Sometimes, Things Just Happen

Henry Martingale is trying to be discreet. He's sitting on the sofa with me, watching tennis (Wimbledon) on TV. But I see him, his roving eye catching glimpses of my tan legs, and I'd be remiss if I didn't admit to enjoying his attention. He dropped over to see his best friend, my son Edward, who won't return for another hour at least. Knowing that Henry is a tennis fan and player—his family belongs to Morgan Valley, the same country club that we do—I suggested he stay and watch Wimbledon with me until Edward returns.

I'm fully aware that Henry finds me attractive. I've seen him almost leering at me whenever he's over here. I'm his older woman fantasy, I suppose, a forty-something MILF to horny college guys like Henry. I'm still Mrs. Newman to him, not Estelle, though I wouldn't mind if he called me Estelle. Estelle the cougar? Hardly! Yes, I'm a divorcee, but I've yet to seduce a younger man, or even tried. Not that I don't harbor fantasies of doing just that. Oh yes! Still, I'm not wearing a short blue skirt and green, low-cut blouse for his benefit. His visit came as a complete surprise. I'm wearing what I'm wearing because it's comfortable as well as revealing.

Henry's got on his usual Saturday afternoon casuals: jeans, Under Armour sports shirt and running shoes sans socks. He's a nice looking kid, preppie handsome, tall and solid, photogenic. He looks like every rakish white quarterback you've ever seen, the type you can picture one day becoming a corporate bigwig or airline pilot. Edward has told me that Henry thinks I'm the prettiest mom in the neighborhood. Pretty is an adjective I've heard about me for as long as I can remember. Still, when a gal reaches middle-age, it's comforting to hear, especially when it comes from a guy a generation younger, a guy young enough to be your son. Older relatives tell me that I remind them of actress Donna Reed when she had her own TV show in the nineteen-sixties. After watching reruns on You Tube, I think they're right. I'm around the age Donna was when her show aired. Like her, I've kept my figure, still youthful enough to compliment a bikini if I choose to wear one. Exercise helps, but so does the right genes—I'm lucky. Henry once told Edward that my emerald green eyes alone are enough to seduce him. Wow! I can just imagine what he's thinking now, watching me with my skirt hiked halfway up my slim, shapely thighs, right leg crossed over the left, swinging teasingly in his direction.

The sexual tension between us is palpable. I could leave the room, this cozy den, and let Henry watch by himself until my son returns. However, truth be told, I'm enjoying his attention, secure in the knowledge that nothing taboo will come of it. No way he'd make a move, at least I don't think so. If one of us did, it would be me. Right now, my head is spinning with opening lines designed to lead us toward an exciting but potentially dangerous situation. 'Be daring,' my dad advised me when I was growing up, though this sort of daring isn't what he had in mind.

"Henry, I'm in the mood for some wine," I say, uncrossing my legs. "Can I get you a glass of Zinfandel too?"

He runs a hand through his thick, brown hair. "Yes, that would be great. Thanks."

When I return, he says he's been drinking beer since he was eighteen; wine, seldom. "Funny, since turning twenty-one, drinking doesn't seem as cool."

"That which is socially prohibited or outright illegal, adds excitement," I say. "Know what I mean?"

"I do."

I can't help but grin when he lowers his eyes as I lean back, re-cross my legs and run my hand over my thighs. "This is an exciting game, isn't it?"

"Game?"

"The match between Victoria Azarenka and Belinda Bencic."

"Oh. Right. It is. Close game."

He squirms and licks his lips. I giggle.

We continue to watch the match, sipping our wine over small talk. I know from Edward that Henry doesn't have a steady girlfriend. I ask him anyway. "No steady girlfriend," he says. "Why get tied down at my age?"

He's right. Why indeed? My Edward, not nearly as good looking at Henry, sometimes expresses his envy for Henry's facile way with women. 'He sometimes has to fend them off when things get too complicated,' Edward tells me. Edward wishes he had Henry's 'problem.'

"Well, you're right," I say. "Doctor Newman and I married too young. He was still in med school. We had a lot on us and weren't mature enough to handle it. We've been divorced for almost ten years now. As you know, my ex remarried."

Henry nods and raises his eyebrows. "But you haven't yet. How come?" Before I can answer, he says, "Mrs. Newman, am I getting too personal?"

I pat his arm. "Not at all. But since you are getting personal, call me Estelle."

"Okay."

"So how come? Well, perhaps I'm too picky, haven't found the right one to commit to. Not that I haven't had proposals."

"I'm not surprised." He looks me over—lustily, it appears to me.

I squeeze his shoulder. "You're sweet, thanks."

He glances toward the TV, sips his wine and then faces me. "Just being honest. You're a very pretty lady. You must have seen guys, including me, checking you out at the club, around the pool, on the tennis courts. You look incredible in tennis duds."

I laugh. "Especially when I bend over to retrieve a ball, right?"

He grins. "I wasn't going to say that, but—"

"No, it's okay. Thanks again for the kudos. Coming from a young, handsome stud like you, that's quite gratifying to hear." I thumb the pearls around my neck, then drop my fingers to the top of my blouse, giving it a slight tug. Am I losing control?

He grins. "Stud? Not me. But I do okay."

"Yes, so I've heard."

He laughs. "Eddy exaggerates."

"Or maybe you're just being modest."

He shrugs.

I like this kid, secure enough in his manhood not to brag as some young men would. Am I getting wet? Yes, it's quite obvious. Jesus! I lower my eyes, shake my head.

"Mrs. Newman—I mean Estelle. Are you okay?"

"Just a little dizzy is all." Feeling shy, I can barely look him in the eye. "The wine, I guess."

He looks at my glass, still almost full. "You must not be much of a drinker. You've only taken a few sips."

"Right." I want to kiss him on his handsome mouth, feel his youthful stubble against my face. And that's just for starters.

He takes my hand. "Anything I can do?"

I giggle like a little girl. "I think you already have."

He slips his hand away and then over my right thigh and begins to rub it. "I'll stop doing this if you—"

"No, it feels good."

"So does your skin, smooth and baby-soft. A teen chick would envy your skin."

I can feel my breathing pick up and something roil in my tummy and moistness beneath my yellow panties. "Henry, maybe we should back off before something happens that we'll both regret."

"Like what?" He grins teasingly. "Look, we can always pretend."

If ever I needed to exercise some discipline, it's right now. Common sense tells me to back off, as I just told Henry. Except I don't. No, I lean into him, hold his face and then press my lips to his. Closing my eyes, my desire pours out of me via the most delicious smooch I've had in quite a while. Oh my! Ohmygod, what now? Only a gentleman would do what he's doing, keeping his hands off my erogenous parts that would send me over the top. I'd either faint or throw my legs wide open or both. He must sense that. He caresses my face as he kisses me, passionate but gentle, nothing pushy, nothing forced. Somehow, I manage to keep myself from snapping open his jeans.

"That was some pretense," I say, minutes later. "The real thing must be off the charts."

He fluffs my light brown, shoulder-length hair, thumbs the bangs out of my eyes and across my forehead. "The most beautiful green eyes I've ever seen. They've seduced many a man, I bet."

"Not by design, I can assure you." He flashes me a look of amused incredulity. "Okay, sometimes, maybe."

He grins and plants a kiss on my forehead. "And you smell really good, too. You've been told, I'm sure."

"Yes," I whisper, with eyes closed, feeling like putty in his hands, malleable and vulnerable and too weak to stop him from going further if he so chooses. Ambivalence hangs over me, for a part of me hopes that Edward arrives to spoil the fun, to keep me from doing something that isn't exactly kosher.

As if to read my mind, Henry says, "I want to make love to you so bad it's killing me. The only thing holding me back is facing Eddy again. That wouldn't be easy." He hugs me as I rest my head against his chest.

"It would be much worse for me, honey. He lives with me, don't forget."

Neither of us is watching the TV screen. It all sounds like dull noise, the crowd's roar whenever one of the women scores a point and the pong of their rackets during volleys.

"We should be watching the match," I say, half in jest. "It would keep us out of trouble." I press closer. "Yet sometimes risks are worth taking."

By way of demonstration, I take the initiative in leading us back to where we were—locked in passionate make-out. We'll be on safe ground if it goes no further than this. But that's a big if and one that looks more ridiculous as the minutes pass. In fact, it fades like my interest in Wimbledon the moment I kick off my house slippers, then reach under my blouse and unsnap my bra. Then, when Henry begins to tongue my firm, B-cup sized boobs, the match is the last thing on my mind.

"Very nice," he says.

I assume he's referring to my boobs. "Not too small? Some guys would think so."

"Size is overrated. Firm and a nice shape are what count, and yours have both."

I kiss him for that, close my eyes and lay on my back. Henry gets on the floor on his knees, his tongue flitting all over my chest and tummy. "Damn, you smell good," he gushes.

If Edward does exaggerate Henry's level of experience, it couldn't be by much, for this kid knows what he's doing, knows how to please. "My yellow panties must be soaked by now," I whisper.

I don't mean for Henry to hear that, but he does, and I jump when he rubs his finger along my crotch. "I'll say!" he gasps, then pushes my blouse over my head and tosses it on the floor. "There, that's better." He then adds, "You're absolutely beautiful."

His compliments are getting him everywhere he apparently wants to go, including between my legs. With my skirt bunched up around my waist and my panties pushed to the side, he climbs on the sofa and goes to work on my pussy, as hot and wet as I can ever remember. Not many men I've been with, including my ex, liked giving me oral. Theirs was a token duty at best. Henry? Heavens, he seems to revel in it! "I love what you're doing!" I cry.

He looks up and grins. "I love what I'm doing also. Sweeter pussy I've never tasted."

Sweeter words I've rarely heard. This could be much more comfortable in my queen-sized bed. But then if Edward came home and caught us, there'd be some splainin' to do about what both of us are doing upstairs, making haste out of my bedroom. Besides, I don't wish to disrupt the rhythm of what's happening here and now. God, I'm so fucking hot! If he doesn't make love to me in the next few minutes, I'll either scream or faint or both.

He's a model of coordinated, fluid motion as he kicks off his shoes and slips off his jeans and underwear. Sitting up, I kiss him, tasting my own juices in the process. It's not bad, a bit tangy and buttery. Impressed, he says, "I respect women with the courage to dip into their own honey pot."

"And I respect men who respect me, and you do," I respond. "Looks like you're ready for me," I add, eyeing his cock, stiff (of course) and bent over banana-like.

Lovingly, he says, "Yes, and I have been for quite a while. Being intimate with you was once an impossible dream. Almost can't believe I'm here."

He holds my face and kisses me while I reach down and fondle what I can hardly wait to take inside me. "As far as birth control," I assure him, "we're covered from my end."

Taking charge, I suggest he sit on the sofa and take me on his lap, facing him. "This way," I say, "you can make love to me and watch Wimbledon at the same time."

Henry gets my jest, for we both know that at this point watching Wimbledon holds about as much interest for us as stamp collecting. The TV serves as mere background noise to other sounds—moans and shrieks, skin slapping against skin, tongues sucking and slurping. His shirt remains on, as does my blue skirt, hiked up around my waist. The rest of our clothing lies in a heap on the floor. Middle-aged or not, this position is a first for me, bouncing up and down on a man's cock while he sucks on my boobs, kisses me and peppers me with terms of endearment. Of course, Henry is not just any man. He's young and jock handsome, witty and confident, humble and gentlemanly. And yes, something more: my son's best friend, an inconvenient truth that invades my moral consciousness even as Henry's deft lovemaking skills do their damnedest to make me forget. There's nothing to feel guilty about, I tell myself. I'm a divorcee, single and unattached and enjoying almost indescribable pleasure in the arms of an unmarried, younger man.

Changing positions shoves this lingering guilt into the recesses of my mind. I'm once again flat on my back, a sofa pillow tucked under my head, my legs wrapped around Henry's waist. He doesn't stop kissing and talking to me, even as his pelvis beats out a furious rhythm. "You're so luscious, Estelle," he whispers. "I adore you."

I can't do much more than nod and kiss him with equal desire. The throes of passion. It's a term I've heard for years but didn't fully comprehend until now. Obviously, it means that nothing else matters but the moment—not the past, not the future and not any potentially ugly consequences that might result. Waves of sensation wash over me, buffet my entire being. Oh, what a beautiful ride this is, one of those bright, shining moments that by their very nature are over much too soon.

"You're close, aren't you?" I hear him say.

Eyes closed, I nod, knowing my climax is seconds away, knowing also that I might lose consciousness. I'm somewhat anxious, but won't let that hold me back. "Henry, I'm on the verge..." That's all I manage to say before I'm engulfed in something too wonderful to fully explain. Words seldom do justice to this kind of passion, the orgasmic sensation wedded to something that's also deeply emotional. I'm on a merry-go-round, high and dizzy with visions of sunbursts and super nova exploding through the blackness. Then, there's just blackness, and I sink into it, gently and willingly.

But not for long. Henry is shaking me, doing his best to bring me around. "Estelle, wake up! Eddy just pulled into the driveway! We've gotta get dressed." In those few seconds of being out, I know I dreamed something but can't remember.

I'm so woozy I can hardly move. He pulls me up and I collapse into his arms. "Ohmygod," is all I can say. I shake my head and blink.

Henry hugs and kisses me, delivers a couple gentle slaps. "Estelle, come on. We've got to hurry!" If only I can stay nestled in his arms, secure and safe.

He grabs his jeans, then leaps into them. Not bothering with his sneakers, he grabs my blouse and throws it over me. When I hear the front door open, I realize that it's too late to fix my bra, so I stuff it behind a cushion.

"Let's hope he doesn't notice," Henry says. He sits beside me on the sofa, fidgety and nervous. Then he stares at my bare legs. "Your skirt!"

Too late. Edward walks into the den just as I realize that my skirt remains bunched up around my waist. At least my panties remain on. Still, Edward notices my thighs hanging out and my face, flushed and sweaty. I glean that quickly pulling my skirt down would cause more suspicion. "We were watching Wimbledon," I say.

"It's been a very close match," Henry chimes in. "Exciting."

When Edward looks at Henry, I begin to fix my skirt, slow and easy.

Edward glances at the TV wearing tan jeans and a striped button-down, holding a shopping bag. He looks back at me, sees me slowly pull my skirt down. He can also see my cleavage, but there's not a damn thing I can do about that or the delicious scent of sex that lingers. I can only hope that Edward doesn't smell what I smell.

He nods. "Well, too bad I missed it."

I suspect that his exasperated look doesn't have much to do with missing a tennis match. My stomach churns.

"You watched it in style, I see," he says, eyeing the mostly full wine glasses on the end table. He turns to Henry. "Zinfandel? You're strictly a beer guy, aren't you?"

Henry, arms folded against his chest, forces a laugh. "Your mom offered it, so I tried it. Not bad, not bad at all."

I ask Edward what he bought, hoping to ease the tension. He pulls out a pair of sweat pants. Lately, he's been working out to put muscles on his small bones. My son and Henry have enough things in common to keep them close, but looks and gifted athleticism aren't two of them. Edward's always looked up to Henry in two major departments, sports and girls. Edward isn't a bad athlete. In fact, he's a pretty fair tennis player. But he's not on Henry's level. Too bad, also, that he didn't inherit his dad's above average looks. Edward doesn't much resemble either of us. He has a round face, with a slightly recessed chin. His lips are thin and his nose is too small for his face. 'Your features aren't bad,' a cruel, crass girl once told him, 'they just don't add up very well.'

I ask Edward if he'd like my Zinfandel. "I've barely touched it. Besides, Henry came over to see you, not me, so why don't you two watch the rest of the match and I'll be out of your hair."

"I'll think about it," he says, and then heads for the bathroom.

Quickly, I retrieve my bra and snap it on. Then I grip Henry's hand and talk in whispers. "You didn't have a chance to come, did you?"

He pats my knee. "I'm not complaining."

"I'll make it up to you."

"You think we should?"

"Do I think we should? Henry, you're the only guy that's ever brought me to climax so high that I passed out. I more than think we should, I insist! Don't worry, next time we'll plan to go someplace."

"I won't argue." He slips his shoes on and gets up. "But I can't hang out with Eddy today, I just can't. Tell him I'll call him later."

Greeting Edward in the living room when he comes down, I pass on Henry's message. He nods, looking sad and worried. "Mom, can I ask you something?"

"Of course." Defensively, I cross my arms against my chest.

"Um, did something go on between you and Henry today that I shouldn't know about?"

"Like what?"

"Like something more than just watching TV."

Lying has never been my forte. Well, besides lies told to avoid unnecessary hurt or trouble. I'd tell one now if I thought Edward would buy it. But he won't—he looks too suspicious—and I'd look worse in his eyes.

"What do you think happened?"

"I think you either had sex or were about to." Now he crosses HIS arms.

I lower my eyes, stay silent.

He backs away. "You did, didn't you?"

"Sometimes, Eddy, things just happen."

He rolls his eyes and glances toward the ceiling. "Mom, he's my best friend and neighbor and he's young enough to be your son. Henry I can believe. He's had the hots for you for years. But you? What happened to dating men your own age?"

I have no defense other than telling him that I simply gave in to selfish carnal desires. I doubt that would win his sympathy. "I'm sorry, Eddy. It won't happen again."

"Who initiated it?"

"What? Eddy, I'm not going into details."

"You did, didn't you? You seduced him."

"Eddy, please. It was mutual, okay. Let's leave it at that and move on."

"Move on to what? My mom and best friend get it on in our own house and I'm supposed to just shrug and go my merry way? Not happening, mom. Where do you think all this leaves me?"