One-off

I wrote this shortly after it happened. Ten years ago now.

When I was a younger man, like most guys I was obsessed with sex, used to walk around with a constant hard-on.

If I look at old photos of myself, I could cry thinking about all the gorgeous girls I lusted after but couldn't be arsed spinning a line to. 

You see, there’d always be tomorrow or the day after. You know, that day when some gorgeous young thing would offer it to me on a plate.

They never did, though.

At least not back then, that is.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d had girlfriends, and then a wife, and a second wife. But now I realise that if I’d put my mind to it I could have fucked more pussy than is decent.

By my early fifties I’d stopped even trying to catch the eye of pretty girls — or halfway decent older women for that matter.

I can’t remember the actual year women stopped looking back when I gave them the eye but stopped they had.

Then one day, when I was fifty-one, I had the shock of my life. 

I looked at a young girl, and she held my gaze, didn't blank me like women usually did. 

The reality of her sparkling curious eyes sent an electric jolt through my body. It was cognitive dissonance, and it shook the foundations of the person I had come to believe I was.

I’d been staring at this girl, not trying to catch her eye or anything, just staring. I wasn't trying to flirt with her. 

As I said, I'd given up on that front years before. No, I was staring because of the clothes she wore. She was all done up the way girls used to be when I was a young man back in the early seventies. 

It unnerved me to see a gorgeous young thing from right now looking like a gorgeous young thing from back then.

I think any given female fashion that is in vogue when a male is experiencing his first sexual stirrings stays lodged in the back of his mind for the rest of his life and becomes a template for how a woman should look.

It is an image that etches itself on his brain in the same way some animals get imprinted on the first thing they see after hatching or being born. 

With animals, it's not always their mothers either; an old bucket, or even human being, is sometimes what those darling goslings get.

For me, at the moment of my sexual awakening, it was girls in mini-skirts 

and knee-length boots, tan, ten denier pantyhose, leather biker jackets, and earrings as big as those they put through the nose of a bull. 

In the small north of England town where I grew up, it was the look most girls in my neighbourhood affected.

This girl was wearing all that stuff. I doubt when she dressed that morning she intended to freak out an old guy like me — or even to turn on a younger one for that matter. 

I'm sure her idea was to appear retro, as they call it now. How was she to know the disturbing effect that particular look would have on a man who’d first found his way to pussy by way of nylon encased inner thighs? 

I suppose she was making a statement, being ironic. When I first saw those legs alighting from her car I was sure the universe was fucking with me.

I was at the big car boot sale that’s held every Sunday at Johnson’s Farm — I think you call such gatherings swap-meets in the USA. 

I was hoping to get rid of the remaining stuff my second wife had left behind when she ditched me for that twat, Carl Miles. I could no longer do with it in the house, always coming across something of hers. 

I’d given her an ultimatum to shift which she had ignored.

So there I was in the middle of a field at six a.m. on a Sunday morning. What an ungodly hour for a night-bird such as me. 

It was like a visit to another planet. I’d had to get up at five in the morning to get there on time to be sure of a pitch.

I discreetly watched the girl with the legs setting up her stuff, laying out her stall so carefully. When she saw me staring she smiled, not just with her mouth — you know tight lips and dead eyes. 

No, she smiled with eyes ablaze with youth, and the certainty life would be good to her. Yes, those eyes of hers! 

Eyes to break an old guy's heart.

A look bestowed from a girl like her would in itself have been enough to set me up for the rest of the day. But I didn't dare speak to her, flirt or say, 'hi'. I wouldn't have been able to take the sneer that was sure to follow. 

To be despised after the gift of her smile would have hurt too much. All the same, I couldn't help look over at her whenever I got the chance. 

I even thought about taking a snap with my phone but decided that would be too sad. Best not be reminded of what is out of bounds.

The sky had been cloudless when I left the house, the air clean and sharp in the cool of the morning, but by the ten-o clock, the wind picked up, bringing dark clouds tumbling across the sky and the promise of rain. 

I watched the girl staring up with a worried look on her pretty, young face.

Plucking up courage, I called to her, "Just a shower. It’ll blow over."

She turned and smiled. "My stuff will get ruined."

I walked towards her, scanned her table. "I have plastic sheeting. You can have some to cover your stuff."

I had loads in my van. I fetched a long sheet and spread it over both our tables. While I did, she examined one the old records she’d fished out from under my stall. Tank, I think it was, an old T. Rex album. 

I’d found this particular box in the attic, and unlike the other stuff, it contained a few things that had belonged to my first wife, Carole. I’d forgotten they were there. Carole had left me in nineteen-seventy-seven.

"Cool," the girl said.

"You like T. Rex?"

"Love them."

"What about the early stuff — when the were Tyrannosaurus Rex; just Marc Bolan and Steve Peregrine Took."

"Wasn't he a hobbit?"

We both laughed. Then the heavens opened.

We frantically tried to cover our stuff. I called to her, "Listen! If you like, you can shelter inside my car, and I’ll play you something, A Beard Of Stars. It’s the best thing they ever recorded. There’s an old tape in that box." She rummaged deeper. "Yes that’s it," I said.

She looked at me curiously, then smiled and said, "Sure. Why not."

We got in the front of my van and I slipped in the tape. 

After listening politely for a few minutes, she said she liked it. She was a girl who could talk for England, and we got chatting about fashion and how things change and come back around, only to change again. The illusion of progress.

I told her I liked her clothes, explained that because she was so young — about nineteen I guessed but I later learned she was twenty-two — to see her dressed as she was, well, it was like time travel for me. 

I told her she could have been one of the girls I used to date, that she looked just the same as Jane Hanson, a girl I once drove up to Stanton Woods in my old Mark 1 Cortina. 

As I talked, in my mind I relived those days, how eager and full of anticipation I was when I had a new girl in my car and was wondering how far I’d get with her.

As we spoke, the rain rattled down on my van roof, splattering in big drops on the foggy windscreen, I asked about her husband - I’d seen the ring on her finger.

"He must be mad to let you leave his bed and come here," I said.

"He’d rather play rugby with his mates."

"You’d never get me out of bed if I had a girl like you to wake up to."

"Aww, that is so sweet." She reached across and touched my hand

Even though I had said how much she reminded me of my past, I think it was only then that she realised how piquant it was for me having her being beside me.

She saw nostalgia about to drown me and said, "I suppose seeing me dressed like this brings back loads of memories?"

"You could say that."

"Want to touch?"

I couldn't take in what she had just said. I just stared at her.

"Sorry?" I said.

She looked at me intently. "I said," and here she looked into my eyes with profound sincerity, "would you like to touch me?"

"What? A sad geezer old like me."

"I don’t mind old... in moderation. You’re kind of cute, in a way — for an old guy."

It was at that moment I realised my atheism was a delusion. There was a God, and he was a caring God, a God who'd wired some women a certain way, given them a yen for older men; sat by my side was his most excellent effort to date.

She took my hand in hers and placed it between her knees and gently guided it over her inner thigh, opening her legs a little more with the passing of my palm. Taking control of my own hand, I moved further over hose-clad, oh-so-soft flesh, and my mind did cartwheels. 

I touched her dead centre, pressed the pudge of her sex through her underwear, and she moaned softly. Shivers roared in waves from my fingertips and up the length of my arm.

She let me stroke her legs for ages. And it would have been enough just to rest my hand there. She was kind and knew what this moment meant to me, her fingers at the buckle of my belt, the determined delve of her hand to release my cock. 

She took it in her palm while I continued to caress her. My fingers traced the seam of her tights, a single line cutting tight against her panties. The nearly moist warmth of her crotch thrilled me even more than her hand on my cock.

I followed the seam of her tights and moved my hand up and over her belly, then my fingers pulling gently at the elastic to angle my hand inside and down inside her panties. I felt like that young man I once was, excited and made dizzy by the prospect of new pussy.

Her cunt already seeped under my touch; my fingers sank without trace. Oh, God! The feel of her slick young pussy. So many memories. My breathing became shallow and fast. You hear about old guys like me dying on the job. 

My heart was pumping like I was running for my life. I became alarmed at my body's reaction, had to take deep breaths.

She slowly wanked me while I savoured the depths of her luscious pussy, the viscous abundance of her. 

And even though she was skilled, her hand was not enough to undo the dulling age brings.

"I know what you’d like," she said.

Wriggling free of my fingers, she manoeuvred herself and went down on me and gave me a blow-job like none I have ever had. And while she sucked and lapped at my cock, I thought of her youth and her eagerness to please me, and was grateful. 

When I ejaculated into her mouth, I felt like shouting out, 'thank you, God! Thank you, God! Thank you, God!' 

I gave her tissue but she didn't really need it, she had swallowed it all. But afterwards, she dabbed her lips while looking at me. She held my gaze and smiled.

The sun reappeared. People started to browse our stalls, and so we had to go and serve new customers. Strange, I’d not even thought to kiss her.

Later, as she packed her remaining items back in boxes, she asked for my number.

"Surely you don’t want a date?" But I was hopeful all the same.

"No... Well in a way; I want to do something special for you. I have a friend I’d like you to meet."

"A friend?"

"Yeah - Alice. It’s really her who’s into all this sixties and seventies stuff. She’s the one who got me into it too. I think you two would get on. She’d find you interesting. You could tell her all about those days. I’m sure she’d love to hear shit like that."

"How can I refuse," I was looking at her and wondering if she were perhaps an angel. "Would she want to..." I said, and actually felt myself blush "You know? What we just did, in the car?"

"All depends — Maybe if she likes you enough. I’ll put in a good word with her.” Her smile was reassuring, made it seem a done deal. “Give me your number,” she said while taking out her phone.

I called out the digits, and she tapped them in.

“I'll call you to arrange a time,” She said, now starting to pack away her few remaining things.

As she was about to drive away, I realised I did not know her name. I called to her.

"Wendy," she said through the driver’s window as she started the engine. "Wendy! My name is Wendy. Yours is?"

"Mick."

"Mick," she said, making me part of her. "I’ll be in touch. Promise."

I watched her drive away. I doubted I would ever see her again.

Story by Mark 

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