Chapter 7: The Accidental Casanova

With the last two weekends under my belt, I was actually quite disappointed with the way that this one was starting out. My plan to visit Laura and trim her bushes was scotched when her son announced that he was coming home from college for the weekend. My backup plan fell through, too, when Pam informed me that she and Maryanne Nelson had a day of shopping planned. She laughed at my invitation to bring Maryanne; a vibrator was apparently as close to a naked man as Ms. Nelson was willing to get.

Quelle dommage, as we say in Français.

It was a particular dommage since Pam and I hadn't been able to finish our little schooling session. There was another car in the parking lot when I went to look, and it turned out to belong to Mrs. Carson, the ogre who worked in the office that was right next to the faculty lounge. After we learned that, we decided to just call it quits for the afternoon, because I knew that my mother would be calling Pam soon to find out where I was, and Pam's house would be the first place she would start looking. To top if off, Laura wasn't even home when I stopped by to drop her handcuffs off, so I left them in the garage, and left a message for her on her answering machine.

And it was even more of a dommage because I had the house all to myself for the whole fucking weekend, and for the rest of the week as well for that matter. Dad was upstate, preparing for some big trial. Mom had left on Saturday morning to attend a week-long district attorneys' seminar. It didn't officially start until Monday, but she wanted to get there early to network and to polish the talk she had to give, "A Paradigm for Pedophile Prosecutions." She was very excited by it. I decided to wait until it came out on DVD.

By noon on Saturday, without any of my playmates available, I had cleaned the house and finished the laundry. This weekend's college football games were unusually boring, and by two o'clock, I was fast asleep in front of the television in the den. The first thing that penetrated my consciousness was sound. It wasn't enough to wake me, but I was able to piece together later the sounds of the sliding door to the patio being pulled open and slammed shut, and of a voice muttering, "Old and saggy? Old and saggy? I'll show her fucking old and saggy!"

It was at that point that I opened blinked open my eyes, filling my brain with the vision of Natalie Winston as she stepped in front of the television and yanked open her shirt to reveal a floral bra whose lacy half cups were nearly filled to overflowing.

"Do these look old and saggy to you?" she demanded. "Oh, shit, Terry! Oh, God, I thought your mother was here all alone this weekend."

She yanked the sides of her shirt across her chest, but by that time I'd already shattered the American and world records for going from zero to sixty in the human male reproductive system. I was, you might say, full of myself.

"Uh, no," I finally found my voice. "She went to a conference. I'm the one who's alone this weekend. Um, sorry."

"You're sorry?" she uttered a slightly hysterical laugh. "God, I'm so embarrassed. Oh, shit, I popped the buttons. Did you see where they went?"

Was she serious? Did she actually think that I was going to spend any precious seconds looking around for buttons while she dropped to her hands and knees on the floor? If anything, this angle was even better. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was nowhere near long enough to interfere with my view of those nice, plump breasts hanging beneath her, breasts whose tips were just barely covered by fabric. Finally, she realized that I wasn't being much of a help on the button front, and looked up at me to see what I was doing instead.

"Oh, God," she sank back to a seated position and covered her face with her hands. "What next?"

I was tempted to stare at the gorgeous legs extending from the hem of her short, denim skirt, but she was sobbing, and I instinctively dropped down beside her and took her into my arms.

"It's okay," I said, pulling her into my chest. "It's okay."

"It's not okay," she sniffled. "My hus-hus-husband just ran off with some little slut from one of his classes, and she-she-she said that he probably wanted a-a-a —"

"The answer is no," I interrupted her.

"The what?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"The answer to your first question," I said, with more confidence than I felt. I swallowed hard and continued, mindful that if I screwed this up I could get slapped back into next week. "They're not old, and they're not saggy. They're wonderful. They're exquisite. They're absolutely perfect."

She shyly lifted up her face to look into my eyes, and finally managed a little smile.

"Yeah, and how many have you seen?" she teased me.

"You'd be surprised," I said in all honesty. "Your husband is an ass, and his girlfriend is a whore who'll dump him as soon as she gets her final grade. Now, how 'bout I get you a sweatshirt and a cup of tea, and you tell your neighbor what happened."

Ten minutes later, her with a cup of tea and me with a new pair of shorts, we were sitting together on the couch. She haltingly told me about catching her husband and his student the night before, and how the little slut had unerringly zeroed in on the single body part that Natalie was most sensitive about.
"So, I'm sorry," I interrupted her. "But in the interest of being open and honest here, are you serious?"

"About what?"

"About thinking that your, that your..."

"Boobs," she giggled.

"All right, that your boobs are anything less than perfect? I mean, what, you don't have any mirrors in your house?"

She giggled again.

"Well, they used to be perkier, you know, like her-her-hers, and Tad used to like to-to-to..."

I saw her through the next crying session, having armed myself while I was upstairs with a box of Kleenex.

"So where was I?" she finally asked after one last honk of the horn.

"I think you were about to confirm my already low opinion of your husband by telling me that he didn't like to play with your, um..."

"Boobs," she said again. "Don't you like that word?"

"I, uh, sure," I nodded stupidly. "But they're yours, so I didn't want to, um..."

"Insult me by calling them hooters or jugs?"

"Exactly."

"Don't worry, honey. I've heard much worse. For an English professor, Tad can be surprisingly crude."

"Okay. So he won't play with your boobs. He's an idiot."

"You're very sweet, Terry. Thanks for letting me vent like this."

"No problem."

"You know they say that men reach their sexual peak at age twenty," she shook her head, "and in his case it's been a long, quick fall from there during the last ten years."

"Seriously?" I asked. "I've only got two more years?"

"That's right, sweetie," she giggled. "Better get out there and start putting it to use before it falls off."

"Really? Shit."

"Oh, it's just a lot of crap," Natalie laughed before suddenly looking down at her lap. "But I tell you it sure feels like it's true."

"So when's a woman's?"

She tilted her head to give me a look sideways look.

"Thirty," she said slyly.

"So you're, um..." I trailed off again, something I'd done a lot of this afternoon.

"Two years short, just like you," she said. "Sorry, whenever I have a good cry, I always end up a little... Well, anyway, tell me about it."

She took another sip of tea.

"About what?"

"Your love life," she giggled. "All the teenage girls you've been boinking."

"Actually, that would be a grand total of, um, none."

"You're a virgin?" she yelped in surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry, Terry. There's nothing wrong with that. I think it's great when people wait. It's just..."

"Okay, first of all, no, I'm not a virgin. And it's just what?"

"Well, it was just hard to imagine a guy as cute as you was still a virgin," she batted her eyes at me. "See aren't I terrible? I told you a good cry makes me horny."

Well, she had started to tell me that, but she had stopped before she ever got to the horny part. I would have remembered that. I did remember the videotape, where Natalie had said I was cute. No, wait, that was Laura. But hell, if Natalie thought I was cute, too, I could live with that.

"So how many older women, then?" she interrupted my reverie.

"Two," I blurted out, ever the soul of discretion.

"Two," she raised an eyebrow. "College girls?"
The best way to end this discussion at this point would have been with a "yeah, college girls." An answer that would have been both impressive and believable. Unlike, for example, my answer.

"Uh, no, a little older."

"Get out."

"I'm serious," I said defensively.

"Men are such liars," she shook her head. "Next you're going to tell me you're this great lover who has older women pounding on your door to get you to fuck them."

My cock gave a little jump. Hearing Natalie Winston say the word "fuck" was a definite new direction in this conversation. I decided on humor.

"Hey," I said. "I'm here alone this weekend. You see any women? You hear any pounding?"

"They're probably taking their kids to the park," she said, narrowing her eyes as her voice grew more suspicious. "Then they'll take them to their fathers for weekend visitation and they'll show up here right after supper."

"Both of them, together?"

I was smiling, but my cock was doing more than jumping now. In the shorts I was wearing, my bulge was going to become obvious in a matter of —.

"Somebody likes that idea," she was looking directly at my crotch as she giggled again. "Guess you haven't had them together then, huh?"

"No," I said.

"Not yet," she answered. Her voice had taken on a softer, huskier timbre, and a deeper pitch. I shifted ever so slightly on the couch.

"Am I making you uncomfortable, Terry?"

"No," I snapped at her. "All right, yes."

"Good," she licked her lips.

"Good? You're trying to make me uncomfortable, Mrs. Winston?"

"Haven't I told you to call me Natalie?" she said with surprising heat.

"Natalie. Sorry."

"I'm sorry, Terry," she smiled again. And then her chin started to quiver. "It's just that — just that — I don't feel much like a married woman right now."

That started another full-fledged crying jag. I pulled her close for a hug. She finally blew her nose again, and looked me in the eye.

"After the first cry, I was only a little horny," she said bluntly. "But that's the third."

She paused, leaving me to guess whether there was some sort of commutative property that applied here.