THE SUMMER OF '72

So much time has passed that most of my memories of her have drifted into
the smokey back rooms of my mind, where the whole experience is cast in an
ethereal light of passion so intense, it's taken on a glow of its own. But
I've never forgotten her. Probably never will.

Jaime was 25 the summer I turned 18. Well, I say 18, but I spent almost
a year in a coma and two years recovering from a car accident, so people say
I act more like I'm 15. But Jaime was nothing like Evie, the cheerleader who
didn't know I existed. Jaime was worldly and beautiful. She had a bawdy
smile and a drowsy, quicksand voice, and she didn't care what people thought
of her.

My dad had a lot to do with us getting together. He figured if I spent
my teens with an open mind, a little bit of free time and a couple of dollars
in my pocket, I wouldn't feel the need to rebel and I wouldn't get into
drugs. I never did much more than smoke pot, which didn't kill me or lead to
heroin, so I guess he was right.

He owned and ran our local Five and Dime. I worked there in my spare
time, which was Saturdays, mostly, and sometimes after school. I didn't have
regular hours but there was always something I could do, like clean up at the
soda fountain, stock shelves, or sweep the floor.

Dad also sparked my interest in cameras. He let me use his Kodak Brownie
until I bought a 35mm Pentax. It came in the week before spring break in
1972. I almost ran Jaime down, hurrying out of the store with it slung over
my shoulder.

"Are you a photographer?" she asked.

She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. If she needed me to
be a photographer, that's what I was.

"Sure."

"I want to send some pictures to my husband. He's one of the few, you
know, the proud ... a Marine. He's a guard at the embassy in Saigon. Can
you take them?"

"Sure."

"Great, except I don't want to be just sitting in some chair smiling like
an idiot."

If I said sure one more time, she was bound to figure out I was only 18.

"I know where there's a creek with a sandbar that's kind of like a
beach," I said. "D'you think he'd like that?"

"Yeah, far out, kind of a nature thing. When are you free?"

For the rest of my life! My small town rearing had left me unprepared
for anything close to a suave answer. I watched an amused smile played
across her mouth while I struggled to keep from babbling. I wanted to look
at my watch and say, "Well, it's 3 now. How about 3:01?"

"Saturday, maybe?" she asked, raising her eyebrows and my expectations.
How could I refuse? "What's your name, anyway?"

"Michael. Michael Kline."

"I'm Jaime," she said, extending her hand.

I watched her walk away, trying to memorize her image. Her limbs were
long and slender, but not skinny. Her hair was a vibrant collection of gold
and blond, almost white down at the ends, with just a hint of strawberry. Tha
t night, I imagined it as orange as Nehi soda when the late afternoon sun hit
it just right, and her kneeling naked above me.

I tried to pretend it was her unbuttoning my jeans, pulling out my cock
and teasing the hair around my balls with the lightest touch. Her incredible
beauty intensified the gentle kneading of her lithe fingers, and her
constantly changing rhythm almost deprived me of my senses. When I thought I
couldn't stand anymore, she took me between her experienced lips. Then she
made me fuck her until she was satisfied.

[] [] []

She picked me up in an ancient VW Beetle that ran as rough as my dad's
beard after a three day weekend.

"The latch on the outside doesn't work," she explained, leaning across
the passenger seat to open my door.

I was so mesmerized by her allure, I forgot my arms were full of camera
gear and things to make our afternoon more comfortable. I was struggling to
get in with all of it when she gave me an are-you-okay smile and pushed the
seat forward so I could put my stuff in back. I wasn't okay, I was madly in
love.

She was wearing a white, crepe dress, with a dozen or so buttons in front
to hold it closed. Only about half of them were fastened, and she wasn't
wearing a bra. Her nipples pressed against the pliant material every now and
then, especially when she shifted into first or third gear.

Everyone knew hippies didn't wear undies or shoes, but Jaime had on
sandals like I'd seen in the window at Muffy's Shoe Store. I wanted to stare
at her, but I did my best not to unless she was talking. I was completely in
awe of her beauty, her sharp features and her expressive lips. I was sure I
would melt if she so much as touched me.

"There's a couple of joints in the ashtray," she said, glancing sideways
at me.

"Naw, maybe after we finish," I said, with all the maturity I could
muster. "It makes me forget things. I want to make sure these pictures turn
out."

I'd read somewhere that reefer made you absent-minded. The twenty bucks
she was paying me would buy new jeans, a work shirt, and maybe even some
sandals like hers.

"Don't let me stop you, Jaime." I'd heard that pot made you uninhibited,
and it was fine with me if she got horny and forgot I was only 18.

"Well, could you light one for me? I kind of have my hands full."

I did, but I didn't inhale. I didn't want to choke and have a coughing
fit in front of her. She leaned sideways towards me, keeping her eyes on the
road, and let me put the joint between her eternally kissable lips. I wanted
to put my hand down her top and squeeze the tit I could easily see most of.

"I'll shift while you smoke," I offered.

Volkswagens are easy to shift. She still had trouble, toking, steering
and working the pedals all at the same time. We wove from the centerline to
the shoulder through the entire doobie. I saw it as part of the adventure.
Her personality was effervescent, it matched her flaming, flying hair. I
was hopelessly in love with her and everything about her, the way she
dressed, drove, looked and talked. I memorized subtle things like the way
her slender fingers gripped the wheel, the way her lips parted to accept the
joint, and especially, the way her lungs expanded when she inhaled. She had
long, elegant toes, and hips just wide enough to accentuate her tiny waist,
which, in turn, made her chest look larger.

Once she got stoned, she began to talk. "You don't look like a Michael,"
she said. "Does anyone call you Mickey?"

I've gone by Mickey ever since.

"Where are you from?" I asked, wanting to know everything about her.

"Mars," she said, and giggled. "Not really, I moved here from Camp
Lejune about a month ago. I don't know anyone here so I don't get out much.
When my husband shipped out for Viet Nam, I moved in with his folks. They
just retired and moved to Florida so I need to learn my way around. Do you
drive?"

I didn't answer. I didn't want to lie or give away my age, so I asked a
dumb question.

"Why'd you marry a Marine?"

"I was living with my Mom and step-dad, who was also a Marine. When he
got orders for Japan, they didn't mention it until they started packing. My
mom, with a tear in her eye, said, 'Sorry, Jaime, but you've graduated from
high school, now, so you're old enough to take care of yourself. The rent's
paid up until the end of the month.' That gave me eight days to rearrange my
life.

"Jack and I had been seeing each other off and on for about six months,
so he moved in the weekend they left. That was seven years ago. He talked
me into getting married before he went overseas."

I found myself imagining what it would be like to sleep with her, naked,
to feel her body next to mine, my skin smoldering with the memory of each
caress. My ...

"Come on, you old fart," she griped at an old man who had come to a near
stop while trying to make a right turn. "Doesn't it make you want to get out
and walk along side his car and say, 'Come on, Grampaw, you can make it, go!'
If I ever get that old, I hope somebody shoots me."

I agreed, of course, but it was hard to imagine her as anything but
whimsical and seductive.

She parked at the edge of the road near the bridge over Mill Creek. It
was one of those first, glorious spring days, with the temperature
approaching eighty and the Dogwoods just beginning to lose their blossoms.
I grabbed my gear and hurried to the path that ran along the bank. Jaime
was stoned. It took her a minute to pull a huge bag out from behind her seat.
"It's not far, only about a hundred yards," I explained, when I saw her
stop and frown as she looked into the woods.

It was the only sand within a mile up or downstream from the bridge. I
had walked the banks a few weeks earlier to see where the spring floods had
left the sandbars. This one had been in plain view of the bridge then, but
now the trees formed a green curtain between where we were headed and the
rest of the world. I had done a great deal of fantasizing about bringing
Evie down here to go skinny dipping.

We could hear the sound of a farmer mowing his yard somewhere down the
road, but other than that, it was just her, me and Mother Earth. The May
apples had yet to bloom, but the woods were filled with white and purple
violets, dandelions, and other yellow or cornflower blue bouquets, and life
was full of promise. It was spring, after all, and anything was possible.
I shot a roll of film with her sitting, lying and rolling over on the
sand. I tried to stay back far enough to keep from picking up the redness in
her eyes. That was difficult, I wanted to be on top of her. As I reloaded,
a pair of wood ducks glided in, skied into a landing and paddled around for a
moment before they noticed us. They took off again, effortlessly, as if they
had planned to all along.

I'd spent enough time trying to photograph wildlife to discover that
sometimes if you're quiet for awhile, they forget you're there. Jaime wasn't
about to be quiet, though, and I wasn't going to ask her to be. She'd been
drinking from the jug of lemonade I'd brought along, and some of it had
spilled between her breasts. I wanted to suggest she take off her dress and
wash herself in the creek. I also wanted to look down the front each time
she pulled it away from her chest and complained about being sticky.
"Look at this," she said, her eyes trained on her right tit. An
iridescent green bug was making its way up the slope of her chest, but what
caught my eye was her areolae. It was dark brown and clearly visible beneath
the flimsy crepe. It was bigger than a silver dollar, but not as big as the
saucers my eyes probably were.

Men are easily influenced by tits. The idea that all men love big tits
is a myth. Big, small, it doesn't really matter, as long as they're properly
displayed and appear to be available. Not available in the sense that just
anyone could grab them, but touchable as part of an intimate embrace. When
she realized I was admiring the gentle sweep of her breast, not the green
bug, she laughed disarmingly, gave me a shove and said, "Silly!"
She waded out into the stream, holding her skirt, daintily negotiating
her way over the rocky bottom. I let her go down stream about twenty feet,
raised my camera to my eye and had her come back the same way. She was
watching her step so intently, she completely forgot I was there, allowing me
to capture her relaxed innocence, which blended perfectly into the natural
surroundings.

Everything about her exuded femininity, the way her hips flowed from side
to side as her weight shifted, the way she held her dress out of the water,
even her serene, slightly dope- reddened eyes when she looked up.
"Why don't you do something that'll make your husband wanna hurry home,"
I said, thinking maybe she'd lift her skirt up to her thighs.

To my delight, she set about unfastening the rest of the buttons on the
front of her dress. She pulled it open, shrugged her shoulders and let it
slide down to her hips. Her body emerged like a banana. I was so
dumbfounded, I forgot my camera until she pulled her arms out of the sleeves,
cocked her hips and put her hands on them in a kind of, What-did-you-expect?
pose. The image I had created in my fantasies paled next to the real thing.
I finished the roll, quickly reloaded, and put on a portrait lens, pulling her
quivering nakedness even closer. I was lucky I didn't step on my tongue
I didn't have to worry about stepping on my dick, it was climbing towards
my belly button.

As I shot, she shifted her hips a couple of times and her entire dress
dropped into the water at her feet. She was wearing panties, but she stepped
out of them and they floated away with her dress. One frame would later show
them still within reach. They were several yards behind her in the next. Aft
er that they were indistinguishable from the foaming white water going over a
shoal, and there in the dappled sunlight was Jaime, completely, proudly and
gloriously naked.

I managed to keep my cool, snapping away, saying, "Thank you," over and
over, under my breath. When the film ran out, I put in another roll, but the
spell had been broken.

Before she came out of the stream, she leaned forward until her hair
trailed into the water. Then she came up fast enough to fling it back over
her head. I can still picture her untamed femininity, hips swaying from side
to side, as she walked up to her bag.

She pulled out a towel and started to pat herself dry. I forgot what I
was about and stared. She made no attempt to hide her sensual beauty, she
just smiled, tilted her head slightly and dried her ears. That completed,
she moved close enough to drape her dripping hair over my gaping face and
shook out enough water to bring my attention back to earth. The image of her
tits, complete with goose bumps and drops of water, is tattooed on my brain.

"Nobody should have to wear cloths," she began, stretching her arms
skyward. "I could stay out here forever, with nature and all, soaking up the
sun."

Then she looked at me.

"Don't you have any sisters?" she asked unpretentiously, as if that, not
her stunning charms, was why I was staring.

"No."

"Obviously. The human body is beautiful. It should be admired. Would
you please get my dress?" she asked, pulling a pair of cut offs and a T-shirt
out of her bag.

I fooled with my camera until she had them on, then waded into the icy
water. I had never been so close to a naked woman in my life.

Early the next morning, I lay on my back, on my bed, with visions of her
smokey, gray eyes, flawless tits and furry muff dancing before me. I
fantasized she was watching me, covering her mouth and giggling bashfully,
realizing what a profound effect she had on me. My ejaculation nearly hit
the ceiling.

That afternoon, she appeared at her door wearing bib overalls with
nothing underneath. I had to sit on my hands to keep from grabbing her while
she went through a stack of 8x10's I had spent half the night printing. She
put her favorites into an envelope addressed to Jack.

In my dreams for a week, I walked up to her and we made love standing up,
there in the stream. The following Sunday, prepared to take advantage of any
opportunity I was given, I was back on her couch to offer my artistic
services again, or try to hire her as a model, when the phone rang. It was
him, calling from Saigon, wanting to know who she'd gotten naked for.

"Jesus Jack, he's only a kid! He's barely 18, but he acts like he's 15,
for God's sake."

After that, I couldn't bring myself to deliver the speech I had spent
hours practicing in front of my mirror. I figured that was the last I'd see
of her.

Needless to say, I was elated to find myself face to face with her at the
store a couple weeks later. She was surveying the creme rinse reluctantly,
but broke into a smile when she recognized me. She offered to buy me a cup
of coffee when I got off. I figured she still hadn't made any friends, so I
led her to the snack bar, where I put a cherry coke on my tab for her to
drink while I finished putting out shampoo.

"What's there to do in this town?" she asked as we stepped outside.
Go somewhere and fuck our eyeballs out, I thought to myself, but out
loud, I suggested the next best thing.

"Let's go over to your place and get stoned."

"Sure, why not."

I was horny long before I took my first hit, which was so small I
couldn't possibly choke on it. Unfortunately, I buried my desire beneath the
mature facade I was hiding behind, trying to endear myself to her. By the
time she ushered me to the door, it was hard to believe so much time had
passed, or that I could fall anymore hopelessly in love.

The next evening, I found myself approaching her house, wondering what I
was going to say if she answered. When she opened the door, she acted as if
she had just run to the door all the way from the back yard. I didn't know
it at the time, but she was suffering from sexual disorientation. She looked
back at me through an unruly shock of flaxen hair and led me to the couch. Th
ere, she tucked her feet up under herself, tugged on the belt of her
creme-colored, silk bath robe and held my hands in hers, on her knees. Her
distended nipples were clearly visible, begging for my urgent attention. She
mumbled something about talking to Jack on the phone.

I didn't figure out what she was saying until the next morning, after
replaying the evening over and over in my mind, unable to sleep, wondering if
I ever would again. In a round about way, she had told me that Jack
sometimes got up early to call her on the embassy's secure line so they could
have phone sex. As usual, he finished quickly, leaving her needs largely
unattended. She was trying her best to carry on after he hung up, but her
frustration with his selfishness was occupying her thoughts and eventually
won out.

All I knew was that the look she was giving me suggested that if I could
keep from wetting my pants, something incredible might happen. She
hesitated, trying to decide if I understood what she had said. I leaned
closer instinctively. She moved toward me, our mouths almost touching.
Suddenly, she pulled my lips to hers.

I wasn't sure what kissing meant. My experience with women consisted of
making out with eighth graders. I was afraid if I grabbed her, she might
kick me out, but I was soon so drugged by her potent charm she couldn't have
pried me away. She didn't try. Her tongue parted my lips, seeking out and
demanding mine. She was giving into the desperate longing awakened on the
phone, and I was about to embark on a journey into manhood.

I kissed all the places I usually kissed girls, but none of them
responded the way she did. The sensuous electricity was like nothing I'd
ever experienced. In an effort to show some sophistication, I nibbled gently
on her left ear. She opened her robe and squeezed her tit. I figured that
must be where she wanted me. As soon as I moved in, her hand slithered down
to caress her thigh.

As I moved to her other tit, she attempted a similar maneuver, but her
lovely fingers only made it half way to her other thigh. By the time I had
licked my way down to her silky pubes, her frisky digits glistened with the
results of her enthusiasm, and when I slipped my finger into her, I thought
she was going to tear off my clothes.

"You're already wet," I said, dumbfounded.

"The wetter, the better," she said hoarsely, her half-smile and the far
away look in her eyes told me she was already somewhere I'd never been.
I drew my tongue up her heavenly slit, reveling in my first taste of
love. She responded with an encouraging, gasping shiver, so I did it again.
Her hand slithered around behind me, titillating my family jewels in such a
manner I licked her again, and again, and again, until I had excited her to
the point I was sure her neighbors could hear. When she relaxed, she gave me
an insolent grin and rewarded me so expertly I was inclined to repeat my
performance as often as possible in the weeks to come. From that night on,
we spent every possible moment in bed.

Jean-Paul Sartre once said that a mobile is an object defined by its
movement and having no other existence. My relationship with Jaime was a
sexual mobile; we existed only for each other's pleasure.

"Do this," she said, showing me how to use my index and middle fingers on
either side of her clitoris to masturbate her to orgasm. She seemed to melt
under my touch. I rubbed her gently in a slow, circular motion until she
began to lick and tug at her nipples. That meant I should start rubbing
faster, up and down over the shaft. I quickly discovered how to tell when
she was about to come so I could slow down and let her enjoy her "little
deaths."

Jaime loved to masturbate. She sometimes stopped before she climaxed to
let her arousal build. She savored her 'tweeners,' as she called them, the
spirited treatments she gave herself rather than languor while her lover
recuperated. It only happened once with me. After that, all she had to do
was start and I got hard.

"What am I going to do with you?" she said one afternoon, rousing me from
a blissful, post-coital slumber. I was lying on my back, and she was
sprawled out on top of me. I was close to drifting off again when she
continued, "I can't take you to lunch. I can sneak you in the back door for
dinner, but I can't take you dancing, and if we saw a movie, people would
talk. What are you good for, besides fucking?"

"I don't know, but I'm ready again," I said, feeling her provocative
wiggle on top of me.

She giggled wickedly, feeling me stiffen. "You are good for that," she
said, abandoning her charms to me once again.

I told my parents I was going camping one weekend, snuck out my record
collection and spent the weekend at Jaime's. We didn't leave her bedroom
except to make a sandwich, grab a soda, or put on another stack of albums. We
made love to Steppenwolf, Crosby, Stills & Nash, Led Zeppelin and the Guess
Who. She introduced me to Tim Buckley, the Velvet Underground, Leonard
Cohen, and even a little Chopin.

"Isn't there a song called, There's a Little Bit of Bad in Every Good
Little Girl?" she asked.

"I don't know," I murmured before drifting off to sleep. She had more
than a little bad in her. Of course, I was only too willing to engage in
whatever mischief her naughty little mind would hatch.

She delighted in showing me each new contrivance, rapidly expanding my
sexual repertoire. I was an unrelenting student, eager to learn, and even
more to practice, unaware that it would be years before I would have another
lover willing to participate in such a wide array of sexual adventures.
She gave me my first blow job on my nineteenth birthday. She sat naked,
legs crossed in front of me and drew her fingers up the rib of my cock
excruciatingly slow. Encouraged by my smile, she wrapped both fists around
my shaft, put her mouth over the head and started moving up and down. I
leaned back to gaze into her eyes and watch her honeydews bounce. Her sultry
expression would have been enough to siphon the come out of my balls, but the
rapid rhythm of her lips moving up and down my cock was almost unbearable.
She seemed to know when to lock eyes, allowing her to judge when to back
off and pump me, smiling with devilish satisfaction as she watched me explode
like a Roman candle. I have not experienced her equal in all these many
years since.

Having calmed me down, she became a woman who expected cunning, dexterity
and lingering mastery. She attached her mouth to mine and proceeded on her
own until the sparkle returned to my eyes.

"You've really got it made," she said watching me as she stroked my
erection, her bedroom curtains ruffling in the breeze and Debussy playing in
the living room. "Older women love a stiff, young cock. As often as you can
get it up, you could take care of half a dozen horny women."

"Why should I care about other women when I have you?"

"You can't have me forever. Jack'll be home one of these days and I
can't exactly hide you in the cellar."

I knew she was right, but I didn't want to think about it. I was hard
again. I pushed her down on the bed and mounted her from behind. We had
other conversations about her needs, which I now know was how she assuaged
her guilty conscience. She must have been lonely, and afraid her man might
not make it home. We continued that way all summer without getting caught,
and through most of my sophomore year. And all the while, I thought I was
her stud, and she was in love with me.

[] [] []

Jack did come home in one piece at the end of his tour. He had thirty
days of leave before he and Jaime had to report to Camp Pendleton, CA. I
thought I was going to die. Or rather, I wished I would. My life was over.
Nothing would stop the pain.

I started dating toward the middle of my junior year. I'd never told
anyone, but rumors spread and I developed quite a reputation. I even went
out with Evie, but after Jaime, she was just a dumb teenager.

She wasn't as dumb as Jack, though. He volunteered for another tour in
June of '74 and Jaime was back. She appeared at the store one day out of the
blue in a dress that looked like it belonged to a twelve year old girl. What
appeared to be the waist line fell just below her tits and the skirt barely
reached her thighs. She made sure I saw her, and once I did, it wasn't hard
to figure out what she had in mind.

We were barely inside her front door when her dress came off. I fell
over, trying to get out of my bell bottoms while she fellated me into
something useful. She took me easily, kicking the door closed and wrapping
her legs around my hips to drive me deeper. Life was once again worth living.
She had me take her back to the creek, but not for pictures. First we
did it doggie style on a blanket. Then, after a picnic in the nude, she
showed me her favorite outdoor activity. Reclining on an old, wooden chaise
lounge I kept for years after the canvas rotted away, she communed with
Mother Nature in a most impassioned manner.

She spread her willowy legs gradually, in a very unladylike manner, and
allowed her doting fingers and "naughty" thumb to become her rhythmic lovers.
I watched her toy with the roseate tips of her bouncing beauties, then moved
over to "help;"she needed the extra mouth and hands to accommodate all the
areas that needed attention. She lost track of how many orgasms she had that
afternoon.

We were frantic lovers until Saigon fell and the Americans abandoned the
embassy on April 30, 1975. Tim Buckley also died that year from an overdose
of smack. It's probably a good thing I never experienced that euphoric high.
One day after school, I was lying on Jaime's bed about an hour after we'd
made love. I had another erection and was trying to get her interested when
the door bell rang. It was a chaplain with a telegram. I could hear
murmuring in the living room, but I couldn't make out what they were saying.
About ten minutes later, she came back in and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Jack got hit by a sniper's bullet while he helped refuges into a
helicopter on the embassy roof. He died instantly."

I had been waiting on dinner at home the night before, half watching the
news, half thinking about Jaime. I remember bits of footage, desperate South
Vietnamese trying to beat down the embassy gates to get on a chopper and
escape Saigon. I wondered if I had seen him. Those images still haunt me.
Last I heard, she'd taken up with some hippie who had hair down to his
ass. He came back from Nam a few years earlier with a foot locker full of
pot, and had made enough money selling it to buy a run down house with no
indoor plumbing over behind the implement dealership. It was more like a
shack. With her working full time, they got by. For a long time, I hoped
she might still come back and want to get married.

It took most of my senior year for me to recover. Eventually, I did
though, but I was determined never to open myself up to be hurt that bad
again.

Over the years, I've justified my involvement with her by maintaining
that men who leave their wives to go off to battle shouldn't marry women with
such acute needs, or those who do should stay home and attend to them.
The only picture of Jaime that survived my married years was a double
exposure I took by accident. One image was her sitting on the edge of the
bed naked, trying to look sexy, but cover herself at the same time. The
other is her in a spaghetti- strapped evening gown facing away, but looking
back over her shoulder with a shock of hair hiding one eye. I get it out
every now and then, look at it, and wonder.

I went away to school and stayed after I graduated, knowing I'd make a
better living as a photographer in a college town than I would back home. I
got married, divorced, and ended up in Florida. I was amazed when she
tracked me down, but there she was at my door one day, 25 years after she'd
walked out of my life. I was speechless.

"So, you're still into photography," she said, stepping inside, her eyes
searching my living room, assessing what I had made of my life in a single
sweep.

"Yup."

"I'm not surprised. You captured my very essence when you were, what,
fifteen?"

"No, I was 18. I'm not surprised you're ..." I began, wanting to tell
her she was still beautiful, but her lips made it clear we could talk later.
We sort of embraced, sort of danced our way to the couch. Eventually, we
separated to catch our breath.

"I've dreamed of showing you I haven't forgotten anything you taught me.
Plus, I've learned a few things on my own," I said while I undressed her.
She smiled, her breath increasing slightly as I removed her stockings. Wh
en she was nude, I stopped to admire her. If anything, the years had
improved her. There were a few faint lines on her face, but they seemed to
add wisdom to her dazzling features.

"I work out," she explained, as she unfastened my belt. "My lover ..."
It was my turn to clamp my mouth over hers to remind her we could talk
later. She undressed me slowly, her lips never far from mine.

"I don't recover as quickly as I used to," I said when, once again, I
felt her mouth accept my throbbing cock.

"I have all afternoon," she teased.

"Good. This time we can go to a real beach. It's just across the
highway," I said, kissing her lightly on the lips.

"You live alone?"

"I have to. You spoiled me for all other women. Except for my wife,
I've done nothing but hop from one bed to another ever since you left." She
responded warmly, holding me by the rear.

"You were my second lover, I've only had four and I've never cheated
except with you. Do you still come as quickly as you did?" she asked,
smiling. I smiled back, but didn't reply.

I wanted to hurry into it, to rush down to the beach. I thought I had
grown up, but I hadn't. With her, I was still that same impatient youth.
"Let's make love here. Then maybe on the beach," she said.

I wasn't about to argue, her fingers were already making me shudder and
her mouth was everything I remembered. The sublime texture of her lips,
their smooth fullness, the heavenly pulse of her suckling and the way she
gently cock my with a bird-like touch took me back to high school. I was in
ecstasy, but I couldn't allow myself to come without showing her the
expertise I had developed over the years.

I managed to back away and kneel in front of her. I stroked her from the
dimples inside her knees to the very edges of her fur with the backs of my
nails. I didn't put my mouth on her until she was beside herself with
desire, pushing her firm tits to her lips, one at a time, swirling her tongue
around her areolae until they shimmered with saliva. They still had that
same cinnamon-tinged ripeness.

She palmed them, kneading and squeezing them, adding to the intensity of
her inner fires. Only then did I lick a path up the inside of one thigh,
then the other, avoiding her most sensitive flesh. By the time I touched her
clit, she was smoldering. I teased it with my tongue and sucked it until she
begged me to fuck her.

The thrill of entering her, that first exquisite stab was nearly
orgasmic. I paused, deep within her while I gazed into her eyes. For a few
seconds, we held each other with gentle laughter, as if to say it was still
too good to be true. Then I began to fuck her with long, powerful stokes. Sh
e responded naturally, driving up towards me, encircling me with her sultry
softness.

I watched her give in to the approach of her orgasm and savor it with a
kind of elegant detachment that heightened her elation. When it arrived, she
bit her lip sweetly, closed her eyes and launched into never-never land. I
was so enthralled watching her that I let my own climax sneak up on me. I
didn't notice until it was too late. She opened her eyes halfway to
acknowledge it, but then drifted back into her world of ecstasy. At least we
came together.

"I've been known to last longer. I promise I will on the beach ... if
you let me calm down."

"Sex on the beach," she laughed, "I'll drink to that. You never did let
me come much before you did."

"It only happens with you."

"Shit, I hate to think of getting back into that," she said, gesturing
towards the smart business suit she had arrived in. She looked good in
everything, and better in nothing. "I would have brought something, but I
couldn't exactly drag a suitcase out to the car."

I got her a bath towel, which she wrapped around her waist like a skirt.

"So far, so good, but what about these?" she asked, cupping her tits.

"You have two hands don't you?"

That familiar giggle filled the room.

"If you run across the highway like that, I'll carry a bag in one hand
and my balls in the other."

"Fine with me, as long as you don't drop them."

I didn't think she'd actually do it, but as I watched her lope gracefully
out my front door, I had no choice but to follow. Her supple beauty was
arresting.

For a couple of hours, we were young again. She dropped her towel and
ran directly into the surf. I caught up with her in the breakers, where she
sank to her knees and sucked me hard. This time, she lingered, bringing back
memories of days gone by, when her lust was almost unquenchable and I had the
youthful stamina to keep up. Finally, she laid back, pulling me down, into
her satiny snatch. We quickly fell into a rhythm of erotic delight, buffeted
by the roiling surf, but too turned on to uncouple and move. I tasted her
salty lips and devoured the spongy softness of her erect nipples.

She was everything I remembered, the perfect sexual play thing,
guiltless, animated, uninhibited and passionate. I cherished her orgasms,
each sweet, dazzling bit of death and their tender suffusion as I plowed into
her. Over and over, I could hear her whimpering softly in a voice quivering
with excitement, saying unspeakable things I couldn't quite make out. All
too soon, I felt my own orgasm approaching as her panting and mounting tumult
reached its indescribable peak. I wallowed in the clenching tightness of her
throbbing bundle of coital nerves for a few precious seconds before I flooded
her with liquid proof of my rapture. Together, we shivered through orgasmic
bliss.

Sometime after the last ripple of fulfillment passed, we danced in the
swell until daylight was a pink memory, fading fast above the dunes. And we
have many times since.