The Allure of Mrs Robinson

May 7, 2005 | Category: Sexblogs

Or how I learnt to stop worrying and love the fact that I crave women of a certain age…

 

I have lots of desires, just as many fantasies it seems. Ok, I admit it, my hands are up. I’m an insatiable bastard. Guilty as charged, milord.

My mind’s forever darting off to the land of imagined lusts, revisiting previous encounters, conjuring exciting scenarios, mulling over new possibilities for pleasure. When I was trying to think of a sub-title for this journal, I’m pretty sure that I didn’t select ‘oversexed’ by chance.

Driving through town today, I caught a glimpse of a woman in her late thirties or early forties. She was alone, in a world of her own, letting time drift by as she browsed along the shop fronts. Instantly, I was catapulted into one of my oldest fantasies, one that’s been a companion for so long, we’ve exchanged birthday and Christmas cards for the last seven years.

Mrs Robinson - the definitive MILF?What *is* the particular allure of woman in that age range? Fifteen years ago, I would probably have muttered something about the age gap, and that having had a real taste of life, such women would be able to ‘tutor’ me, milking me of my youthful vigour in return.

I was fortunate. Very fortunate. The fates that govern the lives of horny young men saw fit to present me with an opportunity to live out that fantasy.

As a student in my late teens, I spent most evenings and weekends working with a divorced woman some twenty years older than me. Let’s call her S. The company we worked for employed several women around that age, and though I fantasised about most of them at one time or another (told you: insatiable), S was the one who had most of my attention. She used to tease me mercilessly, but I never stopped to consider that the attraction I felt might be reciprocated.

I lost track of S when I left for university. A couple of years later, I ran into her again, completely by chance. A little worldlier, a little more confident about my potential appeal to the opposite sex, I took a chance on asking her out to dinner. She accepted. I began to suspect that something might happen when, whilst buying drinks at the bar, I caught her reflection staring longingly at my behind. When I drove her home after our meal, S invited me in for a coffee, and for what I hoped might be a chance to learn a little about myself.

It turned out to be one hell of a lesson.

Nowadays, the gulf in years between the women of S’s age and myself is wafer thin. The women still have their experience; they’ve still had long enough to have enjoyed a real taste of life. The thing is: so have I. I blinked, and Time’s incessant teeth stripped two decades of flesh from the bones of my life clock. Sneaky bastard.

Mrs Robinson - An older sex bombSo why is it I’m still drawn to women of that age? Aren’t I meant to have turned my back on them in a paroxysm of mid-life panic, switched my lustful attentions to taut, sinewy teenagers wearing skirts no longer than belts; to twenty year old nymphos-in-waiting, drunk on the possibilities of casual sex thanks to Candace Bushnell?

It’s not as though I’m above lusting after such delectable creatures. It’s just that their mothers and big sisters still have the majority of my interest. Thing is, I still want to indulge myself in their knowledge and experience. Just because I’ve a little savoir-faire of my own now, I haven’t stopped wanting to enjoy the benefits of theirs.

Yet while there’s undoubted appeal in the man-eating tigress that is Demi in her forties, I find myself harbouring a preference for the molten possibilities that simmer behind coyer demeanours. You can see a woman who looks like she’s never lusted for anything in her life, and yet glimpse something in her that makes you pause and ask: “What is she really like?” Who does she become when the curtains are drawn, the doors locked, the lights turned down? What does she want then?

The woman I saw today; she might have been cut from the very cloth of my imagination. Pretty face, but short of being utterly stunning. Shoulder length hair, stylishly cut but not overly pampered. Slim but not thin, her curves sensuous and womanly. Around 5′5″ to 5′8″. She’d applied her make-up with skill and subtlety, used it to highlight her features, not drown them. She was attired respectably, business-like. I have a real weakness for women who power dress. Tailored jacket over a modest cotton blouse; knee-length skirt that clung snugly to her behind; the heels on her shoes high enough to stretch her shapely calves, adding deliciously to her natural wiggle as she strolled along the pavement. She carried herself with a passive confidence, neither arrogant, nor shrinking.

Perfect.

You could see such a woman walking along your own street, the personification of nondescript innocence, and you might dismiss her in an instant. Or you could look a little closer, notice how that cotton blouse is unbuttoned just enough to permit the vigilant a glimpse of the uppermost slopes of her breasts. You might study the easy swing of her hips, and ponder the mystery that lies between the tops of her thighs. You might observe the stride of her nylon-sheathed calves, and speculate if it’s pantyhose she’s wearing beneath her skirt, or a pair of stockings, without panties. And you might contemplate her calm demeanour, and wonder how she would be if she let go, abandoned herself to her passions.

Is it more than just the promise of experience though? Could be. Do I crave seduction as well? A part of me does. Who wouldn’t enjoy surrendering to the simmering passions of another? Fifteen years ago, I was seduced by my own Mrs (or should that be Ms?) Robinson, and I relished every breathless moment. What red blooded male of twenty two wouldn’t have? The memory of her drawing abstract lines across my trembling thigh with her perfectly manicured fingernails is unlikely to ever leave me. I can still hear her voice, asking me if I would mind doing her a favour, if I would make love to her.

How could I fail to hunger to recapture such sensations?

And might there be more still? Is some part of the attraction that someone so ostensibly unsullied actually has ample capacity to be desirous, utterly wanton? Wouldn’t it be a privilege to behold such a transformation; perhaps, in some small way, to be the cause of it?

Oh, I think so.

What’s more, I’m pretty sure this concept figures strongly in some of the fantasies I have about my own wife. This idea of duality: the public facade, and the private reality. The possibility of secret desires, of hidden vices. The revelation that someone so outwardly ‘good’ could be so inwardly ‘bad’.

Older women - experience, desire, sex appealThe brain needs to be engaged if sex is to truly excite, to come close to fulfilling our needs and desires. Without the stimulation of the mind, sex is just one more biological function. A cock becomes little more than a dildo, a flesh-and-blood fencepost, and a cunt the place to put it. That sort of fucking barely scratches my surface. No, to attain real fulfilment, surely our minds have to be excited as much as – if not more than – our bodies?

Thoughts of my wife’s duality have always enticed and incited my lust. MW projects an exterior that betrays little hint of the sensual, sexual creature she can become. When we met, it was hard to reconcile the public MW with the truths I began to glean once we were alone together, in the darkness. If you were ever to meet her, I doubt you’d ever guess the things she longs for, the expressions and the sounds that possess her when she tastes them. Her sighs and moans of pleasure are aural Viagra. I ought to try bottling them.

In fact, I think it was because of MW’s duality that I had to spend so long coaxing her into revisiting her past. She was uncomfortable to begin with; even now she can be reticent about those days. It’s as though she wants to conceal the truth even from herself, is afraid that if she reveals that part of her past to me, I’ll be repulsed. Nothing could be further from the truth. When she finally opened up, whispered tales about the men she’d known before ‘us’, described in delicious detail the pleasures she’d bestowed upon them, their disbelief at her artful hands and knowing mouth, it tapped into the very core of my identity and my desires.

It’s twenty years since that long, delicious night with S, and yet it seems that little about that side of me has changed. I’m still lusting after women of experience. I’m still yearning to be tempted. I’m still hungering for the darker fruits concealed amongst the light.

Here’s to you, Ms Robinson.

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5 Comments

  1. Mike S on May 24th, 2005
    1

    Very well written. I think you may have found your blogological niche.

  2. EA on May 24th, 2005
    2

    Thank you, Mike. I’m glad you enjoyed the entry, and I appreciate the complement.

  3. kimmie on November 15th, 2007
    3

    :-) i think every woman has those 2 sides, the outside face for the world to see and the inside …where at her happiest she will do as she is asked…her age gives her an advantage to have had experiences that she can repeat with more confidence than 20 years ago….so seducing her lover …performing any pleasures requested of her…age is definitely an advantage …so your lust is understandable and reassuring to those of that certain age .. x

    Of course, I’m nearly that certain age myself now. The question is: do I still have appeal to that age of woman, or is she looking past me at the fresher items on the shelves…

    ~EA

  4. kimmie on November 15th, 2007
    4

    thats a question we all ask ourselves i’m sure….some how i think you might stand out on any shelf ?

    (bowing humbly) Thank you for thinking so, Kimmie…

    ~EA

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  1. Easily Aroused: the indecent journal of an oversexed Englishman » The Ecstasy of an Oral Connoisseur

 
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