Marian looked with disappointment across her backyard. The handsome young neighbor, to whom she had been rubbing one out nearly every Sunday morning, had “stood her up” for the second week in a row.
“You need to get a life, woman,” she said aloud to herself. As tempting as it was to fire up some gay porn on her iPad and take up her frustration with a Hitachi on full power, she decided maybe getting out in the world would be a healthier choice.
She showered and took stock of herself in the full-length mirror as she oiled and dried her long, silver hair. I’d fuck me, she thought to herself. As fifty-five-year-olds go, I’m pretty fucking hot. The tits and ass are doing their best to continue to defy gravity. My very expensive dermatologist is keeping this face together. I still get as wet as I did when I was twenty, and I fuck way better.
And indeed, fucking and getting fucked, were not Marian’s problem. Any guy over fifty wanted to bang the proverbial shit out of her. It’s just that they couldn’t. Not the way she wanted. She’d developed this hunger for young men. Hard asses. Hard stomachs. Harder cocks. But her obsession was becoming stifling. She was resenting more than she was living. Time to get over it. Read a fucking book. Plan a trip somewhere. Go to the fucking museum. There’s more to life than pining for a young Brad Pitt. Mmmmm. A young Brad Pitt. Remember that guy in Paris? Remember those guys in Paris? Wait, what about all the other things you did in Paris?
Inspired, Marian laid out clothes for the day. She would turn her day in Boston into a day like she used to spend in Paris in her twenties. Nice lingerie, even though no one will see it. Check. Sexy polka dot button-front dress. Check. Italian sling-backs. Check. Another button undone on that dress. Check. Another one on the bottom, too. Check. Looking good and feeling good. Check and check.
She walked up Newbury Street. The air on this bright, clear spring morning was a bit chilly, but invigorating. She stopped at the French bakery. A cup of French roast in a real cup and saucer. Half a ham and cheese croissant. She poked at her book — The Paris Wife — while she mostly peered out the window and occupied herself with memories of her twenties.
At some point she felt the eyes of a man on her. Men think we don’t know. We always know. She glanced up and the handsome man in his forties looked away, then looked back again, then turned away once more, dismissively.
Marian had experienced this a thousand times. Out of the corner of the eye, she gave all the signals men were looking for. Was it the stylish dress? A little cleavage on a Sunday morning? The ass-length hair? The toned leg protruding from the opening in the dress? But on the second glance these men would realize she was older, and her invisibility would return. Women could be the same. A couple of thirty-year-old females, on their way home from yoga given their attire, gave her the once-over. It wasn’t sexual. Not that Marian would have a problem with that. She’d consider youthful vigor in any form. No, it was judgement. “This woman should stop trying and give up,” was their indirect message. “We don’t need the competition.” Whatever. Fuck them. She didn’t need them. She didn’t need him. She had herself and a world of beauty at her disposal, if she opened herself back up to it.
She entered the park and walked along Fenway. The fine gravel under her leather soles felt a little like the Tuileries under her feet. The sweet smell of the river reeds and the Victory Gardens reminded her a bit of the Jardin du Luxemburg. What would it be, the Gardner Museum or the Museum of Fine Arts? It had been ages since she was in either. The MFA seemed a tad more Parisian, and so she crossed over to the other side of the park.
My god, how long has it been? Marian scolded herself. She used to go to the museum once a month. Now it had been over a year. She still knew her way around. The moderns, the expressionists, the impressionists, and the portraits … that would be enough for this morning. Just her favorites.
As she took in the one good Pollack she noticed the security guard watching her. Does he think I’m going to take it? She thought to herself. She moved on to the Kandinsky. The guard’s eyes followed her. He was young. Early twenties. He looked uncomfortable in his uniform. The blue blazer was untailored and a size too large. The gray slacks were probably polyester.
She strolled into the next room. The Monet dominated one wall. Some lesser Van Goghs were on the other. To Marian’s surprise the security guard followed. Maybe they have a route, or something, she surmised.
Finally she got to her very favorite, the Portraits. And it was packed. The Sargent collection, already very good, had been turned into a special exhibit. They’d brought in other Sargent portraits from around the country, including the famous Madame X. She’d seen it in New York decades ago. She saw it differently now. The risque dress, the imperfect nose, the expression on the model’s face, struck her differently now. When she’d last seen it, she thought of the woman as older. Now, she thought of the woman as younger. And she understood her better. A nearly beautiful woman trying to make it in a man’s world. Walking that fine line of using male desire for her power, but risking downfall when the beauty faded.
Marian took in the painting for at least ten minutes. She moved close to see the brush strokes, then backed fifteen feet away. Then back again. At some point she noticed the security guard again. Odd. There were two guards in the room already.
She’d seen enough. The crowd bothered her. It was time to leave. She took the shortcut through the quiet and unbusy 18th-century French antiquities section. Louis XIV chairs and mirror frames and china. Boring. Which is why it was always empty. She enjoyed the sound her heels made on the tile floor, and then realized hers were not the only ones lightly echoing off the glass display cases. She turned and there was the young security guard.
He looked sheepish. He’d been caught looking. Marian was taken over with a surge of desire. Just what she had been trying to avoid today. She’d come here precisely to avoid the dismissive male gaze … and to recover a passion for something other than young cock. But, for some reason, she wasn’t invisible to this guy. Feeling like she had nothing to lose she walked back toward him. He looked from side to side for a hallway to escape into.
“Hey,” Marian said. “Don’t run away. I want to talk to you.” She strode up to him. He was twenty-two if he was a day. Deep, dark eyes, short brown hair. A square jaw with light stubble. The full lips of youth. He was taller and more solidly built than he had seemed from a distance. Such an unfortunate jacket. An even sadder tie.
“Have I done something wrong?” she asked.
“Um, no. Why do you think that?” he stammered.
“You seem to be watching me. You’ve been tracking me since the abstracts.”
“I … I just thought you were pretty,” he said, not able to maintain eye contact.
Marian’s heart rate climbed. Her clit woke with a buzz. And yet she doubted this. What was he up to? She toggled from a moment of desire to anger. He was fucking with her! Little bastard. She decided to call bullshit.
“Oh yeah. You’re pretty cute yourself. What do you say we just tear one off right here?”
The man child looked around. “What, here?”
“Yeah, right here. Just bend me over that chair over there. Give me a good hard fuck from behind. I could use that.”
“Um. Um. The cameras. We’d get caught. I’d get caught,” he said with a wavering tone.
Marian began to understand that this guy actually wanted her. This young stud really did want to fuck her. The surge of anger was now reconverted to lust and adrenaline washed over her ability to reason. It was “fuck or flight.” She chose fuck.
“Where aren’t there cameras?”
“Um. They’re everywhere. I mean, not the restrooms, but everywhere.”
Marian looked at him. She didn’t have to say it. Her eyes did. So where’s the fucking restroom?
“There’s a family restroom between here and the Native American exhibit. But, they’ll see me go in there. I’m not supposed to. I’m supposed to use the employee bathrooms.”
Marian undid another button on her dress. “Do you really care?” she asked, as she spun on her sling-backs and headed toward the artifacts of the Iroquois. She entered the family bathroom, locked the door behind her and broke out in laughter. She couldn’t believe herself. That poor kid! Well, that was fun. I might have to go home and rub one out after all. She startled when there was a knock on the door.
“Occupied!”
Another knock. “Miss? It’s me.”
Miss. Nice touch, young man. I hate ma’am.
Her heart now racing, Marian unlocked the door and opened it a crack to see the boy’s puppy eyes darting about, fearful he was going to get nabbed by his supervisor or something. She reached through and grabbed him by his pitiful black tie to pull him inside.
She attacked him, tearing at his jacket and shirt. He desperately tugged at his tie as Marian fumbled with his belt buckle. In less than a minute Marian had him down to an open shirt, with his pants and boxers around one ankle. He was delightfully ripped. She kissed, then bit her way down his hard chest and abdomen.
“Ouch!” he said, when she bit him especially hard. But he didn’t seem to really mind. Marian pushed him against the wall and squatted in front of his hard, weeping cock.
Yum, she thought to herself, as she licked a dollop of precum and took the thick, hard veined thing into her mouth. He groaned. “Oh fuck, lady, that feels good.” Marian moved down to give attention to his big ball sac. Why do young balls taste and smell so much better than old balls? she briefly wondered to herself as she took one ball, then the other into her mouth, before returning her lips to his bulbous, leaking head. “Oh fuck, lady, I think I’m going to cum.”
“Oh no you’re not,” Marian answered as she abandoned his turgid cock and stood. She unbuttoned her dress and leaned back against the vanity. “Your turn.”
The boy responded appropriately, diving in to slobber over her breasts and fondle her ass as he tugged at her bra and thong. She momentarily feared for her $400 Cadolle lingerie set and pushed him down.
He knelt before her, tugged her thong aside and lapped at her shaved lips. She’d had better. But she liked his desperate, youthful hunger. He was all over the place, but his enthusiasm hit the sweet spot often enough that she found herself nearing satisfaction. Then there was a knock at the door.
“In a minute!” Marian screamed, more desperately than she intended. She pushed the young stud onto his back, briefly standing over him, enjoying the sheen of her juice across his face. She thought for a moment she might return her cunnie there, and just sit on his hungry face. But then she saw his lovely cock, hard as steel, lying against his groin.
She pulled her thong to the side and squatted over it, grabbing it roughly and angling it into her wet, swollen pussy. She dug her nails into his stomach and then fucked him as hard as she could. Her thighs burned as she pounded up and down. All she had ever spent for yoga classes and personal trainers paid off in spades as she fucked the boy right into the hard tile floor. She put her right hand to work directly on her clit as an orgasm started from deep within her and accelerated quickly.
The boy was groaning, staring up at her with adoration. Her contractions were increasing his pleasure and she knew he was on the brink. That he was moaning, “Fuck, fuck, I’m going to fucking cum,” may also have been a clue. She felt blood filling his cock to its absolute capacity. He would blow any second.
Marian suddenly rose to stand. The boy looked up at her as if in pain, confused, his lonely member stabbing at the air. She watched the lad shoot into empty space, spewing four or five large ribbons onto his chest and stomach.
Breathing hard, he said, almost begging, “Can I have your number?”
Marian re-buttoned her dress with a mischievous smile and then stepped out of the room.
