Time, here and now. Place, anywhere on Earth.

In all of my 42 years, I’d never had a one-night stand. In point of fact, I’d never considered having one. With my recent divorce, I lived in a constant state of dissatisfaction. I still had only made love to one man in my entire life. For some strange reason, my ex-husband and his new, younger wife didn’t want me fucking him anymore. Or so he said.

Why she was so selfish with him when he’d fucked her cute face, adorable ass, and tight pussy for years behind my back was beyond my comprehension. In some ways, I felt turn about would be fair play. So, I offered him occasional consolation in my arms. However, Jimmy, being Jimmy, refused to cheat on her. Giving the little witch far more consideration than he’d ever shown me.

Oh, to be sure, he’ll find another when her ass fattens, her beauty fades, or her willingness to do all the nasty things he loves ends. Her sexy little ass was in for a shock the first time he came home reeking of pussy and perfume. For some weird reason, I’d always ignored his dalliances. This wicked woman wouldn’t.

Enough, move on, and tell the tale.

I’d done the shopping sprees, buying new clothes, shoes, and lingerie, hoping to relieve my depression. None of the usual fixes worked. Not even chocolate made me happy. Without pride, I’d cried my eyes out to girlfriends and a few less than friendly wives of our mutual friends. At some point, these couples took his side.

These wives worried their husbands might stray, their sympathy for me tempered by anger at me for making them fear their marriages might also fail. Ah, yes, the age-old issues. If you don’t see it, it isn’t real.

Well, what I needed was a man. Oh, my, yes, I needed a boyfriend. Conversation, companionship, candlelight dinners, cuddling, kissing, and the rest. Um, I desired a new life since the old one abandoned me. Uh-huh, that’s what I longed for.

So, I hung out in bars, not dives, but beautiful clubs, places where you might meet someone, a special man, with who you might share some conversation, a dance, a drink, and fall into a relationship.

After weeks or months of dating, I’d consider taking the association to the next level. Well, such was my plan. As plans go, this one offered some comfort to me, a person longing for a connection, deep and personal, not some quick, carnal congress.

Man, oh, man, was I in for a surprise.

Having played the meet and flirt game for over a month, I came up dry with men interested in my plan. While no one laughed at me, they bolted when I said I wanted to take time to know them. Why wouldn’t they? After all, women and girls, each one of them, left with someone most nights, no matter their appearance. Leaving only the gross, overweight, socially inept, or odd-looking men to choose from. Without exception, I passed on the field.

The night began as the others which preceded. Offers to dance, most from jerks I’d met in the club on previous occasions. Tonight, my mood turned sullen, fearing I’d never find someone interested in something real. Had the world fallen so far in the 18 years I’d been married? When my son left for college the month before, I’d held a marginal hope of happiness.

I pondered the distinct possibility of growing old alone. As far as lovely, pleasant thoughts go, this fussing muss in my reflections about loneliness didn’t qualify.

Wow! Yes, I said wow, which I thought when I first laid eyes on him. Tall, over six feet, handsome, well beyond attractive. It might be better to call him gorgeous or beautiful, more precisely, to describe him. A young stud, not so young as my son, but still 16 years or more years my junior.

I drank in the sight of him. Guilt, fear, self-loathing, and raunchy urges overtook my thoughts. With quick, fleeting glances, I studied him. Every woman descended on him. A vision of locust devouring every scrap of vegetation flashed in my head.

Raising my finger at the waitress, I ordered another Long Island Ice Tea and set my mind to drinking and watching the show. Because the sloven, trollop barflies would make a show of things. Drinking down the last of my current drink, expecting to glance up and see some young gal humping his leg on the dance floor like a dog in heat. When I peeked at the dance floor, he stepped to my table.

“Would you mind terribly if I sat with you?”

“Not at all,” I said, laughing in a nervous, quivering giggle like one of the stupid girls who’d swarmed around him. Goodness, my head swam in a sea of confusion, unsure why such a cute man would want to be with me.

“I’m introverted, and these bold women frighten me,” the man said.

“Difficult to believe,” I told him.

“Oh, no, I’m being honest with you. Young women, women near my age, are mean, judgmental, shallow, and far too demanding for me to be comfortable with them. I prefer a woman who has passed the silly phase of basing everything on physical attraction. Not that you aren’t attractive, you are stunning.”

His words were, in a strange way, quite pleasant. The more he talked, the more I loved what he said. For an hour, perhaps more, we conversed. In the course of our conversation, I discovered he had foster parents. He found I was newly single. While I learned he loved Mexican and Italian food, he recognized my love of wine.

Without realizing it, as if by a spell, we were dancing. First, we gyrated to a hard rock song. After that, we danced cheek to cheek. We clung together, our bodies as close as clothing allowed.

Moving about the floor, his arms holding me, our fires deep inside, exploding into something hot, wild, and needy. His hands, the music, the other dancers, the flashing lights, and we, the two of us, melded into some crazy oneness.

One blue-eyed young woman, dancing alone, gaped at us with what, at first, I imagined was a glaring hatred. But as I glanced back at her, from time to time, I realized she stared with blankness. She appeared to consume us, sucking in our flirtations. Wonder and amazement filled me as she danced a sensual dance all by herself. Might she be a stripper? I pondered.

He maneuvered us toward a dark corner at the back of the dance floor. With a light, loving touch, his hand moved up my backbone, dancing on the zipper of my dress. When, at long last, he made his way to the top of my clothing. After a moment, he dragged the zipper down, exposing my bare back to the cool air blasting from the vent above our heads.