For the past eight years I have been asked repeatedly whether the original “Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am” was a true story. Unfortunately, it was a mere figment of my imagination: what I presumed sex would be like with a 21-year old. Since then, I have had plenty of opportunities to do so as, for some reason, I am inundated on dating sites with “mature 21-year olds.” Seriously, if you have to tell me that you’re mature, then you’re not. Although such is far better than the alternative “young-looking 60-year olds.” I would really just like an enjoyable, pleasant date with a relatively normal guy who doesn’t ask for “happy massages” mid-meal (yes, folks, this really happened), who doesn’t chew with his mouth open, and who doesn’t smell like the San Diego Chargers locker room following a hard-fought win in 90-degree heat. But I digress.
Recently, I had the pleasure of meeting a nice young man. Emphasis on young. I shall call him Gerard, after my body pillow (in fact, Gerard has been getting considerable exposure in my recent literary endeavors.) I actually found him on Craigslist. Yup, just like a puppy, used tennis racket, or employment scam. In fact, I answered his ad—only because of the impeccable grammar and seeming incongruity of Craigslist with intelligence.
Anyway, Gerard was different. There was chemistry in addition to intelligence—and some pretty damn nice arms to boot. The only quandary, if it could be adjudicated as such, was the age difference. Whereas in fantasy, a younger guy sounds surreal, the reality was that the almost-20-year age difference gave me disturbing maternal inclinations—after all, he was only nine years older than my daughter.
I actually said to him, “I could be your mother,” one night, to which he cleverly retorted, “Nah, you don’t even look like her.” While his wit gave me a momentary reprieve from my chronological trepidations, in the back of my cavernous mind—next door to where the ma’am aversion resided, in fact—was a bellowing voice repeating, “TWENTY YEARS!” I wonder if my cranial ma’am moderator investigated her unusually boisterous neighbor. Regardless, despite being a good ole’ Army boy, Gerard never once called me the dreaded m-word. This, in and of itself, earned my potential new boy toy additional brownie points.
Gerard and I spoke, er, texted, for nearly a month, virtually every day (and I literally mean virtually) before meeting. When we finally did, at a Starbucks, it was a three-hour intellectual tête-à-tête and tattoo comparison-fest.
The next time I saw him was courtesy of a, “You could stop by…” text one evening when I was kinda sorta in the area.
“I could,” I replied.
“That is, if you want to,” he said.
“Um, yes!” I text-exclaimed. After all, I was not dating anyone, was incredibly horny, and would never turn down an opportunity to conduct an empirically-based scientific experiment to either prove or disprove my former theory of unfulfilling sex with a 20-something-year old. Even better, this time, was that I had lost beaucoup weight and enjoyed what I like to call my midlife-crisis-surgical-tuneup since my previous story and would not have to worry about the tautness of my abs, my breasts being subject to gravity, or any other OMG-I’m-getting-old bullshit.
“Would you mind if I’m in my pajamas?” he texted.
He told me he sleeps naked. How to answer this one. “You told me you sleep naked,” I replied. Whoa, I am frequently amazed at my cleverness. He reassured me that he would be in “jammy bottoms” and a t-shirt, not that it really mattered, in all actuality, because I was rather certain that at some point we would both be naked.
I arrived at his minimalist yet surprisingly clean apartment that was a mixture of bachelor living room furniture and a small storage locker’s supply of military gear I dared not investigate for fear of potential rendition and subsequent water-boarding. Also present was the age-appropriate, requisite X-box.
We began the evening, sitting on his leather sofa, watching television, while I repeatedly kept sliding down the sofa toward him.
“Part of my plan,” he commented, every time I would try to extricate myself from the magnetic pull of the sofa’s center upon my jean rivet-encumbered ass. I finally just gave up and snuggled to him, his arm around me.
“Is it warm in here or is it just me?” I asked, worried that I could potentially be entering the throes of menopause at this very moment.
“Part of my plan,” he reiterated. “I had hoped that you would get warm and just take your clothes off but I can turn the air on,” he offered, standing, and subsequently causing me to finish my downward slide with a distinct thud upon the opposing armrest.
He came back and sat beside me again.
“The air has given me quite the boner,” he announced matter-of-factly, forcing me to, once again, quell my almost-middle-aged-but-loath-to-admit-it mind from calling 911 to report an imminent statutory rape. (That’s a joke, folks. He was 26. Besides, if he were under-aged I sure-as-hell wouldn’t have written a story and submitted it for Internet publication.) Regardless, during our countless text-versations, most of the time it did not feel as if I were talking to such a young lad; however, the boner comment—and the fact that he looked 14—underscored the true generation gap that existed between us because, after all, isn’t 20 years a generation? In all actuality, however, it was seven months and six days shy of a generation—like that really changes anything except my inner voice shouting “NINETEEN YEARS” instead. My distress did not dissipate.
It took another hour for he—the shy, polite gentleman—to make anything that remotely resembled a move on me. While I was not completely oblivious to his Coors-like-cold-activated erection flailing to get my attention underneath the loose flannel of his pajama bottoms, I—unlike my forward, quasi-stalking, imaginary persona who was blatantly obvious and oh-so-daring eight years ago—am very much old-fashioned myself. Well, not old. Very poor choice of words considering the current scenario. Demure? No. Non-spontaneous? No. Reserved? Hell no. I suppose I was just not quite ready to wield my sexually-insatiable self on Gerard.
“Would you like to go into the other room?” he asked. OMG HELL YES!! It’s about fucking time!
His bedroom was decorated much the same as the living room’s armory: a minimalist air mattress (also slippery) and a plethora of military gear.
“Don’t laugh,” he said, about the air mattress. “It’s the deluxe model that electronically deflates itself and fits into a backpack, if necessary.” I didn’t care one iota about the bed’s composition. It was a queen—already larger than my meager full-sized bed—and I was about ready to fulfill my almost-decade-long fantasy with an adorable younger guy and his enticing and enduring boner.
I stuck my foot in my mouth (which takes impressive talent while being fucked in the missionary position) when I—noticing a quickening in his pace—said, “Don’t cum.” I would most assuredly eat those words nearly an hour later when I adjusted my utterings to, “You can finish any time.”
“Most girls don’t know how to ride it like that,” he commented at one point during our coital Olympics with a wow-I’m-on-my-back-with-an-incredibly-hot-older-woman-fucking-me look on his face (pardon my modesty, or lack thereof). That’s because I’m not a girl, buddy boy, I’m Wonder Woma’am.
Throughout our romp, we erupted into hysterics quite regularly, and, I have to admit, was beyond impressed that the laughter and wit did not affect the blood supply.
I was torn. I wanted intelligent, sarcastic, witty conversation AND the amazing boner that was inside of me; however, such is a tragic impossibility in the long run (pun intended.)
This time I didn’t get wet except as a result of my own perspiration courtesy of the vinyl air mattress. Call it pseudo-performance anxiety (coupled with the fact that it was almost one a.m. and he had to get up for work at four). Nevertheless, his execution would definitely earn him an award for best performance—but poor Gerard did not experience the ultimate consummation of our activities. Quite the alter ego from Quick Dick Johnson, the star of my former story who would most assuredly not have earned any type of award except maybe dirtiest apartment in a supporting role. Anyway, Gerard did inform me that this might happen due to his overwhelming desire to please, and for which I was, indeed, grateful (and sore for a few days after.) He said the second time would be more of the wham bam thank you ma’am I imagined.
I suppose I will have to wait and see about that.
P.S. As I was writing this story, I was messaged by a 20-year old who “loves older women because to be 100% honest they are amazing in bed.” Of course we are. Because Mother Nature has a sick sense of humor.
Read the first part of Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am.
Read N.S. Faulk’s other sexy stories published here on Every Night Erotica.
A career student who ran out of money, N.S. Faulk turned to writing erotica for fame and big bucks. She is the proud mom of two amazing daughters who are not allowed to read her stories — EVER! She’d like to thank Tim McGraw and Vin Diesel’s arms for their unknowing inspiration to her writing.