The Neighbor

The Gentleman's Challenge: For this one, I would like you fine authors out here to write me an intimate meeting between an older man/woman and a younger woman/man, hence the May/December title... *Smiles*

And now for the nuts and bolts of this Challenge...
This couple must know of each other from one of these three setups:
They are co-workers
They are neighbors
or
They have met on the Internet.

This Challenge is open to all black cases and above.
It must include a bedroom scene. How graphic, is up to you, but please refrain from using the usual words for the act and body parts and please rate it accordingly.
Your entry can be a short story or a poem.
And to keep this from turning into a Liz Taylor/Justin Tamberlake or Gary Grant/Mandy deal,
the age difference must be more than ten (10) but less than twenty (20) years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Neighbors

         I first met John five years ago when my husband and I moved into the house right next to his. John and my husband and I were always “Hello. How are you?” neighbors, nothing more. Oh, we knew John was divorced with no kids and was a retired Air Force general. We knew he liked to golf and garden, and he seemed like a nice guy. But how much more does one need to share over the fence?

         Then, last year my husband of fourteen years moved out. He left me for a younger package -- for nursery rhymes and tighter everything. He left me for a blonde who probably can’t spell such words as “marriage” or “faithfulness” or “permanence.”

         It took me a long time to come out of my misery. When I finally did, I realized that John, the neighbor, was becoming far more neighborly than he used to be. The hello’s had become stronger and warmer. The goodbye’s took longer to come.

         Our friendship started out with John bringing me fresh vegetables from his garden. Of course, with him lugging a basket of tomatoes with one well-muscled arm and another of the same shape and caliber holding a bucket of zucchini, what could I do but invite him into my house? That led to a sit-down chat, and then an exchange of neighborly phone numbers, and pretty soon, John’s face at my door or his voice on my phone became a regular thing.

         John was sweet, truly. I had no qualms about him. But he was probably almost a good twenty years older than me. His hair was gray and missing in spots. His neck was wrinkled, and his face, browned by too many summers of gardening, was weathered and aged-looking. Oh, I admit, I wasn’t Miss Spring Chicken, but I wasn’t that old. I was a new divorcée, just about ready to immerse myself into the singles’ bar scene, and almost recovered from Todd’s desertion. I was starting to think about finding a replacement, and that new husband sure wasn’t going to be someone old enough to be my father!

         Yet, John was there every time I turned around. He’d baked cookies and wanted to share them. He had just gotten free tickets to see a Broadway musical. He needed a partner for his company picnic. I obliged each time; in fact, I was thrilled, but I didn’t want to journey further into a relationship with him. I needed someone who made my heart sing, my belly flop, and my brain disconnect. I needed someone my age!

         But then, Friday night would come along, and I really didn’t have the courage to go to that bar by myself, and movies were lonely without someone to accompany you, and I guess I let the thing between John and me kind of slide. Then one evening when we were sitting on the couch at my house, and the movie got romantic, and darkness had come without my noticing, John kissed me.

         I should have backed him off. Of course it was a mistake to let him kiss me if I didn’t want the relationship to go anywhere, but the embrace felt so good. I had a hunger inside me that I hadn’t known was waiting to be fed, and John’s lips were like chocolate pudding -- smooth and delicious. When he pushed in his tongue, my toes curled. I blended into him like whipped cream into pudding.

         Our kisses grew more intense. Our arms wrapped around each other’s bodies, and then we stood up, and the clothes fell down. And somehow I wasn’t thinking about the age difference between us; I just disconnected and let my heart fly. Bodies pressed against bodies. Lips traveled. Kisses pressed heart-stopped patterns up and down my backbone and solar plexus. My breasts swelled and danced, my body’s solar system revolved and liquefied, and my groin fitted itself into position with John. I was ready for melt down.

         I have already mentioned the muscles on John’s arms; well, let me tell you, when John picked me up and carried me towards my bedroom, there was no groaning. He didn’t even pause for breath. Leisurely he set me down on my bed, and had the sweetness to ask me if I was sure I was ready for this.

         Ready for it? I was burning up. I reached out and pulled John down on me. His chest touching mine was engorging – especially for the lower part of him. I felt his increase in size and was swept away into madness. I suddenly wanted John more than I could ever remember desiring my husband. The feelings were luscious.

         There was nothing old about John in the bedroom; I can attest to that. His hands, rough from all the gardening, stroked my body. His fingertips felt like sandpaper, and I wiggled with the breathlessness of it. Instead of distracting me, those scratchy fingers made me desire him more. He feathered them across my skin. I moaned and attempted to insert him.

         “Easy, Cindy,” he said, his deep baritone drenched in Southern gentleman. I writhed.

         “I need . . . “

         “I know what you need, my Cindy. I have known for months. I have waited all this time, my dear, and while I waited, I thought about how I planned to take you the first time.”

         I wrapped myself closer. I couldn’t speak. The brain disconnection had disabled all my functions except one. I strove only for fusion.

         Patiently, John disentangled my legs and arms and stood so he could stare down at my nudity. I opened my eyes and looked up at him. Michelangelo would have called him David. My heart shot out of my breast; I raised arms to call him back. His gentle laugh and the shake of his head shot melodies through me. My blood arched in desire.

         John dropped down to sweep my skin with a softer fire. His tongue bathed and greeted me. I wanted this, yet, I didn’t. I was beyond all common sense. I whimpered.

         John smiled then and let me kiss his lips, but he only allowed a moment.

         “Cindy, you are exactly as I pictured you. Your eagerness is enticing, but I will not give in to you,” he said with his gentleman's voice. The caress in his tone set me to clinging. Once again he smiled and disengaged.

         I watched his eyes. His were smoldering with lights which sent currents zapping each of my connectors. I buzzed with tension. I was an electron desperately needing to unite. His hand found the path downward and inside me.

         A thousand banquets, five thousand roses, and ten bottles of champagne could not have competed with John’s skills as he took me further into zombieland. My current raised its amperes. I grew stiff from the battle my body was waging, and then, I somersaulted off the diving board of desire. Perfection. Contentment. Smiles and happy sighs.

         John kissed my lips and stroked my limbs and middle parts, but his hand on my breast making lazy circles soon drove me out of satiated peace. I climbed back up for another charge, and John was more than eager to swim into my current. In fact, John initiated me into more advanced courses of electrical cohabitation. He led me into several new discoveries, one of which is that paradise is found in duets. Arm in arm, body pressed to body, toes wrapped with toes, our current opened, electricity formulated and raced in an open circuit, and we danced the song of joy.

         Afterward, there was no embarrassment. John was still John -- calm and concerned, asking me if I was all right.

         “No,” I laughed, petting his chest, curling the hairs around my finger. “I will never be all right again. Without you I will be disconnected and . . . and current-less.”

          John laughed gently, and his eyes stroked my body. Without a touch or a word, I was liquid once more. I dissolved into readiness.

         We swan-dived off another cliff and down into perfect warmth. We journeyed into other dimensions of sound and touch and unity.

         And when the current died, fatigued beyond its voltage, we stretched and smiled. Our eyes met. We kissed for the sharing and for the completion we'd both so enjoyed.

~~~~

         It’s been a couple of months since then. John has visited me each day. His hands are now familiar to my body. His lips are part of me. Like a well-practiced opera of two, we glide easily into the rhythms of the night (or day). And when the currents are not surging, when words are stroking brains as well as skin, then John and I talk, and friendship has become as strong as our play.

         John won’t be my neighbor after tomorrow. I’m moving from my house into a new relationship. I’m getting married to someone exactly the right age for me. My new husband is sexy and funny, friendly and gentle, and he’ll be my best friend for always.

          Wish me well, if you want, but I know that John and I are going to be very, very happy in the house next door with its lovely garden of zucchinis, tomatoes, and love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~