Chapter 1

Where to begin?

I guess I'll start at the present and when you've got some facts, I can back up a little. Then you should be right up to date.

I'd just hopped into bed ... alone ... as usual, and jerked off while watching a porno flick with several good-lookin' babes fucking and sucking everything in sight.

Despite the array of smoldering flesh on my TV screen, I found myself closing my eyes and conjuring up the cute little waitress at the restaurant where I'd had dinner.

This then is the life of a fifty-one year old divorced male, forced to live by his wits since the ex got half of everything I'd owned at the time we headed down the splitsville highway.

I mentioned living by my wits for a reason. To supplement my meager income, I had turned the basement of my abode (Yeah, she left me that much, thinking it wasn't worth taking given how the values were plummeting at the time.) into a virtual jungle in which I was growing a very nice crop of, well call it by any name you want: Bhang - Ganja – Giggleweed - Mary Jane - Loco Weed - Mexican Green - Nug - Panama Red – Puff, or Roach among the hundred or so names Marijuana is called around the world.

And, if you're interested, I do sample my crop, perhaps a little too much for my own good. Which almost brings me up to the present ... well, yesterday, anyway, and the petite young waitress I jerked off thinking about last night.

You see, by way of a tip, I had slipped the young lady a tightly rolled joint which she readily accepted. I had thought for a moment that she was about to bestow a kiss on my weathered brow, but she didn't. As a note to the younger readers here ... we old fogies' still can get it up, and we harbor the same sinister thoughts about the opposite sex you do. Is that a surprise? If it is, you're dumber than dog shit, pardon the expression.

Anyway, there I was meandering along the street on a hot July afternoon after finishing a small lunch at a nearby Taco stand, when one of those tiny Italian cars pulled up alongside me, and who should pop the hell out but the petite waitress from the night before.

"Hi, Mister!" she chirped.

"Hi yourself," I said, not breaking stride.

"You, um, wouldn't have another one of those um, funny cigarettes would'ja?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, looking her right in the eye. I wanted to look at her tits, but I know from experience women don't like guys looking there, at least not right off.

"Sure you do," she replied. "You tipped me with a giant roach last night. I'm just wondering if I could buy another one or two. I got some dough, ray, and me. So ... how much?"

"You a cop?" I say.

"You kidding? Of course not."

"I'll tell you and whoever's listening in that I'm totally clean. I don't have any of whatever it is you're looking for."

She rolled her eyes and feigned being exasperated with me.

I used the opportunity to check out her tits. First off, she wasn't wearing a bra. I gave her points for that while taking in the neat swell of her breasts under the tube top she wore.

A second perusal allowed me to note the way her nipples were straining to claw their way through the flimsy material of the top. She caught me staring and there went my further enjoyment of assessing her twins as she crossed her arms over them, shielding them from view.

"Sorry," I say by way of apologizing.

"It's all right, all the guys stare. I'm used to it."

"They're very nice," I say.

"Thank you, it's nice to hear a guy actually compliment them."

"They're certainly complementable."

"Is that a real word?"

"I don't know. Sometimes when I say what I think it turns into a new word."

"You're a funny guy," she said.

"And you're a very cute girl."

"Thank you."

"Thank you," I said right back at her.

"So you gonna sell me some Ganja?"

"Let's say I do. Then ten minutes later you'll be trading me into the local law enforcement to get your cute little ass off the hook."

"I won't!"

"You won't what? Get caught with weed on your person? Or you won't turn me in?"

"Look, I don't know who you are or where you live. How am I gonna rat you out?"

"You obviously know I live nearby. You know where I eat dinner a couple times a week..."

"C'mon Mister, sell me some..."

"What's your name?"

"Mona."

Trying to be funny, I say, "Mona Lott?"

"Jeez, you think I haven't heard that fuckin' lame joke all my life?"

"Sorry, I couldn't resist," I said, meaning it.

"S' okay," Mona said. "What's yours?"

"People call me Ned."

"Gee, I never met anyone with that name before," Mona said.

"Always a first time. It's really a small world if you think about it."

"I guess," she said, seeming to reflect on what I'd said, and let her arms drop to her side.

We stood there, and my eyes feasted on those nipples poking out at the tank top material, wondering if she were using her feminine wiles on me. If she was, it was working.

"So I guess I see you back at the restaurant," she said and turned to head back to her Italian wheels.

"Mona?"

"What?"

"Drive around the block."

"Okay," she said, not bothering to ask why.

That sealed the deal. I waited as she drove off and was in just about the same spot when she finished circling the block. I'd seen no other activity during that brief time and figured she was clean ... for the moment.

She pulled to the curb next to where I stood.

"I'm getting in the car, Mona. You can take me home."

"Okay," she replied meekly. "Where too"

I told her and we pulled into my driveway a minute later.

"Wait," I said, getting out and opening the front door and then hurrying into the garage and opening the garage door and waved her in. Once inside, I took my eyes off her tits and checked the rest of her out.

Look, she already had me with her youth and vivaciousness. Mona was wearing the aforementioned tank top, a pair of white short, shorts, which I had always considered one of God's gift's to mankind and a pair of tennis shoes. Have I mentioned her hair? No? Well she was a brunette, I guess. But with all the time she spent in the sun bleaching it I could have called her a dirty blonde.

Mona revealed her nervousness at being in my abode, saying she hadn't meant to hassle me for the dope, but had just assumed I'd sell her more, given that I'd handed her some for free the night before.

"You do have some more don't you?" she asked nervously.

I nodded, and she appeared to calm down.

"So," she said, opening a new level of conversation, "just how old are you?"

"I'm old enough to be your father, that old enough?"

"Ugh, maybe too old," she said in reply.

"Too old for what, Mona?"

"Huh?"

"You asked my age then said I was too old."

"Oh, I didn't mean anything by it."

"Okay, so how old are you?"

"Nineteen, why?"

"Could be younger, you ask me," I says.

"Well, I'm not. I'm a sophomore at the local community college."

"Majoring in what?"

"I don't have one. I need to take some remedial courses before I can settle on a major. But I hope to get a degree in math. I might try my hand at engineering some day."

"Good luck to you in that endeavor," I said. "And I apologize for being so damned overbearing earlier. I'm kinda paranoid about who I sell too, with all the law enforcement around here."

"Oh, yeah, I understand, Ned."

I liked that she taken the opportunity to use my name in the conversation, and excused myself to procure some of the desired weed Mona wanted.

When I returned she was still standing where I'd left her. Points for Mona.

I cued the CD player to something we both might agree on music-wise and handed her a giant-sized joint the likes of which I knew she'd never seen unless she'd watched a Cheech and Chong video somewhere along the line.

We smoked some, talked some ... about her, about me. I learned about her boyfriend Dennis.

She learned that I am divorced and live alone. I told her a couple of dirty jokes and Mona told me one even rawer than mine. I began to appreciate her more and more.

Mona appeared to be totally relaxed at this point. She curled her legs up under her the way women tend to do, although how they consider it comfortable I'll never understand. But it did provide me with a better view of her ass, which I will admit was of the finest quality. (I'm smoking some of my stuff as I write this and getting a wonderful woody recalling that first gander at her posterior.)

I'm starting to fantasize us in bed with our arms and legs entangled as we got high, when out of the blue Mona tells me she wishes she had thought to bring her bong along.

"No problem," I say.

"Huh?" She says right back, to which I reply, "I'll be your bong, baby."

She laughed at that, I join her, and then say, "But I'm serious, Mona. You want a bong?"

"Yeah, I'd love..."

I take a deep drag from my Cheech and Chong and motion her closer. When she moves in, I said, "Open your mouth, Mona," and then covered her mouth with mine and exhaled. She didn't need any other instructions; inhaling as I let the smoke fumes go into her mouth.