Old Guy Gets Lucky with Young Chick

Always attracted to women my age, now I wondered what it would feel like to have sex with a woman young enough to be my daughter. Instead of feeling weathered leather like skin, I imagined feeling skin as soft, as supple, and as smooth as a piece of ripe fruit. I imagined looking into healthy eyes and seeing a face free of wrinkles, while kissing full lips that hide white, perfect teeth.

I imagined a woman dying her hair for the sake of changing the color, instead of hiding the grey. I imagined a woman with hands that didn't have age spots. Just as Hemingway saw the topless native girl with perfect natural breasts walking towards him, I imagined breasts so full, so high, and so supple to the touch that I'd think I was on a white, sandy beach in Africa's Garden of Eden beneath the snow capped Mount Kilimanjaro.

Unable to have sex or maybe it was her excuse, but one woman I recently dated just had hip replacement surgery. Offering to hold my hand, instead of stroking my cock, another woman I dated told me she couldn't have sex with me because she had a bad heart. She wouldn't even allow me to see her breasts, because of the surgery scars she had. Then there was the last woman I dated who had a voice like Gabby Hayes, Roy Rogers' bearded, old sidekick. A chain smoker, who smoked for forty-years and coughed through dinner, she'd dash outside between every course for a cigarette. Although she did give me a blowjob in the car and allowed me to cum in her mouth, maybe because it kept her mouth busy between butts, kissing her was akin to making out with an ashtray.

Then, there were the older women, the widows, who were hot for me, but not so much for sex. All show and no go, they were terrible in bed. Wanting to sexually do what they were forbidden to do by a Puritanical society when they were younger, only too old, too unhealthy, and/or too inhibited to do what they wanted to do, they had no idea what to do now that they were older and could do whatever they wanted to do. Inexperienced in the way of a virgin on her wedding night, too many older women didn't suck cock and those that did suck cock just dabbled, wouldn't allow me to cum in their mouths and if they did allow me to cum in their mouths, they refused to swallow and were spitters. Ah, I'd sell my soul for a chance to be with a woman half my age. Only what young woman would want an old guy like me?

Typically, used by older women to impress their friends that they were still hot enough to attract a younger boyfriend, the women that I hooked up with online lied about their age and about their weight. Don't they know that relationships don't work when started with a lie? Don't they know, as soon as I meet them in person, I'll know that they're older and heavier than they professed to be online?

Maybe they figured, we'll never meet. Maybe their good time was just corresponding and flirting with me online. Maybe sending photos of how they looked 10 years ago made them feel that their aging clock stopped. Maybe, pretending they still looked like that now allowed them to escape the reality that they no longer did. Maybe they figured, by the time I met them, they'd have lost weight and/or had plastic surgery. Maybe they figured, by then, we would have started a correspondence that would transcend whatever lies they told to attract me. Maybe they thought that I was just as desperate for love and companionship as they were.

While surveying the beach, I watched a busty blonde nearly fall out of her bikini top, when emerging from the water and scream her need for attention. Annoyed by the young mother sitting next to me, who took a crying baby to a hot beach, I watched the rest of humanity parade by my blanket, while leaving their temporary footprints in the hot, soft sand. Feeling so boringly ordinary, there were so many people doing the same thing at the same time that I didn't feel uniquely special. I felt like one of them, one of the herd on a beach, while waiting for something exciting to happen but nothing ever did.

Then, as if she had a spotlight of brilliant sunshine over her head, as if she was someone that I needed to know, unable to take my eyes off of her, I couldn't help but notice a young, big, beautiful redhead. Taken by her, I thought of the late, great Frank Sinatra swooning his love song, Strangers in the Night...exchanging glances. Only, she wasn't glancing over at me, in the way that I was looking, staring, actually, okay, leering at her.

Captivated by her, I watched her. Just as I wondered what her story was, for the time being, she was my story. With the hundreds of people on the beach, maybe even thousands, she was the one who maintained my interest and I wanted to know more about her, so that I could write about her. For some inexplicable reason, not understanding the attraction to her that I felt, I was drawn enough to her to want to know everything about her.

What was her name? Was she married, single, or divorced? Does she have any children? If she doesn't have children, does she want children? More importantly, would she have my baby? Then, I was saddened to think that maybe she's lesbian.

When it seemed that everyone else had someone, a friend, a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a significant other, or a screaming baby, she was sitting there alone on her beach blanket reading her book, a romance novel, no doubt. I scanned the area around her to see if she was alone, while waiting to see if anyone was coming to join her and/or to claim her, but no one came and no one did. Just as I was alone, she was alone, too.

I was alone because I was old and sitting on a beach surrounded by young people. Since she was so young, I wondered why she was alone. Was she alone because she was obviously obese or was she alone because she wanted to be alone? For sure, I didn't want to be alone. I was tired of being alone. It's no fun being alone and lonely. Curious why and what she preferred to read rather than to enjoy all that the beach had to offer on such a warm summer day, I picked up my compact binoculars and focused them on her for a closer look.

"Knight in Shining Armor, by Jude Devereaux."

I never read that book. The only romance that I was interested in was my own and with two failed marriages behind me, not very good at romance, I'm thinking that I'm done with romance but, hoping by the looks of her, not with one night stands. I remember having to suffer through reading Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet and Cleopatra and Mark Antony in high school, along with Chretien de Troyes's Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere. Then, in college, there was Edith Wharton's Age of Innocence, Gustave Flobere's Madam Bovary, and anything by D. H. Lawrence and Robert Browning, all of which I rather enjoyed.

Of course, we all read and/or watched, Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind. Still rather than sitting in her house, on her porch, or in a park, I don't know why she'd go through all the trouble of packing up her car and sitting in gridlock traffic to drive to the shore, just to read a romance novel. Why was she here in her bathing suit clad body, when she wasn't here in mind and in spirit? Surely, she could read her romance novel anywhere, even sitting in her bathtub, while pretending she was at the beach.

I couldn't help but wonder about her. Maybe she just wants to be seen. Maybe she hopes that the beach is where she'll meet Mr. Right, fall in love, and live happily ever after. For sure, she looks like she'd be the type who'd believes in fairytales and in miracles. Maybe she's hoping for fate and to be swept away in a kiss of kismet.

Maybe, hoping for love at first sight, she imagines her knight in shining armor with abs of steel, and with longer and thicker hair than she has, emerging from out of the water to pick her up and carry her away. By the size of her, maybe she more realistically imagines a larger man holding a gallon of melting fudge ripple ice cream and asking her to share. Again, by the size of her, having to face reality for the sake of bedding a much younger woman, maybe I'd have a better chance of getting with an obese woman than I'd have a chance with a young, skinny blonde thing.

I took another look at her through my pocket Brushnells that I carry with me everywhere I go to look at those birds that have wings and those birds that have tits. She certainly had tits alright, big tits, along with everything else that was big about her, big thighs, big arms, big waist, and a big butt. I wondered if she had a big brain and a big heart, too.

When it comes to a woman, not that she made a bad appearance, but more important than appearance is intelligence, a sense of humor, and a loving kind spirit. I'd never want to be with a dumb, dull, woman who couldn't laugh at herself and at me, while making me feel that I was her one and only special man. Other than to fuck her, I'd never want to be with a young, pretty woman, who had nothing going on in the inside. Even though I lust for a younger lover, I still need someone to challenge my intellect.

Then, when I forced myself to look away from her tits to focus on her face, I noticed that she was pretty, very pretty. Looking again at her face, she was more than pretty. By every definition of beauty, with her eyes not too far apart or too close together and her small facial features, chin and nose, and with her full lips, she was beautiful and she had freckles, too. I'm a sucker for a woman with freckles. I wondered if she was Irish. To me, Irish women are among the most beautiful women in the world, especially when combined with another eastern European nationality, such as Italian, German, Polish, or my favorite, Czechoslovakian, in the way of those famous Czech models Eva Herzigova, Petra Nemcova, and Daniela, Pestova.

Strikingly pretty and stunningly beautiful, she looked like the kind of woman who may be, if she wasn't already, or should be, a plus sized model. I realize, of course, how so many full figured women justify their weight by reciting that big is beautiful, but this woman, for sure, would be more beautiful, if she wasn't so big. As I always do, I imagine myself with women that I see and I could see myself with her, that is, if she wasn't so young. If only she was more my age or ten, even twenty, years younger, I'd have a better chance of bedding her.

I zoomed my binoculars closer in on her face looking for a clue to her age. Was she even thirty-years-old? I doubted it. Maybe she was in her late twenties. Maybe she was in her thirties but looked younger. No matter if she was in her late twenties or early thirties, she was just way too young for me. I have daughters older than her. Besides, what in the world, would a woman so young and so pretty, even an obese woman, who's alone and, no doubt, lonely, want with an old man like me?

Still, mesmerized by her beauty, unable to stop staring at her from across the crowded beach, just as I could only remember how much better looking I was when I was younger, I could only imagine what a redheaded knockout this woman would be, if only she lost some weight. She was better looking than all of those blonde scarecrows with their small tits and flat asses parading around the beach in their custom made bikinis that gave them more boobs than they had by lifting and shaping them, before receiving their breast implants, upon their college graduation. Without doubt, I'd take my BBW romance novel reader over any of them, any day. One in a million, the more that I looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time, she was exceptionally beautiful.

She reminded me of that Christina Hendricks from Mad Men, albeit an even larger version. Certainly, she had the beautiful face and the big boobs to be her, that's for sure. I suddenly imagined her with her hair up and in high heel shoes, while wearing something slenderizing, such as a designer wedding gown. Oh, yeah, love at first sight for me, never thinking that I'd want to marry again, I was already head over heels for this woman.

"Wow!"

It was then that I remembered an old friend who fought a losing battle with her weight. Her name was Natalie and she was a very pretty, busty blonde, but very overweight. She tired of her skinny, ugly friends, some friends they were, talking behind her back and making fun of her. She bought a bumper sticker for her car that read, "I may be fat, but you're ugly and I can always go on a diet and lose weight."

She was funny like that. She had a great sense of humor and was very intelligent. I wonder what happened to her.

"Natalie, if you're out there, reading this story, call me."

Suddenly thinking of myself with my romance reading BBW, a woman half my age, romancing her, before sucking on her big tits, I could see myself with her. Definitely, I could see myself fucking her big breasts with my cock, before she leaned down and took me in her mouth. For sure, being with her would be better than being with a woman who just had hip and/or or heart surgery, who smoked like a chimney, who wasn't an elderly widow, and/or an Internet dating liar. Maybe she's a woman who may be lonely enough and/or desperate enough to be remotely interested in a man with a one foot in the grave.

"Cough, hack, gasp, wheeze."

Regardless of her young age, hoping for some alone time with those fabulous breasts of hers, while thinking about inviting her to lunch, how could one luncheon date with her possibly be wrong? Yet, what would someone as young as she was want with an old geezer like me? I'll never know, unless I get up off my old ass and give her a try. Who knows, maybe I'm her knight in shining armor? Maybe I'm the kind of man she's be dreaming of meeting.

"Ha!"

Some knight in shining armor I am. With my armor wrinkled and definitely tarnished, worse for the wear, I'm not shiny at all, but rather dull, dusty, boring, and, admittedly, needing a bit of lubrication, squeaky. Too old and too tired to really care, truth be told, I just couldn't see myself beginning a love relationship by acting interested in her thoughts, dreams, and desires, when I was only interested in fucking her pretty mouth and sucking on her big tits.

Besides, adventure, kismet, and love at first sight, as well as sports, that is, except for women's beach volleyball, was never my calling. Writing has always been my big thing. Hiding myself away in my room, staying behind my drawn shade, while I watch the world go by on TV, on the Internet, and through movies, as I create my characters, the only reason why I'm at this God forsaken moonscape of a beach is, hopefully, to get some inspiration to write a story by watching people.

Oh, yeah, I'm a big people watcher, specifically, other than tits, people's faces are what interest me. Sometimes I'll just go to the mall or to the park and watch people walk by hoping for the one who will inspire a story, before being rousted by the mall security police for staring, leering, actually, or from the real police for stalking. Whether right or dead wrong, it doesn't really matter, I can write a whole story, just by reading a person's face and imagining the kind of life they've lived and all the things they've done to survive.

"A match made in Heaven, maybe with me being the writer and her being the reader, we'd hit it off," I said talking out loud to myself. Those around me turned to see who I was talking to and when they saw that I was alone and talking to myself, they moved away. "For sure, we'd have books in common. Nah. Either I'm too old for her or she's too young for me, no doubt, both applies."

Then, I thought, quietly this time and without verbalizing it out loud in public, maybe she's more mature than me. Everyone is. For sure, I never act my age. Maybe with me being so immature and her being more mature, we could meet somewhere in the middle, say around 45-years-old.

Moving slow, so as not to get dizzy, embarrass myself, and trip and fall on my face, I got up, brushed the sand from my ass, shook the cobwebs from my head, and slowly approached her. The closer I got, the more beautiful she was. Even though she was a plus sized woman, opposite in size to the women that most men my age or any age lust over, she was a true Goddess. Unable to see beyond the surface, just as younger women pass me by because I'm older, no doubt, men her age pass her by because she's obese. Nonetheless, she made me wish I was 30-years-old again.

She was wearing a slenderizing Chinese blue, one piece bathing suit that complimented and highlighted her long, lush, red hair. Then, when I got to the front of her, blocking the sun, as if I was her wished for shooting star, I stood over her and cast my shadow across her, as if making my claim that she was mine. Taking her all in, as if taking a sip of bubbly Dr. Pepper Cherry soda, instead of breathing aged French wine, I peered down at her. She had that long, Route 66 highway of mountainous cleavage that every man needs to get lost in, at least, once in a lifetime, especially during a cold winter night. Damn, she had big tits.

"Hi," I said forcing myself to look up at face, instead of down at her big boobs. "I'm Ralph."

Squinting up at me through her big, blue, beautiful eyes, I wondered if she was imagining someone else, Ryan Reynolds, Robert Pattison, or Taylor Lautner, perhaps. Then, as if to get a better look at me, she flipped down her shades from atop her red hair and surmised me from head to toe, as if I was a rejected markdown from Roman's plus size clothing store. Even though I was looking spiffy wearing my swim trunks, baseball cap, shades, and a designer tee shirt, she made me feel naked by her stern inspection.

"Do I know you?"

"No, but I'd like to know you," I said with a smile, while thinking that was a good line and an even better line than the one I imagined I said to the beautiful blonde in my dream, about her playing in the Olympics. Rolling the dice with nothing to lose, I took a leap of faith by pushing myself on her. "May I join you?"

The pause before she spoke was long, the silence unsettling, and the confidence hit embarrassing. I could feel my penis shrink with every long second that passed, before she spoke. Looking at me, no doubt, as if I may be trying to sell her something, a car, life insurance, or a cemetery plot, she thought for a long second, before inviting me to join her.

"Sure," she said closing her book and extending her hand with a reluctant smile. "I'm Maureen."

Ah, top of the morning to you, Maureen, I wanted to say, but didn't. By her red hair, freckles, and name, surely she was Irish. If I were to write about her as a Irish character in a story, she looked how a woman named Maureen should look.

By the firm hold of her handshake, suddenly imagining her youthful hand pumping my cock, I liked that she had a strong grip. As if skinning a ripe and juicy oversized Georgia peach, I imagined peeling off that skin tight bathing suit to more closely examine her tan lines or, in the case of her fair complexion, her sunburn, when in reality, I just wanted to see her big tits.

"Please to meet you, Maureen," I said joining her on her blanket. Too busy looking at me to see what I was doing, I reached for her sunscreen, undid the cap, and squirted a glob on my fingers, before she could even answer. "May I?"

"Sure," she said but, by the shocked look on her face, I surprised her, when I lowered the straps of her swimsuit and started applying the lotion to her back and to her shoulders, instead of to me.

Quick to claim the prize that she was, before she could stop me, just as I shocked myself in my boldness by lowering her bathing suit straps, I couldn't believe she allowed me to lower her swimsuit straps and expose more of her breasts. As if parting two huge mountains with the sudden descent of her bathing suit straps, her breasts separated enough to create a deep, wide valley of perceived sexual pleasure by exposing more of her cleavage. Good God. I wondered if I moved my mouth closer to her cleavage and uttered what I was thinking, if there'd be an echo.