Fifty-one, wanted, and finally fucked by Ethan

We were lifting Mr. Smith back into his chair when my blouse fell open.

It was only a second. One button giving up, my white lace bra on display, and Ethan’s eyes going exactly where any man’s would. I should have been embarrassed. I was fifty-one, his supervisor, and old enough to be his mother. Instead, I turned around slowly while I fixed it, and let him look at my backside while I did.

God help me, I wanted him to look.

Ethan was twenty-three. When they’d told me my new partner in the memory care unit was a kid who’d just lost his girlfriend and his last job in the same month, I’d expected a slacker. Instead I got blue eyes, nervous energy, and a boy who was desperate to prove he was good for something. He was nothing like the tired, middle-aged men I was used to.

Eight hours a day, it was just the two of us. Our patients barely spoke, so we did. I told him about growing up in England, about modeling in the Seventies back when my “womanly figure” was considered an asset. About my first husband, who used his fists, and the two boys I’d raised alone after I left him.

I told him about Keith, too. My second husband, who’d slowly become more bottle than man. I didn’t tell him the rest. How do you explain to a twenty-three-year-old that you haven’t felt wanted in years? That all you get is a clumsy, drunken fumble twice a month, if you’re lucky?

A few weeks later, I brought my old suitcase to work. I told myself I was cleaning out the attic. Really, I wanted to see his face when he found the photos: the blue bikini shots, the magazine cover, and the one of me on all fours on a beach towel, looking back over my shoulder with a smile I’d forgotten I ever had.

He went quiet for a long moment. I stood right behind him, close enough to smell his shampoo.

“You’ve kept your figure pretty well,” he said.

“It’s a shame it doesn’t get much appreciation at home.”

I shouldn’t have said it. I was practically advertising.

That Saturday, I gave Keith his ultimatum: the booze or me. He chose the booze, and he made his point by destroying the coffee table and the china cabinet on his way out. I should have been devastated. Mostly, I was relieved.

I still cried on Ethan’s shoulder on Monday. Not because my marriage was over, but because I was terrified. Who would want a fifty-one-year-old woman with stretch marks and tired eyes?

He didn’t say I told you so. He handed me tissues, listened, and told me Keith was the one missing out. I wanted so badly to believe him.

On his last day, I wore the white blouse and the caramel skirt, and I let my hair down instead of pinning it up in my work bun. I wanted him to see me as a woman, not a nurse. At the bar, after the speeches and the gifts, I gave him a card. I’d written: You are one of nature’s gentlemen. Because it was true.

Later, I found myself out on the patio with him, away from the noise.

“Don’t jump,” he said, trying to be funny.

“Things aren’t that bad yet.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “Any guy who’d rather drink than be with someone like you needs his head examined.”

I kissed his cheek. I wanted to kiss his mouth. I could smell his cologne and feel the warmth coming off him.

“I think we’d better go back inside,” I said, “before I do something I might regret.”

I didn’t tell him I wouldn’t regret it at all.

When the party wound down, I asked if he wanted to come back to my place for coffee. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the key in the door.

“Sometimes,” I said, staring at the lock, “you make me wish I was thirty years younger.”

He put his hands on my shoulders. “Remember those pictures? The blue bikini? I would’ve liked to know you back then.” He paused. “But we’re here now. And I like what I see.”

In the kitchen, I made excuses about the old percolator taking fifteen minutes. The truth was, I was stalling. Terrified. Excited. Fifty-one years old and trembling like a schoolgirl.

Then I stopped thinking.

I stepped forward, took his face in both hands, and kissed him. Not a friendly peck. A real kiss, with everything I’d been saving up for years.

When we finally pulled apart, our faces were still close enough to share breath.

“The way you kissed me back,” I whispered. “Are you telling me my age doesn’t mean as much as I thought?”

Ethan didn’t answer with words.

He kissed me again, hungrier. When I suggested we walk to my room, I was shaking. Halfway there, I couldn’t wait anymore. I pushed him against the wall and kissed him hard. “How very unladylike of me,” I breathed. He laughed against my mouth.

“I’ll take my time,” he promised. “I haven’t felt this wanted in years,” I admitted.

In the bedroom, I reached for the light switch, but he stopped me. “Better leave it off,” I said. “If you see me naked, you might not be so excited.”

He undid two buttons of my blouse. “You’ve got a beautiful body. It deserves to be appreciated.”

We left the bedside lamp on. When he pushed me gently onto the bed, I fell back laughing—that silly, giddy laugh I thought I’d lost. He unbuttoned me entirely, exposing my breasts in the white lace bra.

“They’re beautiful,” he said.

I took off the blouse. “I thought we’d be under covers, lights off, so you couldn’t see my wrinkles.”

“I haven’t seen many wrinkles.” He touched my nipple, and it hardened immediately. “That’s nice.”

“I never knew you were looking at my butt,” I teased.

“You’ll have to let me see.”

I stood, back to him, while he unzipped my skirt. I stepped out of it, wearing only the gold silk panties. He kissed the small of my back, peeled them down, looked at me. I waited for disappointment. Instead, he said, “Now that is a nice backside.”

I turned around, just in bra and panties, feeling exposed and exhilarated. He sat on the edge of the bed, and I knelt between his knees. “I feel self-conscious being naked while you’re dressed,” I said, undoing his shirt. “We should get on the bed together.”

He turned me onto my back, kissed me hard. “I’d like to take your bra off,” he said.

I reached behind myself, unclipped it, let him remove it. My nipples were dark pink, erect. He stroked them, then took one in his mouth, sucking gently. “That’s lovely, Ethan,” I whispered.

When he sat back, I wore only the gold silk panties. “You realize if you take them off, I’ll be completely naked?” I said, half-warning, half-praying.

“It won’t take me long to get undressed.” He caressed my thigh, slid a finger inside the crotch of my panties. I was soaking wet. He tasted his finger, then looked at me with those eyes.

“Are you thinking about going down on me?” I asked, barely breathing.

“Is that okay?”

“No one’s done that for a long time,” I admitted. “Keith didn’t believe in it. But I’d love it.”

“What a waste,” he said, and pulled my panties down. I lifted my hips to help. He looked at me—my trimmed dark hair, my swollen lips, the fluid oozing between them. “Beautiful pussy,” he said.

Then his mouth was on me, his tongue working between my lips, probing, tasting. When he found my clit and sucked gently, I bucked against him. “Ethan, that’s beautiful!” I gasped.

It built quickly—too quickly, years of denial culminating in this moment. “Ohh! I’m coming!” I arched my back, squeezed his hand, cried out as the waves hit me. It had been so long since anyone had cared about my pleasure.

He moved up, lay on me, kissed me softly. I could taste myself on his lips. “I could return the favor,” I said, stroking his hard cock through his jeans, “but I think we can find something more productive.”

“It wasn’t really our heads I was thinking about,” he smiled.

He undressed completely. His cock was rampant, young, beautiful. I stroked it, hoping I could satisfy him, that my body could still bring pleasure to a man like this. He entered me slowly, and I was surprised—he filled me completely, snug and perfect. I hadn’t expected that, after two children.

“Ethan, I haven’t had anything that hard inside me for years,” I breathed.

“Are you okay?”

“Am I okay? I’m fantastic!” I kissed him. “You made me come before, so if you need to come, go for it.”

He picked up the pace, thrusting deeper, harder. “That’s the way,” I encouraged, tilting my pelvis to meet him. “That’s great, Ethan.”

“Are you close?”

“I think so.”

“I’m not gonna last much longer,” he warned. My legs wrapped around him. We were fucking hard, deep, joined at the pelvis, outside society’s norms and not caring.

“Ohh, ohh, ohhhh!!” I closed my eyes, thrust back at him, felt my second orgasm building as he drove into me. Then I was coming again, gasping, arching, as I felt him explode inside me, spurt after spurt, filling me with his youth.

“Oh, my god!” I whispered as we collapsed together.

“Did you like that?”

“Couldn’t you tell?” I felt between my legs. “You flooded me. I’d forgotten how much a young man leaves behind.”

We lay there, skin to skin. “That was absolutely amazing,” I said. “I haven’t had sex like that for years.”

“I think we both have lost time to make up for,” I added, smiling that mischievous smile he seemed to like.

We did it all again that night. And many nights since.

I don’t wish I was thirty years younger anymore. The woman I am today—the fifty-one-year-old with the stretch marks and the experience and the hunger—is the one he wants. And I like who I am when I’m with him.