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Mrs. Kaminski had a huge bush. I realize it was a different time, but the thatch of hair camouflaging that pussy was substantial even by 1979 standards. Even though I fully expected some such situation, when I finally managed to get her shorts down over her broad ass and large, sturdy thighs, the great tufts of pubic hair sprouting out either side of the crotch of her underpants left me momentarily taken aback.

But only momentarily. Otherwise, I was undeterred. A couple months before this, I probably would have been intimidated by such a flamboyant snatch, not to mention all the female intricacy it cloaked. At the start of that summer, my first-hand experience with pussy had been strictly tactile; I’d had my hands and fingers in the pants of a few girls, though I hadn’t yet even accomplished that much with my more-or-less high school girlfriend of the time, Suzie Bowen (or, as I started calling her, The Imbecile). But I’d never gotten any of those others completely out of their drawers or fucked them, and certainly never had an up-close-and-personal look in real life.

But that was at the start of summer. Things were different now.

I yanked down Eleanor Kaminski’s underpants and moved forward to start licking her.

“No,” she breathed, and put her hand on my forehead to stop me, though not very forcefully.

“Shhh,” I said softly. “It’s okay. I’ll never tell anyone, I promise.”

I took her wrist and brought that restraining hand around to the back of my head. I parted all that dense underbrush and brought my tongue in contact with her cunt. Her entire body bucked on the bed like someone had jolted her with defibrillator paddles. She let out a long, weird kind of yowl and laced her fingers in my sweaty hair.

I pressed my tongue hard against her slit and licked up, parting her pussy lips with the tip until I reached her clit and began to toggle it lightly. She was bucking and writhing and I had to hook my arms around her thighs to keep her from squirming out of reach. Her breathing was heavy, and on every exhale, she kept repeating “Oh my God… Oh my God…”

I realized then that Eleanor Kaminski had never been eaten out in her entire thirty-three years.

This was an inspiring little revelation, and something, at the very least, I should have suspected. Not just because this was 1979. People—young people, anyway—were eating pussy and sucking cocks and mastering all kind of adventurous behaviors, even in blue-collar Ohio. But this… this was a thirty-three-year-old housewife living in Youngstown. She’s never been anywhere but this place. She probably got married right out of high school: her husband, perhaps, the only guy she’s ever had sex with. That’s the way the lives of a lot of working class folks from those parts shook out back then.

I was licking her pussy now with great enthusiasm, wiggling my tongue tip against her clit, sucking it, and making my own sounds of enjoyment—”yummy” sounds (yeah, I know. That sounds stupid, but something less stupid would be less accurate). I wanted to reassure her that licking her big, bushy, and now extremely wet cunt was one of the most pleasurable experiences this eighteen-year-old could ever hope to have. I sucked on two of my fingers to make them wet and slipped them slowly into her. She wasn’t tight by any means, but she’d be tight enough.

Her husband probably climbs on top, fucks her until he’s done, and that’s that. Hell, I thought, this poor woman may never have even had an orgasm other than by her own hand, and maybe not even then. At thirty-three, that means she was born in 1946. She’s probably afraid to pleasure herself, to touch her vagina in a recreational way.

I considered all this as I continued to eat and finger-fuck Eleanor Kaminski. I looked up over the soft mound of her belly. Her head was thrown back, and she was clawing the thick pile carpet with her fingers. Her throat glistened. She kept saying “Oh my God… Oh my God.”

I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to whisper to her how fabulous she tasted, how much I loved licking and sucking her sweet pussy. Tell her this was what I thought about when I jacked my hard cock. Ask her if she liked how I was finger-fucking her. Tell her to come all over my face. But I didn’t want to risk it. I didn’t know what her kink was, if she had one, apart from, perhaps, cock-teasing the fuck out of a teenage lawn boy. She’d probably never heard any talk like that, and suddenly hearing it from the mouth of an eighteen-year-old kid going down on her… I didn’t want to push my luck.

She had big, soft tits that now, her on her back, were flattened against her chest and quivering from the orgasm that was building in her, and I reached up with my free hand to fondle one. I need to spend a little more time sucking on these tits, I thought. These are the tits that I’d spent a good portion of the summer jacking off to after I’d come home from cutting her lawn each week. The tits I longed to see her heft in her hands and offer bahis siteleri to me; the tits I imagined when I was sucking on Suzie Bowen’s—whose I used to covet but now just had to settle for.

I was going to make this big-titted, big-assed, frustrated housewife come like she’d never come before, on her hallway floor, a sweaty eighteen-year-old boy going down on her, lapping her neglected cunt. Her big, tanned, hammy thighs started trembling and she’d stopped Oh-my-Godding. She was holding her breath now for several seconds before finally letting it out and gasping more in again sharply. I took her clit between my lips and held it there, giving it a gentle, pulsing suck, and she began bucking violently, a great ripping spasm making her big body flop about on the floor. She let loose this strange, high-pitched keening, not loud but very sharp and effortful, like someone wheezing the air from a balloon. The flesh of her thighs was stippled hard with goose bumps. Her flopping subsiding into quaking before dialing further down into tremors. Her snatch was a thick, whorled mat of hair thoroughly soaked with her cum and cunt nectar and my saliva. No dead skin cells left on my cheeks and jaw: her redolent bush had loofaed me thoroughly.

“Ohmygod,” she panted heavily. “Ohmygod… How old are you again?”

“Old enough,” I said, rising to my knees.

.:.

That summer, after I graduated from high school and before I started my freshman year of college at an urban Pennsylvania university, I was still a virgin. I was okay with that, mostly. A lot of the kids I went to high school with were having sex. Given the many stories that floated around the locker rooms and hallways, sometimes it seemed like just about everyone was getting laid. The girls were more active than the guys. The more mature girls, the more developed, grown-up looking ones who dated older guys, guys already out of high school… you knew they were banging more than an old screen door. And every once in a while, you’d catch a bit of gossip about someone whom you’d never imagine would be having sex: like, the National Honor Society girl, one of the really brainy top-of-the-class chicks, fucking a guy from the football team or a major stoner at some party over the weekend. And you’d think, no shit, her? For some reason, the idea of one of my more respected, successful female classmates on her back with her legs spread and a cock pumping in and out of her was more of a turn-on than thinking about what fucking one of the hotter, sexier girls would be like.

It also made my virginal status seem that much more forlorn.

But like I said, I was sort of okay with it. My virginal status, I mean. I wanted to get off, certainly, but the prospect of intercourse was still a little intimidating. I didn’t want to get anyone pregnant, that’s for sure. And back then, you didn’t walk into the grocery store and buy a three-pack of condoms. You went down to the Sinclair gas station, asked for the men’s room key, and bought a rubber from the vending machine bolted to the wall. And God only knew how reliable that might turn out to be.

Now, as I mentioned earlier, I did have a sort-of girlfriend during my senior year, Suzie Bowen, aka The Imbecile. I say “sort of” because if the opportunity to date someone else I preferred had ever arisen, I might have found the stones to break up with her. Besides, I was going to be heading off to college and she… well, at the time, I had no idea what she was going to do. She wasn’t college material, as they say.

I had actually pursued Suzie Bowen back in the summer after 10th grade, purely because of her breasts. They were better than average. At the end of that year, on a school bus coming back from Idora Park, a local amusement park where we had our school picnic, I found myself across the aisle from Suzie Bowen. On that day, she wore this kind of halter top, canary yellow, that was laced up the front. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and I could clearly see that her full breasts had large, brown areolas, the size of silver dollars. I couldn’t stop thinking about them.

She wasn’t interested in being my girlfriend back then. Like just about every other girl my age, she had her sights set on older guys. By the time our senior year rolled around, however, she changed her mind. She was in a couple of my classes that year, and when she saw that I was somewhat of a mildly successful student myself, editor of the high school newspaper, with friends from all the different subgroups (jocks, greasers, heads, brains) and fairly popular, I suddenly didn’t seem so bad anymore. She pursued me. That was a first.

I figured, okay, what the hell. She still had those tits, after all, and they certainly hadn’t lost their luster. She was cute: not beautiful, not pretty, but cute. She had a leisurely, almost stiff-legged, flat-footed way of walking through the halls that for some reason I associated with someone who went barefoot much of the time, both arms wrapped canlı bahis siteleri around her books and clasped to her chest. There was a casual, natural kind of sexiness to her.

But we weren’t compatible. In fact, she was the most uninteresting person I’ve ever dated in my entire life. She didn’t like to read, she was a bit of a drone when it came to school and classes. She never liked any of the movies I picked out for us to see or the music I listened to. She seemed profoundly indifferent to the world around us. If she ever did voice an opinion, it was always contrary to mine. She didn’t get jokes. And worst of all—worst because it was the only thing that kept me around—she would not let me get to those tits of hers for months.

As we got closer to graduation, though, she started loosening up considerably. I figured it was because I would be leaving for college in a few months. I finally got to fondle and suck those breasts on a regular basis, and they were nice, they were good tits. After a graduation party, in the front seat of my parents’ car, she finally jerked me off to completion. She’d had her hand on my cock before, but she never seemed to know quite what to do with it.

In the summer of 1979, with high school behind us, I felt pretty sure that fucking her was just a matter of time. I still hadn’t figured out, however, how that was going to come about. At the same time, I was not ignorant to the possibility that the two of us fucking might represent, to her, the consummation of a more inviolable pledge. I was cold to that idea. To me, having sex with her represented more of a grand send-off. I was going to college. I had plans. The more immediate ones—plans, that is—involved women of many races, backgrounds, cup sizes, and hair colors.

I had this dim idea that I didn’t want to enter college as a virgin. Not that anyone would know unless I told them, but I also knew that sex was not something a person would be good at from the start. It would take some practice. I figured, if I was going to do it poorly, then I’d prefer doing it poorly with Suzie Bowen because, quite honestly, I didn’t give a shit. Suzie Bowen didn’t excite me beyond the physical. I don’t think I excited her very much, either. I know that doesn’t jive with what I said about the imminence of the two of us having sex. But I think I just figured that two people pushing out into the dull, cold waters of adulthood would inevitably find themselves compelled to do adult things.

And just because we didn’t seem to excite one another, that doesn’t mean I wasn’t still horny all the time, because I was.

Especially after I started cutting Eleanor and Big Ed Kaminski’s lawn once a week.

I worked three jobs that summer after graduating high school. When I wasn’t working, I was usually listening to The Imbecile complain about me working three jobs. I worked part-time at the A&P, bagging groceries, mopping floors, and basically doing all the shit work that the union employees wouldn’t do. I also worked part-time at a fabric store: again, janitorial stuff. And then I had my under-the-table cash work mowing lawns in the neighborhood.

Ed Kaminski saw me mowing the lawn of Mrs. Fulton, the septuagenarian that lived across the street from him, and offered me ten bucks to cut his grass once a week. Ed used to work at Youngstown Sheet and Tube, a job he got right out of high school, until it, and the rest of the steel industry in America, went tits up. Ed was one of the lucky ones who managed to find new employment at the Chevy plant over in Lordstown, slapping together those ill-fated Vegas. The Kaminskis were indifferent home owners.

Ed was a beefy, bearded, Caterpillar ball cap kind of guy. He looked a lot like Merlin Olsen, the ex-Los Angeles Rams football player turned television actor. I figured he and his wife had been together since high school, since their only kid, a girl named Vicki, was only three years behind me at East High.

We didn’t have the term MILF back then. I never thought until now to wonder why that is, because they certainly existed. Eleanor Kaminski was a piece: a tousled, slightly wanton brunette with a plump lower lip that she would hold in a seductive little bite whenever she asked me her inane, flirty questions. I’ve already referred to her ample proportions, but she wasn’t in any sense fat. She was curvy, voluptuous, approaching zaftig. Her hips were wide, her bottom generous, and her thighs substantial, but she had an hourglass figure, and her large breasts maintained a certain buoyancy. Now, to a teenager, a 33-year-old might not necessarily seem “young.” Maybe she was a little bit worse for wear compared to a 33-year-old of today, but a lot of women didn’t exactly age well back in those blue-collar towns from those days: too much drinking and smoking and laying out unprotected in the hot sun and poisoned, mill-town air. I have a feeling, though, that if I could go back in time and see her, not in memory, but as güvenilir bahis she truly was that summer, I’d probably be astonished at how young she looked.

Memory will have to do.

I’d have been keen to fuck Eleanor Kaminski even if she’d shown me less than the time of day every Wednesday afternoon. Truth is, in that last cherry summer, there were any number of women who drifted through my days and then buzzed like gnats in my hormone-clouded mind, peeling down their short-shorts, shedding their tanks and bikini tops, parting their lips, tracing their fingers lightly down my stomach to the button of my jeans.

But Eleanor Kaminski seemed determined to press an indelible stamp on my erotic imagination. By my third or fourth Wednesday mowing their lawn, after they’d sent Vicki off to a camp in Michigan for the summer, Mrs. Kaminski seemed to find innumerable, pointless things to do in the yard or on the back porch while I mowed. She’s come out to chat me up at least twice, once before I got started and again when I finished. She’d wait on the porch to pay me, usually wearing a halter top or tube top stretched to its limits, and I’d try not to stare at those great, grown-woman breasts, though she wanted me to.

She led with her tits, that was her thing, even though she had a nice face, and lots of waves and flips in her tumble of dark hair. But you could tell from the way she held herself, the way she moved and posed, that—from whenever they burst onto the scene and started a sensation—she considered her girls to be the principal assets for brokering most of life’s significant transactions. They could certainly sway the attention and reason of a more mature individual. To an eighteen-year-old boy, they imposed total mind control.

She’d move in close, smelling of Coppertone and Secret and cigarettes, asking me flirtatious, mundane questions (about school, about girlfriends), all the while, I imagined, sucking up my complex bouquet of horny teenage musk and sweet work sweat and herbaceous fresh-cut grass and faint gasoline tang.

On one of those midsummer Wednesdays, she came out into the yard in a pair of cut-off shorts and an orange tank top with no bra. She made a show of pulling weeds from a flower bed near the back porch, bending over in one direction to give me an eyeful of that broad can, then in another so I could get a stunning view down the front of her shirt, those big tits stretching down the neckline of her tank and woggling as she yanked up dandelions. Big, soft, sweet tits that I imagined squeezing and sucking while she stroked my stiff dick.

There was a rusty tin shed in the corner of the yard where the Kaminskis kept their lawn equipment, and when I wrestled the mower back into it after I’d finished mowing on that particular day, I stepped into the back corner, took out my cock, and jerked it hard and fast with a grimy hand until I shot a thick load all over the shed wall. I’d just finished stuffing myself back in my pants and zipping up when she opened the shed door, a long burning cigarette in her hand.

“Oh, you are still here,” she said. “I thought maybe you left without collecting your money. You’ve been in here a while.”

A minute or two sooner and she’d have seen me arcing ropes of jizz on the rust-splotched wall. I can’t remember if I was relieved or disappointed by her timing.

“Just putting things away,” I said. I waited a beat, a moment of horny teenager fantasy that she’d step all the way in, let the door close behind her. But just a beat: I didn’t want to stand there like an idiot and give her the idea that that’s what I was waiting for.

Back out in the yard, she offered me one of her Parliament 100s and I took it. She flicked her lighter, and when I leaned forward, the hands I was trying to cup around the lick of flame were shaking.

“Are you okay?”

“Umm-hmmm,” I hummed, cigarette clamped between my lips. I finally got it lit and pulled back, puffed, blew smoke. “Just a little overheated.”

She paid me, a ten-dollar bill that she had folded up into a little square, like always.

Despite the feverish irrationality that lust can provoke, I still had enough of my wits about me to know that all of this could be a product of my imagination. That she was just a dumb, friendly woman. That maybe flirtation was just her default behavior after two decades of big tits and lots of male attention. Or maybe flirting with me was just her summer entertainment. Not a seduction, but a private amusement. Maybe goading me into making a pass was the end game, to validate to herself that she still had what it took.

She just stood there smiling at me, smoking, watching me smoke. I thanked her and told her I’d see her next week.

I strode off through the back yard, toward the cinder alley that ran behind the houses on her street and the one adjacent. Behind the Kaminski’s rusty shed ran a line of brambly, overgrown bushes separating the end of their yard from the alley itself. I paused there between the back of the shed and the bushes, so I could finish the cigarette where I couldn’t be seen from the alley and the houses on the other side of it. There was enough seclusion there that I even considered jacking off one more time, to try to get the last traces of blue from my balls.

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