My wife was going to a conference in Denver for six days, so she paid the girl next door to watch our two kids during the day, while I was at work. This was back in the ’90s, when jeans rode low on girls’ hips and held tight against their asses. I taught English composition at a state university in the southwest. The square-yardage of midriff I observed on a daily basis was almost too much. As I walked across campus to my classes, my gaze skimmed endlessly across taut skin. I felt like a dazed traveler, lost in the desert, dying of thirst, hallucinating oases—smooth mounds of undrinkable sand, forming and disappearing in the wind. I had lunch in the cafeteria, most days, and watched girls standing in the pizza line lick chocolate milk from their upper lips, as the fabric painted onto their thighs swelled imperceptibly.
Jeni, our babysitter, was nineteen and taking time off from college after a difficult first year. Anxiety. Homesickness. Maybe I could help. She was five-foot-six, strawberry blonde. Her Freshman Fifteen had distributed evenly among her hips, ass, and chest. Her body ran hot, therefore, her wardrobe remained consistent year-round. Tonight she was wearing mercilessly tight capri pants and a sheer baby-pink short-sleeved blouse over a spaghetti-strap tank-top that was snow white. And no bra.
I didn’t know any of these details yet, because I was still driving home from work. The kids had slept at the neighbors’ the night before, to take advantage of their massive VHS collection. They’d be waiting for me with the sitter when I got home.
I was stuck on an on-ramp to the 60 and looked over my shoulder at a yellow plastic bag. I felt like an asshole. I had gone to Best Buy during my lunch break and bought the kids a new Nintendo game so that when I got home they would run off to the den and leave me alone with Jeni. Would she stay a few minutes? Longer? And what did I want from her? Attention? More?
I’d been feeling sex-crazed, the past year, and didn’t know why. A few days before Lydia flew to Denver, I walked into the bedroom after taking my morning shower. She was standing by the bed, putting on lipstick, wearing a navy skirt with dark pantyhose and a pearl blouse.
“Come here,” I said, dropping my towel.
“I’m running late, and your Hollywood shower didn’t help any.” She snapped the compact shut.
“You’ve had your coffee. You’re an executive. Executives are allowed to be late.”
“What does my having had coffee have to do—”
“Last night you said you were tired,” I said. “I need you to walk over here, get on your knees, and make a face like you’re shocked.”
Walking over, Lydia spat in her palm and pushed me against the wall. She sucked on my neck, with some biting, and grabbed me and stroked me as I became hard.
“Pretend we’re in tenth grade,” she whispered. “It’s a school night. We’re in the back seat of my grandmother’s Oldsmobile and neither of us know what we’re doing.” She was jacking me off backwards with her left hand—it was clumsy and a little painful, but effective. I was sixteen, getting my first handjob. My body shuddered and I shot my load. It was so heavy you could hear it splat against the rug, like latex paint. Lydia left for work.
Traffic was still stopped dead. I put the car in park. Thinking about Jeni was getting me worked up. It’s not that I wasn’t still in love with Lydia. She was overworking herself for the benefit of our family's future, and as a result she didn’t have the time or energy to focus on certain aspects of our relationship. So if I found myself at the kitchen window with a view of the neighbors’ backyard where their daughter bathed in the sun with the strings of her bikini top untied, was it farfetched that I might come back and wash the same plate and fork a dozen times? I used to be a fan of tan lines. Now I have intensely mixed emotions.
I noticed a splotch of something on my car's dash and opened the center console. There was a lot of junk in there, but I knew there were moist towelettes. I could feel napkins and pens and tiny plastic items as I fished around in there blindly. I finally felt something, grasped it and pulled out a condom in its black packaging. I shut the console and dropped the rubber in the cup holder. Fuck this traffic. I unbuckled my belt, unzipped, and reached into my boxer briefs, adjusting my dick so it had room to grow. As I massaged the bulge inside my boxers, I walked through the front door of my house. The lights were off and it was nighttime. I went to the kitchen and could see the light from the refrigerator. Jeni was standing there in her blue bikini, reaching into a pickle jar.
“I washed my hands, I swear,” she said, a serious look on her face. “My doctor says I need more electrolytes.” She sucked the brine from her fingers and set the jar on the shelf without putting the lid back on. The refrigerator was making her nipples hard.
“Stand in the middle of the room,” I said.
She closed the fridge door. “I was getting a snack. My body’s still developing. The doctor explained it during my last physical. He said I shouldn’t ever become too hungry.” She went and stood in the center of the room. Traffic was not moving. I pulled my dick out, rolled the condom on, and started jerking.
“What are you allowed to eat?”
“Anything,” she said. My brain skipped a few steps and I was inside her mouth and she was sucking so hard that when her lips slipped off, it made a loud pop, like a champagne cork. I pulled her to her feet and kissed her, holding her waist and pushing her back to the window where I spent so much time standing, watching.
“Do you know I watch you?” I fumbled for the strings of her swimsuit. I took her top off and rubbed my five-o’ clock shadow against her breasts. “You’ll never be this young again. I can keep you young. Did you know that?”
She dropped to her knees, sunk her teeth into my cock and drank from the largest vein.
I pulled the condom off, cleaned my dick off with a moist towelette, opened the car door, and dropped the full condom onto the searing pavement.
