Letters To The Editor - Thank You, Mr. President

Twenty-two years ago, between my Junior and Senior year of college, I had the wildest summer of my life. My steady girlfriend (who is now my wife and mother of our two wonderful kids) went home to her folks in Indiana whereas I returned to my parents' house in northern Florida. My dad, as usual, had lined me up with a temporary job in the kitchen of his restaurant. It was hard work with long hours, but I didn't mind. I needed the money, and with my girlfriend four states and nine hundred miles away, I had nothing better to do, anyway.

My schedule was such that I had Tuesdays and Wednesdays off, always our slowest days. It was on that first Tuesday back home that I met Ruth Sanders (not her real name). I had heard my dad mention the house next door had been sold to a new arrival in town, a widow and retired high school teacher. I didn't pay it much attention as my life now revolved around things other than who lived in my childhood neighborhood.

When I first saw her, I was taking the trash out to the cans in our backyard, and she was working in a flowerbed in her backyard. She was blonde, not a bad-looking woman, wearing a light, sleeveless summer dress and a pair of sunglasses. She looked up from her squatting position when she heard our screen door slam. Ruth was facing our house and from her crouching pose, I had a clear view up her dress. As she looked over at me, she must have realised that I could see up her skirt, but she made no move to close her knees. She just stared at me, her eyes hidden behind those dark glasses, and I just stared at her panties.

"Hello," she called out across the waist-high wooden fence that separated our properties. "You must be Nelson. Your mother told me that you would be coming home from college for summer break."

"Yes, ma'am," I answered, still not doing the gentlemanly thing and lifting my gaze. "Guilty as charged. And I guess you are Mrs. Sanders."

"Oh, please," she said, rising and walking over to the fence. "For over thirty years I was Mrs. Sanders in my classrooms. Just call me Ruth."

I shook the hand that she offered, and we made small talk for a bit. When I asked her how she liked being retired, she said that she was enjoying it. Although, what being new in town and not really knowing anyone, she sometimes missed the routine of going to work. "And," she shrugged, "with my husband dead and my kids all grown and living in other states, it does sometimes get a little lonely."

"I know what you mean," I answered, "My fiancee is spending her break up in Indiana."

Technically, she wasn't my fiancee yet, but we were planning on getting married. We just had not formalized things yet.

"Well," she flashed a smile at me, "If you get too stir-crazy, come on over for a drink." Her smile got wider, "I just live next door."

"I might do that," I replied. And then, I don't know if it was the sight of that prolonged flash she had given me, or the thought of being cooped up all summer with my parents watching T.V., but without thinking I asked, "When would be a good time?"

She did not answer right away. I don't know if she was studying me, or she had gotten cold feet. But finally she said, "Well, I've always had a rule of not drinking before five... so anytime after that will be fine."

"How about seven?" I suggested, as my parents always had dinner at six.

"It's a date," she agreed, and we both returned to our previous tasks.

When I knocked on her front door precisely at seven o'clock, she opened it, greeting me with, "Right on time. I like that."

I imagined that as a former school-teacher, she demanded it. I went inside and when asked what I wanted to drink, I noticed the glass and bottle of wine on the coffee table so I said, "Wine will be fine."

She had not turned off the T.V. in her living room before answering the door, and the nightly news had just started. Now that was twenty-two years ago, so of course some of the news stories were about the President's alleged sexual misconduct. Naturally, as we sat on the couch, we voiced our views on whether oral sex counted as 'cheating'. At one point Ruth said, "When I was your age, I never really had that option. It wasn't something 'nice' girls did." She took a sip of her wine before adding, "Sometimes I feel as if I missed out."

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out how the evening ended. We finished that bottle of wine and started on another. At some point I wound up with my pants open and my cock inside Ruth's mouth. After I had gotten off, I tried to go down on her to return the favor, but she pushed me away. She explained that with the difference in our ages, she would feel uncomfortable having a young man staring at her down there.

"But that doesn't mean I did not enjoy what just happened," she told me. "In fact," she placed her hand on my knee and leaned in closer, "I wouldn't mind doing it again, if you would let me."

At that point, I grabbed the nape of her neck and pulled her face to mine to kiss her. A real kiss. One lasting at least a minute. When I finally released her, she leaned back on the couch, fanning in the air with her hands, "Whew! So that's a yes, I take it?"

That was a yes. The next night, and nearly every night after, I was back over at her house. Sitting next to her on the couch. Making out. Each evening consistently ending with a blowjob. Several times I tried to reciprocate, but she always refused. Although on occasion, she would let me finger-fuck her to an orgasm.

We never did have sex. After all, I had a steady girlfriend, but according to the Clinton Doctrine, fellatio did not count. And boy, did my cock get a work out! Sometimes, if I was up to it, I would get blown twice on the same night.

After the first few times, Ruth would often have me get naked before she blew me. And despite her discomfort at putting her 'old, worn-out body' on display, she would indulge me and strip as well.

We exchanged a few letters when I returned to college in the fall. And whenever I would visit my folks, Ruth and I always got together for dinner at a restaurant (never my old-man's place, of course) to 'catch up'. I debated inviting her to the wedding, but I figured after the number of loads of my cum she had swallowed over that magical summer. The summer of the hummer, I owed her at least that. It was in Indiana, so she didn't attend. Although she did send us a nice wedding present.

Looking back on it now, I think that Ruth might have been making up for what she perceived as a missed opportunity. When she was sucking me off, I think in her mind she was once again a college co-ed. But this time, the rules had changed and nice girls swallowed.

James (last name and address withheld)