside down is supposed to mean you swing with kinks. In our dozen or so long trips with the travel trailer, I could never recall seeing a pineapple presented upside down but I had seen plenty of flamingos.

In our case, in our 40 years of marriage, I had been faithful (well, except for that one convention in New Orleans) and I believe Paula had been too. But our sex life had become, well, "vanilla" is the appropriate word. It wasn't "boring," but after 40 years I knew every one of her special spots and she knew mine. Oh, I still enjoyed watching her nipples harden onto the pink cones of her areolas when I slowly drug my fingernail down a certain line on the inside of her upper arm and across her armpit, absolutely and permanently hairless like the rest of her body below her neck. But after the thousandth time, it was hardly a new experience. My own erectile disfunction was well controlled with my daily Cialis pill and I had been taking a double dose for the past week anticipating this trip. As I looked at her and thought about what we were doing I felt a pleasant stirring.

"Okay," I said, "you look pretty for us while I finish setting up."

I opened the door to the "basement," that cavern at the front of the travel trailer and pulled out my hammock, and invested the five minutes in setting it up. The other little storage area yielded our chairs, a folding canvas rocking chair for her, my own "bag chair" with its footrest doing a reasonable imitation of a recliner. I got out the little gas grill, set it up with one of those fat green propane bottles, and tested the starter to make sure it would work.

I heard the door open and turned to look.

"Oh my," I breathed.

I knew she had been shopping, "wanting a new look for our adventure," as she had put it. But I hadn't expected this.

She was posing at the top of the stairs.

Her Daisy Duke cutoff jeans showed her hips and ass wonderfully. The sulcus, that line where ass meets thigh, was on display as was the very bottom of her round butt.

"Showed," hell, they put them on display.

Her halter top made her lack of boobs just as obvious. The triangles covering them were small but fully adequate to cover her completely. If you're interested, her bras are 32A and she barely fills them. When our son was born she briefly filled a B cup but when she stopped nursing him (well, and me too), they were back to being tiny titties although they had never qualified as hooters or Juggs even when she was nursing.

The fuck-me sandals set off the look. They were platform style, with a heel about three inches making her about 5'4". The straps across the top of her feet were a bright red leather and the ankle straps were the reddest of red satin ribbon.

Every nail, fingers and toes, was done in a matching scarlet.

Her face was made up more heavily than she normally did. The green eyeshadow contrasted with her auburn hair and red nails. The mascara added little points to the corners of her eyes giving her a bit of an exotic look. Long, butterfly lashes, something I had never seen before, added to her new look.

Her hair was done big. Not Dolly Parton big. Paula doesn't have enough hair to pull that off, but much bigger than she usually wore it. It was a curly auburn cap, framing her face beautifully.

Big hoop earrings and a jangly bracelet completed her new look.

I whistled.

She giggled and came down the stairs to me.

"You like?" she asked.

"You are stunning," I said.

She beamed.

"There's really only one question," I said, smiling down at her.

She looked up at me in that head-slightly-tilted-mouth-pursed-and-pulled-slightly-to-the-side way only a woman can pull off and that Paula had raised to a new form of art and said, "question?"

"Yep. The men are going to want to know how much for the night," I said.

She giggled.

"And what will you tell them your whore is worth?" she asked.

I took a step back and deliberately looked her up and down.

Damn, she looked good.

Her skin is very pale and she invests the time to keep it smooth. I still enjoyed her nightly ritual with the expensive lotions and I was always happy to do her back and those places where it's hard to reach. She's small down to her cute little innie belly button and then her hips swell dramatically. Once the baby fat had gone away I had taken a tape measure to her and measured her at 32-28-48. As I say, she's a pear.

Without the shoes, she's a shade over 5 feet tall. She's just one of those women for whom all of her weight is below her navel. Her hips flare. Her ass, her bubble butt as she calls it, is round and firm. Her thighs are thick, no thigh gap here, with slightly darker and dramatically thicker skin for two little semi-circles where her thighs rub when she walks. Her legs taper to her knees and her calves belong on much thinner legs. That's a remnant of her younger days as a gymnast, something at which she had been a champion until, as she always put it, "my ass got too big to bring around on a roundoff/back handspring combination."

"Welllllllllllll," I said, chuckling, "for an 'exotic' like you I'm thinkin' about a thousand dollars a night for unlimited vaginal and oral sex with extras, well, extra."

Her eyes got big.

"Really?" she said.

"Yes, honey, really," I said.

"Sometimes I think you forget just how damn good lookin' you really are," I added.

I had to chuckle as her eyes brimmed over and she said, "Oh shit, now I have to fix my face," and disappeared into the trailer.

So I went to the Yukon, our tow vehicle, and pulled out my old Yamaha guitar. I chuckled as I looked at the battered old thing, itself a half-century old now, clipped the Snark tuning device to the headpiece, and hopped up onto the picnic table that was part of the site to tune up.

We had discovered that there's nothing like a guy playing a guitar to draw at least waves at a campground. And it worked here as well. I was just running scales, getting my fingers warmed up, when the first interested person showed up. It wasn't someone interested in the flamingo though. This was a kid, maybe 14, grinning as I tossed a few of my favorite blues lick out, the old wood sounding good for all that it wasn't a very expensive instrument to start with.

It was four o'clockish, we didn't like to push too far when we were hauling the trailer, and that made it what we had discovered was the promenade hour. Folks would be walking dogs and just walking around, seeing what was what as they say.

The first couple to come by was 40-something. He was almost a caricature of a nerd with oversize horn-rim glasses, a standard boy's haircut parted neatly on the left, jeans, and tennis shoes with no socks. He was a pretty good-looking kid. She, on the other hand, was a perfect butterball. Not much taller than Paula, she probably weighed in at around 250 pounds. An obvious bottle blonde who hadn't bothered with eyebrows to match her coiffe, she was cute and bouncy and careful to hide her 40+ years.

"You know what this means?" the guy asked, his hand on the flamingo.

I nodded.

He smiled and she smiled and he said, "party later?"

I grinned and said, "I hope so."

About then Paula came back out, makeup freshened and looking absolutely tasty.

He grinned and said, "I do too."

Over the next hour or so a half dozen couples stopped to talk about the flamingo and I realized, on a very deep level, that this was really happening.

An impromptu party developed and by 6 o'clock a couple of our new friends were working the grill while a pretty nice spread of potato salad, brought by a couple more our age, neither hiding grey hair, deviled eggs brought by a couple in their 30s, three bags of chips, and a small tub of ice filled with beer cans had grown. I started passing around my THC gummies, the 10-milligram doses cut in half. I didn't want to get completely stoned, but a bit of a buzz would be nice I figured.

Okay, I won't deny that I enjoyed being the center of attention. I'm a competent guitar player and know some interesting songs. I did the regular singalongs - "Margaritaville" and "Okie from Muskogee" were always good for a laugh. I did my special songs too, "Rats in My Bedroom" and "If Jesus Comes Back As A Mexican Man" drawing applause and laughs.

I was surprised by how casual things were. I was reminded of my junior college "mixer," back when dinosaurs ruled the earth and I had been a 19-year-old freshman. Names were exchanged and casual stories were told. I met a Terry and Samantha and Fred and Pamela (always Pamela, never just Pam) and Steve and Maureen and a half dozen others. There was a Duncan, making me think of that TV series "Highlander." I've always been pretty good with names and most of them stuck.

And couples were pairing off.

From my vantage point, sitting on the table of the picnic table/bench arrangement, I could look down on the crowd. It was interesting.

Paula, I noted, was deep in conversation with a young (30-something) up-and-coming executive. Todd was the name he had given and I had almost laughed, it was such a perfect name for his yuppie look. The look was there in the well-barbered hair, well-tended nails, and even the $300 shoes just screamed success. And she was obviously enthralled. She was doing that both-hands-on-the-arm thing women can pull off, head tilted back, almost simpering.

Todd's wife, and the name she gave, "Tiffany," had left me struggling to not snort, was just as obvious. She was well enhanced. I mean NO ONE has boobs that big or that high from nature. I suspected other nips and tucks as well but didn't really care. She didn't appeal to me at all.

For my part, Charlotte was the lady who had zeroed in on me. She was age-appropriate for me, I guessed her at 60-something, certainly approaching retirement if she wasn't there yet. Her hair was a startling white, and it looked natural to me. It was very long, the thick braid hung well down her back. She was attractive rather than pretty or cute. She looked like she could have posed for one of those Roman sculptors who left their statuary around. A high forehead, straight nose, small mouth, small ears, and that mass of hair pulled back tight into the braid gave her a striking look. She was slender and lean in the way of a distance runner or a sprint swimmer. She obviously put in gym time, something made clear by the tone in her arms.

She knew all of my old songs and sang along in a clear soprano.

And she was a tickler. She would trace a nail down my arm or my neck making me squirm while she giggled. I noticed Paula watching and felt an additional stirring between my legs.

Campgrounds are interesting places. You meet new people. See interesting places. But at the campground itself, the curfew accepted by anyone who has been using an RV for more than a time or two is 9:00 p.m. So as that witching hour drew near the couples started drifting off. I hadn't been sure of the protocols involved in this new lifestyle we were experimenting with, but it appeared that the couples were going to the man's trailer or motor home or, I suppose, in some cases, a tent.

Charlotte made no move to leave and I watched as Paula walked away with Todd. His hand was on her hip at first and then casually roamed down her ass. She didn't look back.

"Well," Charlotte said, her breath warm in my ear, "I guess it's just you and me."

I put the guitar on its stand and turned to face her.

As I watched she unbuttoned her shirt, a blue chambray thing fitting her hippy image, and shrugged it off, letting it fall to the ground.

She had good beasts.

What with being a man and all, I had noticed that she wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts were very nice. I estimated that if she had worn a bra it would have been a 38D. They were pale with very distinct tan lines, and they sagged. The pale skin was traced with blue veins. Her nipples were small and long enough that they sagged a little of their own weight until the cool air touched them and her areolas tightened into wrinkled cones about the size of a silver dollar and her nipples pointed straight ahead. She had failed the famous pencil test long ago, but they were still full and nicely separated.

I liked them.

"Your turn," she said with a very nice smile showing straight, even, ivory teeth.

I pulled my T-shirt (this one with "I may look like I'm listening but in my head I'm playing my guitar" on it) over my head.

I was never an athlete, but I had been lucky in the gene department. A friend who was one of those guys who still played basketball and did his weight training three times a week has remarked, on the few times over the years when I had joined him in what I saw as self-flagellation, on my "cut," which he had explained meant the definition of my muscles. Well, those days were behind me. At about 50 I had suddenly become a fat cell magnet and every new cell found its home between my sternum and pubic arch, behind the abdominal muscles which were still strong and hard reflecting hundreds of hours in a boxing gym and then thousands of hours in various martial arts dojos and the bazillion or so situps and crunches invested in those places.

So there I was, a pot-bellied retiree leaning very hard on 70 but still, I liked to think, looking pretty good.

Apparently, she thought so too. She closed the distance between us, ran her hands up my chest, palms flat against my skin, put her hands flat against the sides of my face, pulled me closer, and said, "very nice," before she kissed me.

It was a good kiss, made all the better because it was so different from my four decades with Paula. It started with a soft brushing of lips. The pressure increased, very slowly as she slowly molded her body to mine. Her breasts, firm in spite of their sag, felt good pressing against me, and her nipples, hard, sent a special tingle into my groin.

I was a little breathless when she broke the kiss.

"Should we go inside?" I asked.

She smiled, and it was a good smile with a hint of mischief.

"I like the feeling of the night air on my skin," she said, "don't be in such a hurry."

As I watched she undid the button of her jeans, designer jeans that had been made by someone who clearly knew that men and women were shaped differently. She pushed them down and I noticed that her panties were simple bikini cut, nothing exotic like a butt floss thong or anything.

This was one of those cases where she looked so damn good in those panties that I didn't particularly want them off.

Well, not just yet anyway.

I whistled softly.

There was plenty of light scattered from the streetlight up the lane and from other trailers that I could see her clearly and she was worth seeing. A small circle of skin, just above the panty line, showed thick stretch marks making me wonder how many children she had borne. It was the only spot on her that wasn't firm, and she shivered a little when I reached out and touched it.

"I have started to have that taken care of many times," she said, "but Duncan (and it flashed through my mind that was the name her husband had given me) says he likes it so I haven't."

"He's right," I said, squeezing where she was so soft.

"Your turn," she said again and I chuckled.

I couldn't be as graceful as she had been because I had to deal with shoes with laces, and socks, but I managed to get out of my jeans without a catastrophic fall.

She giggled.

"Oh my God," she said, pulling at the elastic of my shorts' waistband, "tidy whities? Jesus, I HAVE to talk to that pretty wife of yours."

This time when she kissed me it was pure sex. Her hands slipped under the waistband of my shorts, finding the skin there, and her touch made me come erect instantly. Her mouth was hungry, on my own, her tongue a darting thing, touching my lips and teeth and then my tongue. I mirrored her movements and my own hands found the warmth of the skin of her ass.

It was a GREAT kiss!

And it lingered. Her fingers were entwined in my hair, still thick, and mine were digging into the firm flesh of her ass. When I tried to come up for air she breathed out, giving me hers. We shared a breath like that until I started getting light-headed and she finally released me.

Her smile made me think of that word you see written but have never used in a sentence, beatific, as she eased to her knees with a smoothness and grace that told me she must have done that before. She worked my shorts down, holding my ass to keep me steady, and then slowly made love to my erection.

This wasn't oral sex or a simple American blow job, this was making love to the core of my maleness, kissing and licking the shaft, lifting my scrotum, and kissing the soft skin there. She had me harder than I believe I had ever been before in a matter of a minute.

Then she stood, leaving me throbbing with my excitement, and kissed me lightly.

"Your turn," she said for the third time.

And I mirrored her actions. I got to my knees, not as gracefully as she had I'm afraid, and began by making love to that soft skin of her belly. When I worked the panties down she stood very still. Her hips flared nicely and those two lines where her thighs curved into her mons veneris, that beautiful Mound of Venus were very distinct. She was smooth except for a very closely trimmed landing strip about an inch wide. Her lips were full and plump, and just a hint of delicate pink inner lips peeked out. She shivered a bit, just a little sudden tremble when I bent forward and kissed her lips.

Her womanscent, laden with pheromones, filled my nose and I inhaled deeply. She was pure perfume.

I looked up at her, smiled, and buried my face between her legs.

This WAS a good old-fashioned American blow job. I licked, tasted her nectar, and sucked, feeling those delicate lips swell in my mouth. Her back arched and her knees parted, offering herself for more, something I was only too glad to give her. When my tongue found the hard little bud of her clitoris, the center of her pleasure, she hissed a very soft, "yesssssss," and when I probed harder, using my tongue deliberately to masturbate her, her hips started rocking with her need.