tagNonConsent/ReluctanceJan--The Good, The Bad & The Ugly

Jan--The Good, The Bad & The Ugly


First, a bit of background:

I had completely forgotten about this gal and not had even a fleeting thought about her in nearly a quarter century.

Then, one day I was chatting on the phone with an old friend when the subject of the fruit trees in the yard of his first house came up. He worked so hard to maintain them but relocated out of state long ago and wondered if subsequent owners had kept them up. Since I'd moved back to that city, I told him I'd drive by his old homeplace, check it out, and let him know.

It was the first time I'd been down Marion St. since he and his wife moved in the mid-1980s. The finicky trees, not unexpectedly, were no longer bearing fruit, but being in situ brought back a flood of memories, among them, the goings-on in the house across the street and over one. That's where the central character of this story lived, a super-sexy but deeply flawed chick I had a six-month fling with.

The more I thought about her, the more I remembered, yet for the life of me I could not recall perhaps the most important detail—her name! I asked my fruit-tree buddy and his wife, but they couldn't remember, either. The only other person this girl and I knew in common, her ex-boyfriend David, was killed in a car accident, so he was, literally, a dead-end.

I tried looking her Marion address up on the local tax assessor's web site, but records there only went back to the mid-90s, and none of the owner names rang a bell, so she must have moved prior to that. I knew her name was short and not at all unusual, so, taking a systematic tack, I perused a dictionary of common English feminine names, thinking when I ran across hers, it would leap off the page. That didn't work.

Since all my stories are true to the nth degree, assigning her a fictitious name was not an option. I could have simply referred to her throughout the story with third-person nouns such as "chick," "gal" and so on, but that makes for a lifeless character and is a formula for monotony.

The trick to remembering something you know is stored but cannot locate its mental file is to relax and let it come it its own good time. A Type 2 Personality, I have a hard time with that approach, so I just kept concentrating and recalling details of our relationship, thinking some minute snippet would connect the neural path to her name in my brain.

As a result, this tale is almost nine thousand words, my longest yet—a bona fide short story. I usually write and refine a story in a couple weeks or less, but because of the snag on her name, I kept adding more and more. Though writing has been off and on—mostly off—it's hard to believe I actually started on it about a year and a half ago!

At any rate, while I was dicing vegetables for a salad recently, out of nowhere, into my head popped her full name, Jan Mxxxxxxx. At long last, here's the story:

"I'm not positive I want to go any further," said Jan, looking up at me with big, brown eyes and a conflicted expression as she plucked my cock out of her mouth.

Hands on my hips, I was standing there at attention looking down at her sitting on the carpet of her living room floor, legs spread at 90 degrees revealing perhaps the biggest pair of pussy lips I've ever seen. Despite her prodigious brown bush, it did little to occlude the view.

Jan's right hand was fisted tightly around the base of my dick, her same-side boob nestled in the crook of that arm, with its dark, .38-special-size nipple kissing the inside of her forearm. Her pendulous D-cup twin bobbled against her left arm as she used that hand to twiddle her glistening-wet clit, itself nearly as large as her nipples.

"Not positive?" I asked, not really knowing what to say.

"Well, you know it hasn't been long since David and I broke up, and we dated for years before I let him make love to me," she explained, speaking at my erect phallus as if it were a microphone at the finals of the World Equivocation Championship.

Oh, shit, I thought. We'd gotten pooty-faced drunk, made out for well over an hour, and I'd finally got all her clothes off. Then I'd given her a marathon full-body massage and gone down on her forever. Here Jan's given me a bodacious BJ, and she's going to back out now?

But why should I have been surprised? That's EXACTLY what I'd been told would happen.

Here's how things led up to that point, then the rest of the story:

Jan lived across the street from one of my oldest, best friends, Russell, and his wife, Vickie. His well-to-do physician father had bought the little house for them to live in when they moved back to our hometown.

Russell graduated Phi Beta Kappa from the University of North Carolina, married the beautiful and smart Vickie from the Tar Heel state immediately afterward, and was pursuing a masters in English there in Chapel Hill. Then, he realized that, unless he wrote a best-selling novel, their lives would be a constant financial struggle.

So, brilliant and versatile, he moved back home to get a BS in Electrical Engineering, then the most marketable bachelor's degree you could have, with starting salaries in the $50s. That was big bucks in the '80s.

For the two or so years it would take Russell to get another undergraduate diploma, Vickie worked for a local insurance company to support them. At the time, I was switching gears, as well, forgoing my original academic plan to get a Ph.D. and go into clinical psychology and, instead, get an MBA degree at the same local university as Russell, and do the business thing.

All my other old pals were either working or getting advanced degrees elsewhere, so even though I was back in my hometown, Russell was about the only friend I had there. I had a small home restoration business to earn some income, but that kind of work is spotty, so, with Vickie working 8 to 5, Russell and I had a lot of time to hang out together during the day.

We were shuffling around in his yard one such day checking on the apricot trees when I saw this tall, buxom woman get out of her car and go into the yellow brick house across the street and over one, on the corner. Seeing us looking her way, she waved and said "Hi," sporting a wide, toothy smile, before she turned to go inside.

"Who is THAT girl?" I asked Russell, finding her immediately attractive even from a distance.

"I've never met her, so I don't know her name. But I see that Cutlass she got out of parked in the drive all the time, so she must live there."

I liked that big, friendly smile. I liked those big, friendly boobs! I liked the rest of her looks, too: very tall and slender, with long skinny legs, an unusually slim mid-riff for such big breasts, and thick brown hair hanging to a few inches below her shoulders. She appeared to be in her early 30s—probably seven or eight years older than I.

Sometimes you just have an instant attraction, and such was the case with her.

Because there was a large picture window behind my usual place on the couch in Russell and Vickie's living room, it was easy keep an eye out for her. However, when the booby brunette would come and go, she was always in her car and gone or inside the house lickity-split before I could get outside to meet her.

Finally, late one chilly afternoon at dusk, she drove up just as I did.

"Hi, my name is Jan. You must be the new people across the street. Welcome to the neighborhood!" she said with a genuine beaming smile sweeping across her very pretty face.

"Actually, I'm a close friend of the new people, Russell and Vickie—that's why I'm over there so much. My name is (Hornyman); They're married, but I'm not," I said to introduce myself and leave no doubt about my availability.

"Oh, I'm single, too—still not used to that. Thought I was going to be married to my boyfriend that I dated for over a decade before we recently broke up. He lived here with me but just moved out," explained Jan, her incredibly hard nipples visible despite the thick wool professional suit she wore.

So, this babe who looked even better up close was unattached, as well.

"You're a very attractive woman. We should have a drink together sometime," I offered, having learned to waste no time in expressing interest.

"You really think so? Really? Why, thank you, thank you very much. Yes, I'd love to have a drink or five, ha, ha. I'm a big drinker, love to drink," Jan chuckled, conveying both that she was not hung up on her good looks and that she liked to party.

Just then, I heard an exasperated "Oh shit!" from Russell's back yard, only to turn and see that he was rubbing his forehead, and flames from the charcoal fire he'd started roaring several feet into the air.

"It's a pleasure meeting you, Jan, but I must run, literally, as it appears my buddy has used jet fuel to start the coals, and his face is on fire," I quipped only half-jokingly. Then I sprinted across the street to squelch the fire with the grill lid and discover that his bushy "uni-brow" was singed.

Well, I didn't get her phone number right then because of the emergency. By the time we grilled and ate dinner, cleaned up, and watched a movie, it was midnight and too late to knock on anyone's door, so Jan had gotten away from me that night.

But the next day, a Saturday, I got over to my friends' a bit earlier, while it was still light. So, before I went in, I decided right then was the time to just knock on Jan's door and make a date.

I was halfway across the street when an El Camino pulled up in the driveway behind her Cutlass. A guy got out. Uh-oh, bad timing. Damn, he's probably there to pick her up for a date himself, I thought. Better to walk up and introduce myself rather than act sheepish and veer away.

But before I could, he enthusiastically engaged me, saying, "So YOU'RE the owner of that awesome Wildcat convertible? I recognized it right away. Seen it parked on the cove I just moved onto and drool every time I pass by it. You live there across the street?" he asked, pointing at Russell and Vickie's house.

"No, I'm here to visit friends. Actually, I live where you see my car parked all the time. I grew up on that cove and am back staying with my folks while I'm in grad school. If you just moved in, you must be the dude with that sweet '69 Chevelle drop-top down in the end of the circle. Welcome to the neighborhood. My name's (Hornyman). What brings you over here?" I asked, extending my hand.

Shaking it, he said, "I'm David, otherwise known as 'Jan's old boyfriend,' and I'm here to pick up a piece of my furniture. I moved out about a month ago and have been getting my stuff bit by bit. There's just one piece left, but it weighs a ton. Would you mind giving me a hand?"

We stood chatting there in the driveway for several more minutes. There was something that I immediately liked about David. He was a good guy, sociable, talkative, an open-book kind of fellow. That would soon come in very handy when I picked his brain about Jan.

Inside Jan's, though it was somewhat depleted looking since all of his stuff was gone, everything was quite tasteful and upper-end—the drapes, carpet, wallpaper, furniture, art, bric-a-brac, you name it. Hmm. Wonder what she did for a living?

Jan looked great. It was the first time I'd seen her in casual clothes, and they did a much better job showing what she had going on. Her slim legs and round rump were poured into form-fitting Calvin Klein jeans, and a tight red turtleneck hugged an impossibly narrow waist and, of course, those magnificent mammaries.

Though it was apparent she had on a bra, it was losing the battle to restrain those bullet-like nipples from boring breathtaking blips in the sweater. It was warm inside, not cold like it was when I'd met her and noticed them before, so she had what I call—and love—perma-pokies.

The three of us yacked amicably inside for a while where I learned, among other things, that Jan worked for a well-known local travel agency that her mother owned. Jan was the agent who handled all the luxury cruises and such, a lucrative segment of the business, which explained how she was able to afford all that finer stuff. She owned the house, too, one of the nicest and biggest in the lower-middle-class neighborhood near campus.

I could just tell from their non-verbal behavior that Jan was quite obviously not over David while he seemed to be completely past her. So, I figured he was the one who broke up with her, but why would he leave such a seemingly pleasant, great-looking woman with her own house and a good job, after such a lengthy relationship?

With considerable effort, we got his massive chest of drawers out of the house and into the bed of the El Camino. With a drink in one hand, smoke in the other, Jan followed us out, so I had no opportunity to ask him about her.

With his business done there and his ex behaving rather clingy, I could see he was ready to split right away. But I really wanted to get the lowdown on Jan. Think of something before he gets away, Hornyman, and think fast!

"You need help to move this monolith into your place, David?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. I'd really appreciate that. What are you, a saint? My buddy lent me his 'truck-car,' and had promised to help, but then disappeared with his girlfriend. Of course you know my new place isn't far, so I'll have you back here in half an hour, maybe 45 minutes—provided we don't break our backs going up the steps. Yep, you heard right: 'steps' and 'up,' no less. Hop in before you come to your senses and change your mind."

In his driveway was his mint '69 Chevelle convertible I'd seen going by. Woe, Nellie! 400 cubes of V-8 power, dual exhaust, four in the floor, full instrumentation, loaded with every available option, white bucket seats, original yellow exterior paint, white canvas top. But for the re-covered seats, carpet, top, and tires, it was all-original.

"Where'd you find such a clean ride, David?"

"In Dad's driveway. He bought it new for me when I turned 16, but, being a car nut, he enjoyed it as much or more than me. It's the only car I've ever had. That "38,000" showing on the odometer is actually 238,000 miles, but it's been maintained scrupulously—I never let even the smallest thing go before fixing it—and so it still runs and drives like a top."

"I was tempted to jack it up, slap on huge mag wheels and headers, bore the cylinders for more HP, and all the rest to make it into a street rod like so many of my buddies did their muscle cars, but now I'm so glad I kept it factory-original."

"I've treated my Buick likewise but was never tempted to change anything. Dad special-ordered it, so it is a true one-of-a-kind car. I'm so anal about originality that I only recently broke down and switched from bias-ply to radial tires! Stop by sometime and and I'll give you the complete tour." I said, forcing myself to cut short one of my favorite topics to get on with the business at hand.

A love of cars was just one of many things we had in common; girls were another. Thirty minutes before, David and I were strangers; now we were interacting like old friends. Of course, my original motive for helping David with the chest was to find out more about Jan, and he was more than forthcoming about her.

"Fundamentally, she's a really sweet girl, but you might be surprised to know she'll knock your fucking socks off in the sack. I taught her everything she knows, and I mean EVERYTHING. She'll do anything, ANYTHING. I popped her cherry and have been her one-and-only lover. OK, that's the good. Wanna hear the rest?"

"On the Universal Clint Eastwood Good Bad Ugly Scale, that would be the bad and the ugly, right?" I asked.

"Correctamundo, mi amigo. Though she's absolutely great at sex, she has a hang-up about it. You see, I'm three years older than her—she's 27 now—and started seeing her when she was just in the eighth grade. Why would a junior date a 14-year-old? Well, because she was really sweet, outgoing like me, and had an early-blooming bombshell body that made her appear older, so it wasn't the least bit awkward to be seen together."

"Her dad evaporated when she was still a little child, and she never had much of a relationship with her much older siblings who were, by the time I met her, all out of the house on their own. Her mom, busy building the travel agency and going through men like Lay's potato chips, paid little mind to her accidental girl and had no problem at all with the age difference. She was just glad someone was giving Jan attention."

"All right, so she's got a dysfunctional family, but what about the sex problem?" I redirected.

"The problem was that she didn't do sex. I mean we kissed and made out, but that's it, first base. I figured she was just young and needed time to mature into it. So, I was cool with her non-put-outance—I had one of the best-looking chicks in school, we got along great, and I was proud to be her boyfriend. By the time she was in the 10th grade and still saying, 'David, I love you, but I'm just not ready,' I was a freshman in college and still a virgin!"

"When I pledged SAE and told the fraternity brothers my predicament, and then showed them a picture of Jan in a bikini, they were astounded that I'd hung with her so long and still not boinked her. Well, the simple reason was because I was in love with Jan and knew she'd eventually come around."

"I was in a frat, too, so I know that scene. The brothers made sure you got some pussy ASAP, right?"

"Exactly. My being a pledge, they designed a 'scavenger hunt' just for me in which I HAD to find and fuck a certain quota of girls each month, then give a full accounting to the officers. I was told that was to ensure I wasn't fibbing, but giving them the blow-by-blow details of every sexual encounter was surely as much for their enjoyment as mine. Of course, the "Es' specialized in knowing who the easy and at-least-decent-looking girls were, so they made it a cinch by directing me to them."

"I exceeded my quota—screwing a total of 54! Talk about a college education! Of course, I was still dating Jan steady during all that. Because of our age difference, it was not that difficult to keep my college and her high school social circles separate, so Jan never even suspected all the side action I was getting."

"Dude, it's not 'side action' when you're getting no central action. So, how'd you finally get into Jan's pants?" I inquired.

"Well, all those college girls no doubt relieved some of the 'pressure,' but I felt guilty because I was truly in love with Jan, and a man's gotta make love with the girl he's in love with, you know? She was about to turn 18 in the spring of her senior year in high school, and, of course, I was almost finished with my junior year in college."

"One's eighteenth is perhaps the most significant of all birthdays, and I planned to make the most of Jan's. At that juncture, I'd dated her for four years, FOUR FUCKING YEARS, my friend, with not so much as a nibble on those pencil erasers."

"Correction, four NON-fucking years. Go on." I prodded.

"Jan's 18th birthday fell conveniently on a Friday, and with no dad around, and a mother and older siblings who pretty much ignored her, I was able to carry out a carefully laid plan with no interference. First, I took her downtown to the election commission to get her registered to vote. Then we got really dressed up, something we rarely did, and I took her out to a fancy, older-crowd restaurant for a romantic dinner."

"Afterwards, I took her to a package store and gave her some money to get a couple bottles of champagne so that she could go in by herself and buy it by showing her REAL license—not the usual fake ID she used—18 being the legal drinking age back then."

"I see, so the idea behind all that was to reinforce that she was an adult, to get her in that frame of mind. Smart, very smart, David. You mentioned her pencil erasers. Can we please get to those?"

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