~ Speaking of older women with younger men.Weren’t we talking about that?In any case, my girlfriend, Cindy, goes out (exclusively) with younger men.These twenty-something men are very attracted to her thick mane of lush blonde hair, her pouty Jolie lips, and her welcoming, white smile.Bitch.They worship the ground she walks on; the horny little shits.And she loves the attention.
Anyhow, she was at club a few years ago and all of these college guys are sitting at the bar drinking cheap beer.“Yeah, they’re staring over at me,” she says, “and they’re giggling like a school girls. I stare right back at them and yell, over- ‘take a damn picture, it lasts longer!” She goes on to tell me that the guys begin nudging one of their friends off his bar stool to apparently go and speak to her.“So this cute blonde walks over and reports that they all have a bet on how old I am.His face is beet red, and this alone makes me immediately like him.He stands there in front of my table with a few strand of his white-blonde hair sweeping over his young, flawless face, and I’m thinking, this is the sweetest looking guy I’ve ever seen in my entire life.I’m thinking other things, too, but we won’t go into that right now…. Later on…
So Blondie’s college crew is at the bar laughing their tight little asses off, and I brush one finger with the other finger telling them how naughty they are.NEVER, I scold them; ask a woman how old she is. One of the guys with a Green Bay Packer Jersey asks me if I’m thirty, and I tell him that’s close enough, now shut your mouths about that delicate subject.I turn to Blondie and ask him what college they all go to: University of Minnesota.Well, at least he’s a senior so that means he’s twenty one.That’s legal in the state of Minnesota, right?”
We are sitting at Barnes & Noble, and I’m devouring her delicious words with my chocolate brownie frappucino.It’ seems quite apt, actually:indulgencing in chocolate while discussing our wicked ways, our weaknesses, our fantasies.The difference being that Cindy’s fantasies become reality, babe, and then I get to hear about them and live vicariously through her wild existence.
Blondie asks Cindy if she wants to go to another club to dance.He tells her that Prince, or is it The Artist Formally Named as Prince, owns the club next door, hell, maybe he’ll even be there.Cool.Cindy goes with him to Fifth Avenue and they dance until the place closes down, the lights go on, and only then, does she notice his youth, his beauty, the tint of crimson stained on both cheeks.
She tells me she had the urge to ask him how old his mother is, but that would have ruined everything, broke the moment, made her mull over her sexual thoughts. She tells me she went to his dorm with him that night. I gasp.I judge her moral decision. I sit silent. I smirk like a college girl myself.I want to know how he kisses.More…. Details….Every. Single. Fact. The taste of his saliva; The sound of his breathing; The Kama Sutra particulars, sistah.
I’m a freak like that.
On the way home the next day, Cindy asks Blondie if he can stop to pick up her daughter first before she picks up her car. He asks her if she’s at daycare or the babysitter.Cindy tells him neither. She tells him she’s at work; she works at Burger King in Roseville.
“I can still see the look on his face,” Cindy admits.“Like a freaking explosion erupted directly under his feet!”
****(Note)When Cindy (not her real name) told me this story, I thought it was so funny that I have re-told it over and over again .The only segments that have changed are the names, places, and ages!
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