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This is a story about my wife and me. I’ll try to tell it as it happened, but since 13 or so years have passed since our first meeting, some of the memories have probably gotten better with age.

It all started with a chili-eating contest at a local bar… You know, one of those silly things that one does on a dare. Your friends saying, “sure sign up, I’ll be there to help cheer you on.” Bull! It was just me, 2 beers, a quart of chili, and about 15 other contestants.

I won’t go into all of the gory details about the contest. The winner did it in a minute and thirty three seconds, and then threw up on the guy standing next to him. I did it in about 33 minutes.

Winning second place, was ok, I guess. The photographer was taking pictures of me and the winner for some newsletter, and he kept saying one more, one more. I looked at the winner, and he looked at me… We both turned around and dropped trou for the camera. He wanted to see a smile. How about a vertical one?

Time to pick up the beer cooler, and the six-pack of long necks, and head home. Another chapter in life is closed. Or so I thought.

A couple of weeks later I’m sitting at the bar of the local watering hole, nursing a beer. Checking out the ladies in the mirror that runs the length of the bar, I see one a few stools down that keeps looking at me (or at least I think she is looking at me), and then talking to her friend sitting next to her. I happen to glance over and see a stack of papers on her lap. Recognizing them as the newsletter from the beer distributor that sponsored the chili eating contest, I ask her “Is that the new SilverBird?” She says no, and then a look of surprise comes across her face. She then says “I know who you are, I’ve seen your picture before. Both FRONT and REAR!”

Now I’m trying to think fast. Where had she seen my picture before? Especially from the rear. She then tells me that she works for the PR firm that handles the SilverBird account. And that the photographer had brought in the proof sheets from the contest. She said that she had a good time looking at those tiny little pictures. A bit more interesting than the ones the photographer usually brings in.

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Okay, so I hate exercise–I admit it–I hate exercise. I’m getting better about it I met you. My body’s not the best but you’ve gotten me to at least move and finally after watching your buns and those great legs of yours, I brought my bike out of mothballs. You’re a jock, no doubt about it and I wish I had a body to match yours, but for right now I’ll settle for just being able to lose 2 lbs a week.

I have found though that you’ve caused my rides to be a little more exciting lately than I remember them as a child. Last week as I was arguing with myself about the many reasons why I shouldn’t go for a ride. Like I don’t feel like it…it’s too hot…I don’t want to…I need to do some paperwork for work…when I heard a knock on the door. And there you were in your biking shorts holding your bike. I was totally shocked because usually you never come to visit and you’ve made so many remarks about the fact that I ride too slowly that I assumed you would never ask me to go for a ride. But there you are. God, how I lust after you when you’re in those black shorts. They leave nothing to my overactive imagination. You’ve been out for a while because you’re soaked with sweat, making the curves of your muscles even more visible.

The look on your face is pure satisfaction. “So, want to go for a ride? I’ve done 40 miles so far and you can survive another 10, can’t you?”

Oh, shit, I think to myself, he’s doing well, he’ll beat me into the ground, but I smile and sputter, “Sure, you know I’m slow though” I’ve got to change and oh, damn, now he’s going see that I haven’t got a tan or even a shade of a tan. At least my legs are shaved. I put on my sweat shorts and my jersey and wheel my bike out.

I’m thinking, you’re used to racing and you’ve got a bike set up for it. There’s no way I can match you. I’ve got a mountain bike that weighs twice as much as yours. I outweigh you by a good amount. And you’ve been in training for months. Oh well, the pain’ll be over soon.

We start off slow and I follow you. At least you’re not cranking. You slow down and drift back beside me so we can talk. “How bout we take one of the side roads, do about 10 and then circle back to your apartment? You take me home in the car if I’m too tired to ride?”

“Sure.” A reasonable request it seems to me.

“Or you can put me up for the night.” And off you ride and down a side street laughing as you drop me in the dust.

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Jennifer was a frosh at Jefferson College, and so far she liked it a lot. As she walked down toward the gym, she smiled to herself at the California weather. It was nothing like the weather in Alaska. Here it was, the middle of February, and she could walk around in shorts without worrying about freezing to death. Others complained that it was cold and told her she was a nut for wearing shorts. Obviously they didn’t come from Alaska like she did. To her, the crisp chill in the air was more refreshing than it was chilling, and she knew that after running around the track a few times, she would actually be hot.

Jennifer liked to run; it was a good way to keep in shape, and it was a good way to daydream while still being productive. She was a good student and very responsible, and this was her way to escape the constant academic pressures she put upon herself. She could jog around the track a few times, letting her body do the work while her mind wandered onto other things. Others wouldn’t believe her, but running relaxed her. (Her roommate thought she was crazy, but then again, Jenny’s roommate was a plump girl who looked like she had never exercised a day in her life.)

Jenny was wearing a tank top and a loose fitting pair of shorts. Underneath the shorts, she wore a pair of those tight-fitting bike pants, made of the stretchy black material. This was mostly to keep her warm, and to keep her decent. Plus, whenever she ran in panties, they got all drenched in her sweat and basically became too disgusting to wear. Similarly, under her tanktop, Jenny wore a tightfitting elastic top over her breasts. The reason for this was that she hated the feeling of running in the discomfort of a bra, and if she wore nothing, she bounced, and that became painful after awhile.

Jenny was happy with her body, unlike most women, and this happiness gave her a very visible confidence. This confidence almost did more to make her attractive than her actual physical appearance. Jenny had dark hair and tan skin, and a nice smile. When she had first arrived on campus, men had swarmed around her, mostly frat guys checking out the new women, but Jenny had made it through without acquiring any boyfriends. She was not one that had to have a boyfriend; on the whole, she preferred not to, as they took up a lot of time and never seemed to be much worth it. She didn’t need the time-drain. Yes, Jenny would only settle for a boyfriend that she actually loved, and the frat guys soon gave up on her, disgusted, and moved to other prey.

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As I walked in the door, coming home from the office, I saw my wife Carolyn standing by the cabinet preparing dinner. Carolyn has a body built like a brick shithouse with all the fixtures in the right place. Today she looked especially good wearing a skimpy halter top with a pair of low cut shorts that fit snugly around her ass with the outline of her bikini panties showing through.

Crossing the room and walking up behind her I reached around and cupped one of her tits with my hand while caressing her ass with the other and gave her a little nibble on the earlobe. “What’s for dinner?” I asked while dropping my hand from her tit to rub her cunt suggestively.

“Company,” she replied.

I heard a voice from the den calling “Come on in, we have the fire going.” As I entered the room, Ron, a friend of the family, rose from a recliner with a drink in his hand and a bulge in the front of his pants. “You horny old bastard” I said, “What the hell are you doing over here?”

“His wife is out of town and he was lonely so I asked him over for dinner and drinks.” Carolyn said as she came into the room bringing me a drink.

Kicking off my shoes I sat on the couch, sipped my drink and watched Carolyn walk back into the kitchen, her ass moving like two pigs caught in a gunny sack. As I thought of what could have been, my dick started to swell and I realized what Ron probably was thinking when I came home.

At dinner Ron could not keep his eyes off Carolyn, every time she leaned over the table her tits bulged against the halter top with the nipples pressing against the cloth. I noticed that as she moved around the table she found several excuses to bump both Ron and myself with her ass, one time rubbing her cunt on Ron’s shoulder.

After dinner we all got fresh drinks and moved back into the den. Sitting on the floor in front of the fire Carolyn stretched her legs out and ran her hand slowly up and down the inside of her thigh.

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I’ve spoken with other people about their “first time” and asked questions like when, where, how it happened, what was it like, etc. Talking about those types of things is guaranteed to keep my attention. But I’ve never gone into detail about my own experience. I’ve talked about it in a general sense, but have never described the whole experience the way it exists in my memory. I’d like to tell the story now. Although I could start at the point where everything actually happened, it is necessary to back up so that you can understand what happened and also see why. For this reason I need to relate the sequence of events that led up to my story:

I had known Amy for years, ever since I was about five or six years old. She lived across the street from myself and my mother, and used to baby-sit me. I would stay at her house from the time I got home from school until my mother came home from work. Amy was able to do this since she didn’t work. She was fifteen years older than I, and our relationship was almost like that of a little brother/big sister. We touched each other; hugs and kisses were exchanged frequently. As a single parent, my mother had very little spare time to spend with me. After she came home she had to get supper ready, and there was always housework or laundry to do. My bedtime was 9:00 until I turned thirteen, which meant that I might see my mother for two or three hours at most. Since Amy had no children of her own back then, she was able to spend a lot of time with me.

I can remember sitting on her lap while she helped me with my homework. We played games together. I learned how to throw and hit a baseball in her back yard. We wrestled all the time; the kind of stuff a kid does. When I was twelve her son was born. Two or three years later she and her husband split up. She received some child care support from him, but not much. Because of that, she went to work. At that time there weren’t any day care centers, and I don’t think she could have afforded them anyway. She worked part time on the evening shift in a hospital (from 4 to 10) but had to work every other weekend.

After she went back to work my job was to baby-sit David, her son. I was paid $3.00 a night, which was a bargain for her and a lot of money for me. I got home from school around 3:00, changed my clothes, and walked across the street. She would get home a little after 10, and I would then go back home. Often I would stay there and we would just chat. If she went out after work (or stayed out late on a weekend night) I would sleep in the guest bed at her house, sharing a room with David.

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