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Last fall, my friend Wendy figured out that she was conceived after a New Year’s Eve party. Her birthday is October 2, and at twenty-five she finally did the math.
I can conjure up the whole picture. I’ve never felt anything more than platonic affection for Wendy; but her mother is an incredible MILF, and her dad is the type of guy I want to be when I’m fifty-five: dignified but mischievous, grizzled but good-looking. Sharon and Wally are both professors, and, well, seeing Sharon always makes me want to go back for another degree or three. The frost in her hair wears like nature’s jewelry, and her mouth looks as if it’s laughing even when it’s only smiling.
I can just imagine them–her especially–at around age thirty, burning up the nights between fall and spring semesters. I can visualize the kind of outfit a woman like Sharon would have worn to a New Year’s party. And what she would have looked like spilling out of it afterward, with Wally’s hands sculpting her soft, modest mountains into little peaks of ecstasy. The way I see it, it’s 3 a.m., and the night is just beginning for them.
Yeah, I can see the whole thing.
Starting with the party, before Wally and Sharon even arrive.
Jacqueline is already there, of course, because the party is at her house. Jacqueline is someone I’ve invented for my fantasy, a petite woman with dark hair and dark eyes. Wally has always found her to be sort of sexy. Sharon responds to her as well–though she hasn’t yet told her husband that she sometimes gets off by thinking about women.
(I’ve decided she tells him this circa 1990–and that’s a separate fantasy for me.)
Jacqueline is nervous in all the conventional party-host ways as she scurries from room to room, trying to make everything that’s already perfect marginally more perfect. But she’s also keyed up *down there,* and she’s self-aware enough to know it’s because Sharon and Wally will be arriving any minute. She likes to be around beautiful couples. And the way her erect nipples are poking her sleek black dress, before this beautiful couple is even in her presence, makes her wonder if she ought to have worn a bra this evening, after all.
And when she answers the doorbell, Wally’s nostrils are hit not only with the warm, furry tang of mulled wine and the crisp, charred comfort of the fireplace … but also with an enchantingly elusive aroma that comes from Jacqueline herself, something her delicate cologne masks for nine seconds out of every ten.
Jacqueline beams at him, at them. She opens the door wider. Inside, they build their outerwear into a layer cake in her arms, which she caresses absentmindedly, carrying it to her bedroom.
But enough about Jacqueline, for the moment. Sharon, my vintage pre-Wendy Sharon, is wearing a lovely peasant dress–a cornucopia of autumnal paisley. Though it’s the early ’80s, she hasn’t had to move beyond her ’70s look, because she encapsulates where the ’70s went right, and no one is complaining. She’s tall and gorgeous (did I mention “gorgeous”?), and her pointy burgundy boots telegraph a flirtosexual playfulness. I can tell that she’s *frisky* tonight. The dress has a scooped neckline that’s a little low, and a silver necklace shimmers on the stage of her upper bosom. Her eyes shimmer, too–they’re an intelligent silver-grey, and tonight they pick up an additional degree of scintillation from the necklace. Her hair is still pure blonde, in December of 1982, and it falls almost to her paisley-pert breasts. I’m in love, and I’m not even there. Hell, I’m not even *born.*
But trivial obstacles like this never thwart the truly dedicated voyeur.
There’s mistletoe hanging in the vicinity of the sideboard, left over from a family event the week before. Wally hasn’t noticed it–he’s too focused on the food–but Jacqueline obviously knows where it is. Just as he pivots, poised to come on hot and heavy to an enormous hunk of Jarlsberg, Jacqueline spins ninety degrees away from him on her axis, intending to open a bottle of wine. They accidentally bump butts.
They turn to face each other. Jacqueline smiles shyly but salaciously, and points up at the mistletoe, which bobs slightly in a cross breeze.
“No, Wally. You’re supposed to *kiss* me. But I’ll take what I can get.” They freeze, both of them recognizing that something long implicit has been unexpectedly articulated. It crystallizes like the ice on the dining-room windows.
Though the contact has lasted only a moment, Wally’s ass is pleasantly warm now, and he knows his ears are turning pink. Sharon joins them in the dining room as he deliberates over whether or not he should really kiss Jacqueline. Time slows down while conflicting and contradictory thoughts fly back and forth across his mind like bats: *She said to.
I’m married. It’s mistletoe. Christmas is over. She’s a colleague.
She’s comfortable with it. Sharon wouldn’t like it. Sharon /would/ like it.*
In fact, Sharon insists on it. “Wally, don’t be rude,” she says with a good-natured grin. “You’re standing under mistletoe.”
Wally gives Jacqueline a not-quite-chaste kiss on the cheek, holding on to her waist to gain leverage. He feels silly that it makes his cock tingle so strongly.
Sharon’s irises are gleaming. “My turn.” She sucks him into a five-star cinematic kiss, full of heat. It feels extra arousing to Wally to know that Jacqueline is watching them, blessing their passion like some kind of freelance sex goddess.
Then Jacqueline disappears for three minutes–to the bedroom, not the bathroom–closing the door behind her. When she returns, she’ll look flushed and serene.
Meanwhile, the butt-bump-and-mistletoe incident has sparked something between Wally and Sharon–not that they ever need much sparking. Wally is now very aware of the presence of Sharon’s skin, of her desire, of her cunt. They eat and talk and laugh and imbibe, but half his attention is below her waist, and about two-thirds of what’s left is fondling her breasts at a distance and drinking from her captivating eyes.
It’s a small gathering, and after everyone has assembled an initial complement of food and wine, Jacqueline suggests that her guests settle into couches, settees, and beanbag chairs in her living room, where the fire is.
But the fire is also in Sharon’s panties and Wally’s pants. And though it’s hours to go until midnight, these two are on each other as if they were only a few minutes away from the privacy of their bedroom.
They stroke and pet while juggling drinks and canapés in the depths of Jacqueline’s sofa. They discreetly goose each other at the sideboard, and they sit half in and half out of each other’s laps at the Scrabble table. Lips go to ears, and toes to calves. All the while, they’re alert and gregarious, and they relish the tension of being in public and yet being intensely horny. Wally is also very conscious of Jacqueline, whose gaze drifts their way even when she’s not talking to them.
It’s a great fuckin’ party–at least in my book.
But it’s not half as great as the afterparty, the intimate get-together that I know will result in Wendy. It’s 3:00 and they’re home now, and Wally’s dying to see Sharon undone. And he does: Dress off her shoulders and hiked to the waist, under bathroom fluorescence.
Panties down. Musky scent up. Expanses of hip revealed; beautiful woman exposed. Beautiful woman relaxing. Peeing. Breathing sensually for him, her chest pulsing against his fingers. Leading him back to the bedroom, with her bodice flapping at the waist and her skirt fluttering down her legs again. The panties stay behind on the bathroom floor. I can see them there–plum-colored, bikini-cut undies on display in the white light, still warm from Sharon’s magnificent ass cheeks.
He can’t wait to fuck her. Usually they ease into it, with kisses, with soft buttock slaps, with grasping hands and inserted fingers and humble tickles on bare flesh. But they’ve had their foreplay–delicious, slow-motion hours of it–and when Sharon parts her legs as far as she can atop the ribbed bedspread, Wally is left with no doubt as to what she wants and when she wants it.
Yes, I can picture how wet she is. Her blonde curls are getting moist where they frame her sensitized lips. She’s open and dripping and needs my cock.
Sorry–I mean *Wally’s* cock, naturally. I don’t exist.
Professor Wallace Drake is in fine voice. He’s an accomplished lecturer; and as he slides in and out, in and out of Sharon, he’s telling her things. Things she already knows but is, presumably, happy to hear. About how exquisitely raunchy she looks with her paisley party dress collapsed around her. About how insanely good it feels to have her hot pussy pampering his cock. About how she smells–wine-kissed and salty and raw–and how this fragrance is turning him into an animal.
He reminds her of moments from the party: His surreptitious thumb at the elastic on her thigh, when they were cuddling on the couch. Her hand grazing his hard-on. Maybe, he points out as he fucks her cunt extra deep, Jacqueline saw her do that.
Wally’s been talking a lot, talking and pumping. But he knows how fiercely the sensations are building for Sharon–her moans tell quite a story of their own–and he knows it’s time to drive her wild by prompting *her* to do some of the talking. Because Wally’s not only a skilled lecturer, but also an excellent discussion leader.
He speaks quietly now, right into her face. “How are you feeling? Does it feel pretty nice to have me between your legs, dancing up and down in your pussy?” He watches his words tickle lewd twitches across her mouth.
“Uh … uh-huh,” is all my Sharon manages. She’s no slouch as a lecturer and seminar leader herself, but she’s a little overwhelmed just now.
“Tell me how it feels. Will you? Can you? Come on, baby.” He knows this is it. He fucks her steadily while she jerks the syllables out.
“God, it’s–ah!–right there and … I’m … f-full and … y’know–oh fuck!–inside I … ohhhhh … I can’t … it’s … eeeeee, oh Wally fuck fuck fuck I’m gonna c–aohhnhh …”
I can envision every detail, down to the spelling of the orgasm that comes out of Sharon’s mouth.
The sound of her coming knocks Wally’s hands off the helm. He loses it for her, grandly derailed …
And I have a pal named Wendy.
I think about New Year’s Eve, ’82-’83, a lot–rewinding frequently to my favorite parts. How many times have I revisited the scene of Wendy’s conception, this week alone? Let me count the come rags, my friends.
And now it’s almost Wendy’s birthday again. Since she happens to be in town for the weekend visiting her folks, I’ve offered to take her out for beers.
She invites me in, and I spend a few minutes in the living room with Wendy and Sharon–which, I promise you, is no hardship. We have the usual sort of conversation about how the years fly by.
“Wendy was a New Year’s Eve baby,” her mother says proudly. I can tell she’s reminiscing. Oh yes, this woman is sexy as hell.
“Really?” says Wendy. Incredibly, she’s already forgotten that she figured the whole thing out last year. But that’s Wendy for you. She listens with interest while Sharon explains the January 1st + 9 months = early October stuff.
“Wow,” Wendy remarks, with a sincerity that annoys me. “I never realized that!”
I can’t help myself. “I knew,” I assure Sharon.
And Sharon smiles at me like New Year’s Eve, ’82-’83, will always be a special piece of trivia between us–no matter how many more times Wendy might figure it out and then forget.
I’m in a pretty good mood as I pop into Wally’s study, to say a quick hello.