2. The Story of B (excerpt)It was summer, and I was past that first wonderful May/July relationship with A, when I met B. I was walking a friend's dog on the beach, when this tall, attractive woman sort of (almost) towered over me. I am left with the lingering impression that she fell in, well, lust, almost instantly. She had this glow that beamed out in all directions. She was a tall blonde in her early 30s, 6 feet tall to my 5'10" and she had that modeling agency poise. Great face, almost noble. Great hairdo, done professionally and amplifying her noble lines. She wasn't a movie star, but she worked for a motion picture production company, and had actually done a good bit of modeling in both New York and Los Angeles. She had married a company executive, made trips to places like Bimini or Antigua and what not, and became a photo shoot producer herself. As with Ar the perennial saga of this paradigm (for a young twenties guy) was the incipient crows' feet around the corners of the mouth and the eyes. But geez, I soon began to compare the experience of the younger man/gorgeous older woman to driving an incredibly expensive car that was just a decade or so past its production date. I won't say past its prime. Women seem to get started rather slowly in the passion department. They are so intent on dating right and marrying right and fucking right and cooking right, all in lock step, that it usually takes a brisk, awful divorce and some soul searching for them to arrive at the point of letting go. Which is when I, the younger guy, step in. Face it, she's between geeks. First there was the guy she divorced, and next will be a guy just like him who will be phase two of her saga, but in the meantime we have a little wedge time. I am just a cute behind, a full mass of wavy dark hair, almost a little dopey in my naïveté, and I look good on a bicycle or playing my guitar on the sea wall. Yes, I did that a lot. Tanned, relaxed, muscular, I had to laugh quietly to myself when cars would crawl past in beach traffic, and women nearly fell out the window as I took their breath away. Don't misunderstand me—I don't say this to brag. It was all an illusion. I was still the same poor church mouse working crappy jobs and almost hating myself. I was ashamed to tell people I shoveled shit for a living. I was still writing poetry, but starting to think of switching to novels. That was another illusion, or delusion, but I think it made me interesting. I was passionate about my pipe dream, if not about my lousy jobs. B didn't appreciate the poetry part of me as much as she liked my flat stomach, which she liked to palm with her hand at odd moments. Like I'd be driving us to the movies or to lunch or the beach, and her hand would sneak over and rest flat against my stomach. There were like these waves of sensuality that emanated from her hand as she did this. I'd glance over and see her half-closing her eyes. She'd be looking around at crowds, at people passing as I drove, but I would swear she was in stage one of a ten-stage orgasm. She'd lift my shirt and reach underneath and put the palm of her hand against my stomach. I don't know if she rubbed back and forth, or if it was the molecules in her hand marching in step, but I could sense her sucking sex out of me. Women do stuff like that. Men have to stick it in and fuck. Women can suck sex out of you with their eyes, or even by not looking. They can be turned on by seeing out of the corner of their eyes, while pretending to be aloof, that you are staring hungrily at them. Talk about hungrily. B had breast implants. Why, I have no idea. Sometimes she just wanted me to hold them, squeeze them gently, to ease the discomfort. I love small breasts. I love breasts of all sizes, but small is a specialty for me. A, the first older woman in my life, had small unremarkable breasts with wimpy pink nipples, but she made up for it in other ways. B had maybe had small breasts once, but now they were bazooms. They were the kind of bazooms that hang a little, are a little long, and not balloons. Talk about hungrily. When she wore a bikini, and we walked along the beach, I could feel the laser-like searing beams of men's eyes following her. She was tall, and her blond hair was long and straight and flipped this way and that. Being a model and actor, she conveyed that surfer look. Did I mention that she had a few freckles? She had them on her boobs, too. Her boobs terminated in these brown nipples that pointed right at your loins if you stood there talking with her. B was taller than I, and this helped us have an interesting sex time together. It turns out that if a woman is slightly taller... a matter of proportion, her legs, her torso...I'm talking just the right combination of strengths and lengths...then you can fuck her while dancing, and she will enjoy it just as you will. If you are capable of standing up and having an erection, and maintaining that boner, you can enter that tall woman and dance with her while fucking her. We did it all the time. It was addictive…
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