Strolling Along and Taking a Seat
In certain towns, there are no places to sit down. Decent people don't want poor folks hanging out, so they eliminate the benches, even at bus stops. It's a shame. I envision old Walt Whitman roaming town, engaging in conversation with people, flirting with males and females, teasing out the essence of life, tiring from standing, and ultimately sitting on a stunning wooden bench with ornate iron arms. Sitting is a way of life, walking and sitting.
I envision Old Walt sitting there, a wise sage blended into the hubbub of town, observing a skirt fluttering by here, a mother bending over her baby carriage there, a bulge as a young guy carriers lumber for a carpenter. It's excellent, sitting, wasting time as we now refer to it. It's great to watch the world and mull it over, and let it witness you and question you.
This is one of my favorite activities, lounging on a comfortable bench, and I'm happy our town still has them. Homeless families dwell at the edge of town, they have a makeshift settlement under the Interstate bridge, and the locals for the most part are unaware of their presence. I could be one of them except for the fortune of inheriting some stocks that I'm not allowed to sell but they provide me with dividend checks each quarter, giving me plenty to rent a portion of a duplex on a calm street, enough to cover my bills and groceries and breakfast at Dan's every morning. And if I'm in the mood, a couple of beers at Tony's downtown in the evening. I'm not a laborer, if you know what I mean. I'm just not particularly talented at following orders from anyone. I'm more of a laid-back person who prefers relaxing over doing what someone else commands.
"My" bench is on the sunny side of Easley Park, which is a grassy, forested park just like you might picture. It boasts a number of trees, a playground, baseball fields. The young adults jog around the park's perimeter and practice yoga in the grassy meadow. Parents take their children there to entertain them. Teenagers sneak into the park to get high and make out in the hedges or on the playground equipment. There are dog-walkers, individuals in a rush to get to the other side, and the occasional idler, like myself.
People at times sit and chat with me, and I always relish these interactions. I can usually extract someone's story from them, and it occasionally leads to the two of us having a hearty chuckle. Lately, I've been joined a couple of times per week by a young couple with a four-year-old. This man is some kind of administrator, who works from home most days on the computer. The woman is a captivating beauty and the child is a terror. Sorry, you have to call 'em as you see 'em. Mikey is an undisciplined, tantrum-throwing troublemaker.
I can see where he learns it. The mom does her best, but the kid's father is sullen, moody, and humorless. If you're a child and that's your dad, you must go to great lengths to capture his attention. I'm a little surprised this guy even agrees to accompany the family on walks. He seems uninterested in it at all. He gazes into the distance, checks the time on his smartphone frequently, and the kid fusses and eats dirt.
The mom is a different story. Her name is Cynthia, or Cynth, and she emanates cheerfulness and friendliness in a somewhat forced manner, like she would rather be reading a book. She is intelligent and amusing, but you catch a glimpse of something else: the corners of her eyes tighten, or she'll gaze at the ground, contemplating, and you comprehend there is more to her than initially perceived.
Here, what is visible is superb. She dons what we once referred to as "housedresses," which are plain, unglamorous dresses, not intended to, you know, party. In the past, it was a type of attire donned by housewives who could complete chores while still looking presentable if someone came to the door. Back in the day, that was a thing. You'd see these dresses in vintage movies, and I think they weren't intended for that purpose initially, but now they're definitely an attractive look for a woman. They portray the feeling that she's confident in her appearance, that she's respectable, and in a happy marriage, which is all fantastic. Furthermore, you can sense that she'd take you down in bed, which is excellent - in a positive way.
I'm starting to age a bit, with gray strands appearing around the edges of my beard and sideburns. I don't consider this "middle age," though; I'm simply an adult, no longer young. My morning routine consists of shaving, showering, putting on clean clothes, combing my hair neatly, and heading over to Dan's for some eggs and coffee. I polish my shoes, press my clothes, and keep my apartment tidy. There's enough time in the day for all of these tasks as well as some lazy relaxation.
Cynth is likely in her mid- to late-twenties. Her hips and breasts fill out her dresses beautifully, and I always enjoy seeing her come and go, just for the visual treat of watching her walk in her dress. She and I have had many conversations about the news, the weather, and other mundane topics. These are usually not very interesting to me, but a charming young woman can make even the most boring subject entertaining.
It was a Tuesday, around 10 am, and I had taken a stroll through downtown before sitting down on my usual bench. The weather was perfect for springtime - sunny and pleasant. As I looked down the street, a delightful figure caught my eye. I watched as she bounced along, and it suddenly dawned on me that it was my friend Cynth.
I had never seen her alone before, and my first thought was that something bad had happened. I assumed that her harsh husband had done something harmful, such as yelling or hitting her. However, as she approached me, she smiled, and she appeared well groomed and put together.
"Hi, Theo," she called as she came closer. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," I replied casually. "Same as always. And what about you? Where's the rest of the family?"
"I told Donald I needed to take a walk," she explained, sitting down next to me.
"It's a fantastic day for it," I agreed.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. I could sense that she wanted to say something but seemed content to let the moment unfold. We watched some children playing, although I mostly watched the mothers.
Eventually, she spoke. "Theo, you always seem so calm and at ease. How do you manage that?"
"Well, I'm not tied down to a job," I explained. "That definitely helps."
"I suppose that makes a difference," she responded.
"Is there a lot of tension at your house?" I asked, knowing full well the answer - who wouldn't feel tense living with such a grumpy husband?
She hesitated before responding. "Yeah, I guess so. It's nothing new, but sometimes it gets to me a little bit."
She changed the topic and said, "Theo, would you like to walk with me a little ways? I just wanted to clear my head."
"Certainly," I said. "That's what life's all about - walking and sitting."
We rose from the bench and she took off running. "Slow down!" I called out. "No need to rush!"
"Sorry," she responded, slowing her pace. "I'm just trying to get some exercise."
"Just enjoy the walk," I suggested. "A stroll is also a form of exercise."
"I should learn to slow down," she said, sounding a bit wistful. "It seems like people are always striving for improvement. Like things could be better than they already are."
"I like to focus on simply looking at things during a walk," I pointed out. "To me, a walk is just as much about observing the world as it is about exercise."
She agreed, and we continued our amble through the park. "Cynth," I said, "I've seen you at the park before. I've noticed you watching the women."
"Oh?" she asked, blushing slightly. "You've noticed that?"
"Yes," I admitted. "It's one of my favorite things about life."
"So you're not attached to anyone?" she inquired.
"I have two girlfriends," I said. "I don't see them very often. I'm not keen on the commitment and responsibility that comes with a relationship."
"I understand that," she said with a touched of sarcasm. "The responsibilities can make it less enjoyable."
One day, I can't really describe it, but life doesn't always make much sense. We were walking through a wooded area filled with oak trees, and I wrapped my arm around her waist and pulled her close for a kiss. I expected her to slap me, but instead, she melted into my embrace, opened her mouth to mine, and we shared one of the most intimate, passionate kisses I've ever experienced.
After breaking the kiss, we continued walking without speaking. It seemed unnecessary to say anything. We completed a loop around the park before separating closer to the street, mainly for safety. We eventually reached my bench and she sat with me.
"Theo," she said, "Do you live nearby?"
I pointed towards Justine Street. "Yep. Just about half a block away," I replied.
"Do you live alone?"
"Yep."
"Would it be okay if I stopped by your place sometime?" she asked shyly. "Tomorrow morning?"
For a moment, I thought about her marriage, but then I envisioned the abhorrent man she was married to, and I considered how I might aid her marriage by taking some of the strain off.
"That would be great," I responded. "I typically have breakfast at around eight, and after that, I'll make coffee. You can drop by and have a cup then."
She communicated she'd be there around ten. We chatted lightly for a while longer before she left.
I had no idea who lived in the other half of my duplex. I've never seen them, never heard them. There could be corpses in there, it's possible, but that's fine by me. My apartment has a small front porch comprising a couple of chairs. It's slightly set back from the street but has hedges in front, which I prefer. The follow morning after breakfast, I brewed some coffee and sat on the porch, reading the paper in the pleasant spring air, looking out for her. Sure enough, around ten minutes past ten, she appeared. Her sundress was flowing, her body radiating energy as she moved. She was too charming not to elicit the attention of people around town.
We entered the house and I poured her a mug of coffee. I have a seventy-year-old linoleum kitchen table with matching chairs, both unused. I take pride in their cleanliness. We sat at the table. She wanted cream and sugar, while I prefer black. I was curious about her thoughts.
She didn't hesitate to speak. "I knew you were going to kiss me yesterday," she claimed. "I was hoping you would. I even arranged it to happen," she added.
"I was unaware," I commented.
She confided, "I've needed that for a while. Before Mikey was born. Even before he was conceived." She giggled a little.
"I felt some electricity," I agreed.
"Yes, me too," she said, taking a sip of the hot coffee. "It was nice to feel some passion again."
I'm not the type to require a personal invitation. I set my coffee down, approached her, and kissed her again, this time less spectaculary. "Let's go," I suggested, gesturing to the bedroom.
My bedroom is compact. I have a vintage wooden dresser, and all of my clothing is neatly folded in the drawers. There are photographs of both my parents on it, now deceased. My bed is made without wrinkles. The curtains facing the street were closed, the ones facing the garden were open. Nobody can access my garden, but my roses are the best in the area, and the light reflecting through the window is cheerful and warm.
I kissed her again and removed her dress. She was stunning. I stepped back to admire her in her bra and underwear. We exchanged glances, and I removed my shoes, pants, and shirt without hesitation. Both of us discarded our underwear. I pulled back the sheet and blanket, arranged the pillow, and gestured towards the bed.
Cynth and I seemed like dancers in harmony, I thought. She sat on the bed, her head resting on the pillow. I joined her and bypassed the kiss, homing in on her nearest breast. The ideal texture, firm with some weight. I sucked on it and sampled a drop of milk, a reminder of her roles as a recent mother. I nibbled on her flesh and ran my hands over her body.
We moved together like dancers, communicating without words. She lay down on the bed, positioned upright, and waited for me.
As I joined her, I didn't feel the need for another kiss. Instead, I focused on her breast. Utterly entrancing, firm yet pleasantly heavy. I nibbled and sampled a drop of the liquid milk. These moments of connection felt like a dance with her, predicting each other's movements.
I touched her down there and she moaned, igniting a spark in her. For some unknown reason, I decided not to make her reach climax with my fingers, but her clit was stiff as steel when I was done rolling and caressing it.
She was lying on the pillow with her hair fanning out like a halo, her eyes closed, her skin flushed. I gently slid between her legs and inserted my penis into her pussy, entering her slowly inch by inch. Her arms were wrapped around my back. She adjusted her position to accommodate me and to find the spot. Her pussy was tight, warm, and responsive, and I started thrusting steadily. Possibly one stroke every three seconds, pushing forcefully and retreating in a controlled and powerful manner, promoting a good view of her face.
We may have been in that initial stage for five minutes. My hips and legs were strong and I drove up into her until I hit rock bottom, then retreated and drove into her again.
This type of sexual activity can be therapeutic at times. I did not attack her, had not accelerated when I heard her beginning to pant. I also did not alter my tempo when she was moaning in my ear and pushing her hips against me, demanding more. I also maintained the same tempo when she exploded like a firecracker, releasing a loud groan and shaking violently while my cock pounded in and out of her, steadily and powerfully.
Her moaning became something like a sigh as the orgasm disappeared, and her arms dropped to her side. I continued to thrust inside her forcefully, and soon she pushed me off her. I pulled my hips back and let my penis fall out of her while she continued to push me.
She patted the pillow. It was my turn to lie down and watch, as she spent a few moments kissing my nipples and then leaned over me from the side to take my erection in her mouth.
Cynth was not an experienced woman, I could tell. But she had the most critical trait: sensitivity. She paid attention to my breathing, observed my reactions in response to her. She used her tongue on the underside of my penis, teasing, and then sucked the head forcefully, attempting to nibble off the tip of a Popsicle without freezing her teeth. Then, suddenly, her mouth swallowed my penis in one swift movement. She bobbed down, taking my penis deep, and when she returned she had watery eyes and stifled a cough.
"I've never done that before," she said.
"Well, if you ever want to practice..." I said.
Now she bent down and began to suck me with her mouth. It was not deep, she took half my length comfortably and carefully moved between the sensitive tip and the middle of my pole. I had my hands behind my head, simply watching, and had the sensation that I would not last much longer.
I think she recognized this, too. She held my penis in her hand and looked up at me, smiling. "This is just what I needed," she said.
I did not say something silly, but I almost did.
She climbed on top of me and took my cock inside her vagina again. She moved her hips cautiously and I had the sense that she had little experience being on top. She tried moving side to side and gave that up, decided on straight-ahead hip thrusts, and lay down so her breasts brushed me as she moved. And I'll tell you: I adore that. Her nipples brushed across mine, swaying gracefully, a delightful sight. She discovered a method to rub her vulva against me, ensuring her clitoris received a lot of stimulation and it brought me pleasure as well.
She picked up speed and began vigorously slamming her hips against me until she climaxed again. Leaning back against the pillow, I could see the pleasure on her face as she persisted in eating me while she continued to fuck me and savor her orgasm.
She granted herself a few moments of rest, dropping her head against my chest as her breathing struggled. Then she entered the final phase of this encounter. She started working her pussy on me, grinding it, dragging it along my shaft, thrusting me deep.
She was driving against me, and I could feel a build-up in my hips. Ejection gates burst open, circuits fired up, and cross-traffic halted to allow the explosion to occur. While she was pushing that dewy jungle up and down my humble cock, the dynamite exploded and I disintegrated into cosmic debris, blood and organs scattering throughout the previously spotless room, leaving sticky human innards on the walls, brains, lungs, and bloody bits of bone discoloring the ceiling.
I shut my eyes for a brief moment but didn't faint. Cynth was on top of me, her entire weight resting on my motionless form. I could detect her breathing and sense the enticing aroma of her exhalations as she breathed gently.
We both got changed, and I revived our coffee. "I'll have to leave," she mentioned. I nodded.
"I hope this wasn't an issue," she started in a concerned tone.
"Goodness, no!" I asked.
She chuckled awkwardly, "Well, alright then. I guess it wasn't bad?"
"Far from that," I stated.
"Would you mind if I visited you occasionally?"
"Do you think you'd get away with it?" I inquired.
"I believe so," she said. "It's not unusual for Don to spend time with Mikey. And it's acceptable for me to get out every now and then,"
"I suggest you don't show up unannounced," I suggested mentally, considering potential complications. "But if we arrange a time beforehand, we can chat. That alright with you?"
"That sounds ideal," she said.
We agreed it would be best if Cynth didn't appear at my place again. So, I concluded my coffee and gazed as she made her way towards the street. She was an embodiment of classic beauty, an ordinary girl who undervalued herself.
I had a book I planned to read that day, and I intended to relax in the park with it. I glanced up to observe the townsfolk strolling past me.
Read also:
- Love and Truth Aid in Rescue Mission
- En route to Psychiatric Facility
- Afternoon Sex Techniques
- Making an Exit
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