The List

You said this is the one that never fit...

You nod, lost in the bliss of his moving hand, but still present enough to hear him as from a distance.

Next you feel a cool pulse of lube against your ass.

You're so wet I could probably get it in without it, but - he whispers against your ear - I want to do this right.

Oh yes - that's him. Mr. Get It Right. Is there a scientific way to insert butt plugs? If so, he's bound to know it.

He's still murmuring against your ear. I'm going to make you come so hard you'll just open up for me.

It almost sounds like a threat.

Would you like that?

It doesn't matter whether he's really asking. Why would anyone with their hand up your cunt even bother? But you nod anyway.

If only a simple nod from you could always generate so much pleasure? At that moment, his fingers (you don't know, don't care how many) bear down on that place that only he can seem to find. He's not doing that 'come hither' thing they always show in the magazines. He's just pressing.

Einstein said the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, like pushing the floor button in a stuck elevator, believing it will suddenly rocket up the shaft.

And yet that is exactly what happens. The pressure is so intense what's left of the thinking part of your brain fears the elevator of your nerves will miss its intended floor altogether and shoot out the top of your head.

You want him to let go. You want it to be over. You want IT to happen - whatever IT is because you're sure you know and that you don't know, can't even imagine...

And then it does happen. The latch releases, the ceiling opens up and every skylight breaks at once. Flames shoot out of your mouth and in your head you hear something like giant chain rattling free, falling 20 stories till it crashes in the basement while the elevator explodes into a thousand shining splinters somewhere over that sad little Motel 6.

`Milkshake... you're not breathing...

He bites you on the shoulder, gently, and shakes you like a cat about to carry her kitten away from danger.

Surprisingly, your elevator came equipped with a silk parachute that allows you to drift safely back to earth. The floating feeling is fine.

So fine.

When you turn to kiss him, you're startled to see he's still fully clothed, just standing there with a slightly bemused smile on his face.

So much for the concert, he says.

You laugh out loud, as much from relief as from anything else, and reply:

I heard it anyway.

CON

You can't really tell anyone

PRO

You could brag

In theory, these two statements cancel each other out. But do they - in practice?

You decide to tell two friends - close friends. One is appalled; the other, intrigued.

Appalled

"You didn't?' Oh, but I did!

"How old is he?" 27.

"27!? Are you insane?" No, I don't think so. A little delirious with lust,

maybe...

You wait patiently for the ultimate corrective you know is coming:

YOU COULD BE HIS MOTHER.

She doesn't exactly shout it but she would if it weren't so shocking to actually say it out loud.

"Yeah, but I'm not."

"But still..."

"But still what. If I were a man, no one would bat an eyelash."

She considers for a moment. This is undoubtedly true. Good feminist that you know her to be, she can't honestly pursue this line of argument. She should be applauding you for empowering older women everywhere. After all, aren't we all fighting against not being seen. You BOTH laughed at Julia Louise Dreyfus's 'last fuckable day' sketch.

"Are you saying I'm past my last fuckable day?" You're not above putting her on the spot.

"No... of course not..."

"Then what?"

"Well - I mean - do you really want to go back there?"

"Back where?"

"You know," she pauses. "College. Roommates. Poverty." You can practically hear her shudder.

"He's 27 and has a phd, for god's sake! He's not college anymore. He runs his own tech company!" There. That should do it - establish he's not just taking you out for hot dogs and lite beer. (Although - he hasn't really taken you out - anywhere. All you've done so far is fuck...but she doesn't need to know that.)

"OMG - a tech bro!? You are freaking kidding me! One of those hopeless flannel shirted hipsters - he probably wears a hoodie!"

Touche. She's got you there.

"But seriously," she continues in a quieter tone, "what are you going to do with him? It's not like you can bring him to book club..."

"Why not?" You know what she's going to say but you won't let her have the pleasure of hearing you say it. "He can read. And," you add for good measure, "he's very good with math."

"I don't care what kind of wunderkind he is. Do you really think he'll fit in with all the dads? That he wants to hear about kids going off to college and who's trying to get vested before retirement?"

You begin to protest: "Lots of the men are in tech. They could talk shop..."

"Yeah. Right. Think about it. He's 27 and already has a start up. Didn't you say they practically gave him his Phd at Berkeley? Oh yeah - he'll fit right in..."

"Hey! That's not fair. The men we know are very smart..."

"Not like that. And even if they did bond over tech, they'd still be thinking -

what if my wife takes up with some young stud?"

You picture him. He is anything BUT a stud - even if he does nail the equivalent of a triple axel in bed. In real life - that is, on the streets instead of the sheets - you would have to admit he's a little gauche and charmingly nerdy. In a good way, you'd defend him, but even in your wildest dreams (where he's been playing a major role recently) you'd never characterize him as a 'stud'.

"Well, that's their problem."

"CeCe, you've got to admit it's got no future..."

It's true. You know it is. But you also know - it doesn't matter. Duration is not the measure of quality - except maybe in washing machines. He is what you want right now and you mean to have him.

Your voice is clear and steady when you answer her: "You know, maybe I don't care about the future. Maybe - just for once - I'd like to live in the present. Right now I'm not decrepit or demented. He wants what I've got and I intend to let him have it."

Period.

Intrigued

"You didn't?!" Oh, but I did.

"Do tell!"

Now that's more like it. You launch into the litany of him. Tall. Dark. Handsome. (You think so). Smart. Correction- wicked smart. Well-traveled. Industrious. (Hey -it's a virtue!) Exotic. (Ok - that's kind of racist, you admit to yourself, but he IS the reason you finally understand why the kama sutra was written in India...)

"The Kama Sutra, huh..." You have no idea.

"So...?" So what? You play coy.

"Is it true?" Is what true?

"What they say...?" What do they say? Honestly, you never paid that much attention to the talk about

cougars.

"That cubs can go FOREVER?"

You flush, remembering that Saturday. How he was right about opening you up. How the two of you got into bed and kissed for what felt like hours. Like he had nothing but time on his hands. (Which he kind of does.). How, in the end, every part of you ached to have him inside. But the time he picked up that infernal plug and said -

Want me to?

All you could do was breath - Yes.

First it was the lube, then it was his finger and then - finally - when he instructed:

Deep breath

you felt the cold tip, pressing, pressing, and then his breath on your neck when the pressure became deeper while he whispered encouragement in your ear.

There we go. See? All in.

Like he was proud of HIMSELF. When you did all the work. Well, not exactly but still.

That thought was still drifting through your head when he settled himself in your cunt and you almost yelped - the sensation was so full.

God, you're so fucking tight...

He panted into your hair.

God

You shift a little bit, go down on your elbows and pivot your ass up. He's found his rhythm now and fucking you at an almost leisurely pace. You could just let him, except that you want to SEE him. So, to his surprise, you disengage.

I want to ride you.

He smiles as he lies down on the bed, one hand held out to you. You take it and he he hoists you onto his waiting erection. The plug makes it harder to settle down on him fully but you heave a great sigh when you finally do. You lean in towards him so you can brush his lips with your tits. Occasionally, he snaps up a nipple like some giant koi fish, looking directly up at you, daring you to take it back, knowing that you won't. He lets you grind on him, rocking on him till you're close, so close and then you feel him tapping on the flat end of the plug.

TAP TAP TAP

TAP TAP TAP

Nothing more than that. Just a gentle, well placed tap. But, with each little rap, the stainless steel plug sets up a reverberation in your full ass that somehow extends to your full cunt and causes it to bear down on his cock.

One two three four

There it is. He's doing it again. Counting. Somehow it feels like lift off. Like he's lit a fuse and is waiting for dynamite to detonate. He's your own Unibomber.

When he sets off your orgasm, you're not ready for it. It takes you by surprise like a package bomb. Oh? What's this? Let's open it why don't ...

And then - BANG. The blast would knock you off your feet except you're already lying down. Thank god. If his hands didn't suddenly grip your hips, you'd throw yourself backwards like a bronco rider who didn't last the whole three minutes.

"Is it true?"

"What?" Her question catapults you back into your current conversation.

"Can cubs go for hours?"

"Yes. Yes, they can."

"Lucky!" And then - after a pause. "Has he got any friends?"

You both laugh. This is how it is. You've got a lover. A younger lover. A younger lover who can fuck you six ways till Sunday. He makes your cunt sing.

What else is there to say?