by Jennifer Aarons
(01/12/11)

After she had spoken to him on the phone, it made the old ache come back. His voice had that effect on her. She wasn't afraid to admit it. Some guys just have sexy voices, which makes some women want to swirl their hips around, and around, and around, and up and down, and...

Gwen shook the dirty thoughts from her head, she couldn't think about him. He was from her past. He was the dude who never called her back, and now after twenty years she wasn't going to fuss over him, and over the memories that were meant to be kept hidden. But still, she didn't like how "girly" she had sounded on the phone, too desperate. Well fuck, she wasn't desperate, she had been in the middle of telling him something important, and he abruptly said he ..."had to go."

He always did that to her. Twenty years ago, he'd say he would call, and then six months would go by, and he'd finally call, saying he was in town, and would she like to get together? And of course she would, because she had this deep, messed up attraction for him. That's what she was in the middle of trying to explain, when he said he had to go. She didn't want the call to end that way, her in the middle of a sentence, hanging on to something, and him cutting her short once again.

It made her mad, and maybe that's why she never called him back the last time, twenty some odd years ago. Every time he called, and they then shared a brief night together, she was left aching with that loneliness that he seemed to bring to her whenever he rolled into town.

Maybe that's why she married her now ex-husband. Maybe that's why after work she was going to drive over to her boyfriend's house and fuck him hard. She was so going to let him have a piece of her. And she was going to come hard, because fucking made her feel alive. Fucking made her let go of stuff she couldn't have, and fucking let her live for the moment, not think about her past, her regrets, her wants and desires, and her self doubts.

She smiles to herself as she pulls up to work. She knows she looks good for her age, in her tight-fitting blue jeans and her black tank top. Her red hair is brushed back and flowing down her back. Her boy-toy loves to pull it hard when he is fucking her from behind. And she likes it pulled hard, and she likes it when he calls her "baby," and tells her she is hot for her age.

He, the one who never calls back, he used to like to slap her ass when she was on top, a first for her, when she was twenty, but now, well, now when her young thing is grinding on top of her, she's the one that slaps his ass hard, and he's the one that calls out.

Just thinking about it made her nipples began to ache. She was going to demand that he pinch them hard, make her cry out, make her scream his name, make her forget the dude who never called back, the dude who always leaves her hanging. She was not going to pine over him, like some lovesick teenager, like she did when she was twenty, always waiting, always hoping.

What a fucker! When she said to him on the phone that if she came to visit she wanted to feel twenty again, she didn't mean she wanted to feel all the insecurities that went along with being that age. She wanted the hotness. She wanted the innocence that went along with the levity of the first time she kissed him, and it whetted her ache she had for him.

"It could be dangerous," she said to him when he asked her to visit.

"Shit, Gwen, just come, we're in out forties now, and shit, I can get laid anytime, I've got young girls throwing themselves at me." She had smiled to herself when he said that, because nothing changes. "You always had young things throwing themselves at you; I used to be one of those young things that threw themselves at you."

He didn't say anything to that. And it didn't matter to her that he had fucked her best friend when she had left that summer. It didn't matter that she found out that her best friend had fucked him on and off for fours years while they were in college. What pissed her off was that her friend had gotten to fuck him for four years straight. Gwen always got brief encounters when he was coming and going like some dirty, stray cat that would come around, begging to be let in, and she always did.

And she had let him in again, but he was still a mystery to her. Was it a game he was playing with her, not answering her text messages? Why did he have to be so god damn elusive, so goddamn unavailable? It baffled her. He was the one who said come visit. She couldn't remember if he asked her after she told him that she wrote several love letters to him, but never sent them, or before, when she said she never hated him. "Send them now," he had said.

'No way," she had laughed at him over the phone, as she sat at McDonald's sipping on her Diet Coke. Her mouth had gone dry as she spilled her guts to him about how he always made her feel. Telling him that she always thought he was a cool guy, and how he still pulled at her. But as she replays the conversation over in her head now, he really didn't reveal that much to her. He asked most of the questions. He did say he had just gotten out of a relationship.

"You know what I remember? I once pulled a tampon out of you."

She had almost choked on her sip of Coke when he confessed that to her. That had been so embarrassing for her that night. She remembered it well. She had been on top and she had told to him that she was on her period, and he had said "So?", and put his hand down her underwear, and she felt his fingers at her opening and then the soft tug, and then he rolled her over, and started kissing her, working her with his fingers, not caring that she was bleeding.

She was so fucking pissed off at him right now.

She had left him a message asking him to call her back because she had a question for him, and he had only texted her back, "Ask me." That had made her so angry, and a little hurt. Why couldn't he just pick up the damn phone, and let her speak her mind, let her ask him the question that she had been holding on to for twenty fucking years. Why couldn't he let her have her release, or some goddamn confirmation that he still liked her? She was not asking for a marriage proposal, fuck no.

She had left. She never had a relationship with him, nor did she think they ever could. It was a whimsical infatuation she had for him. She had been swept away, as all the romance novels like to phrase it, when the dashing young southern man walks into a room. And she knew, which she admitted to him, that she felt they had an instant chemistry, but sadly, no real intimacy.

Gwen liked him. She liked the way he smelled. She liked the way he smiled, and she liked the way he made her feel without fucking her.

And that's what she wanted to tell him, what she was trying to tell him when he cut her off in the conversation; but she wasn't going to text him that, too dangerous. So instead she texted him, asking him if he still wanted her to visit, and of course he didn't respond, and of course she took his silence to be a no. Why the hell did he even ask her to visit? And she thought, I bet he got back together with his ex-girlfriend, or maybe he said it in the heat of the moment when she was confessing her long, lost lust for him. Or maybe she fucked it up by sounding too needy. Or maybe she scared him off with her aggressiveness. For Christ sakes, she couldn't change her personality. Plus, she didn't want to wait another twenty years when her boobs were sagging and her ass was soft. She had a firm ass, and her boobs were still very perky.

She should have just texted him something stupid like "Are you a Tit or Ass man." Or, "Let's just fuck and get this shit over with." Or "I promise I won't throw you out any windows." He did mention to her on the phone that he still acts like he is twenty, and that should have been a sign, but then she knew better, there was something about him, something beneath the surface that always drew her in.

But she got all serious way too soon, and her only excuse was she's impatient. It's not her fault that she was born in the year of the monkey, and in the month of November. And the week she had her freak out, Venus was in retrograde, and she was reevaluating her life's plan. And all she could do was think about him, and fucking him. Of course, it was always the reoccurring image of the two of them in the back of his friend's truck, under the stars, taking in the scent of the backwoods, as they drove out to a party that was held in a log cabin. And afterward, well afterward, he had snuggled her, and she took in his musky scent, and ran her hands up and down his lanky body, and thought, maybe he does like me?

He ruined her fantasy by not giving her an answer, and that is what she was upset about the most. Gwen had it in her head that she would seduce him when she saw him again, because she never really got the chance to seduce him when they younger. She was always so over-stimulated when she was around him, that she couldn't do anything but wait for him to make the moves on her. And when she had texted him, "Do you still want me to come." What she was really asking was, "Do you want to have sex with me?" But it wasn't about the sex, it was about something else. She couldn't describe it to him in a text message; she couldn't even tell him what it really was about him that drew her to him. But when she closes her eyes at night, of course she wanted to fuck him.

She wants to push him up against the wall, rub her hands up and down his body. She wants to straddle him and kiss him hard, suck him, fuck him, slap his ass, bite him, lick him, whisper soft kisses down his neck, kiss him some more, rub on him, let him rub on her, let him slap her ass. She wants to feel his cock deep inside of her. She wants to moan and groan, and grunt, and whimper. She wants to make him whimper. She wants him to suck at her, pinch at her nipples, pull her hair, and to kiss her tenderly. And then she'd kiss him tenderly.

For the second round, they'd have slow easy sex. She'd slide up and down on his cock, teasing him, letting him tease her, and then she'd grind a little, he'd pump a little, and then Gwen would slip out of him, and go down on him. He might do the same, and then she'd get back on top. And then afterward when they were cuddling, she'd say in her sexist voice--"We don't ever have to talk. But, I do have one question -- do you like me? If, so, text it to me." And hopefully that would make him laugh, and then they'd snuggle, like when they were twenty in the back of his friend's truck driving through the backwoods, looking for that party in the log cabin.

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