Does anyone know how old they are? I don't mean do they know the date and can they tell you their birth year; I mean subjectively.
I remember my father telling me of going to a class reunion and asking himself who were all these old men: could he possibly look that old? I believe I've already told my story of bragging to a woman that even if I didn't get up from my desk for six months I could run two miles without gasping. Then I thought to myself, You unabashed moron: that may have been true twenty years ago, but you have no idea what's true now: you haven't run in ages. So the next day I started to jog the two mile loop of Hillsborough River State Park where I was staying. I hadn't reached from my pop up to the pavement before I was gasping. I kept going though — just a slow jog — and at the end of the two miles I wasn't breathing ... too hard. So there was still a smidgeon of truth in what I'd bragged.
I launched this sex section five years ago: blurted dozens of stories very fast, in a day or two. As I wrote them, the years peeled away. I relived the moments I was reporting. As I said, initially, girls came to me. It was the girl who suggested that we take our clothes off. It was the girl who wanted me to see her naked, who wanted to see my penis, play with my silly little empty scrotum. I told of the number of young women who planted themselves in front of me, the number of wetting females who'd offered themselves to me.
I write this today lest the visitor think that any of that is still true. It isn't.
We're born, we die. In between, we grow, we decline. Our abilities sharpen, then they dull.
The curves won't duplicate exactly between any two individuals, but statistically there are deep probabilities: we grow till we're twentyish, we start stooping when we're forty-five. After forty-five more and more people have poor vision, failing hearing, can no longer tie their shoe without huffing and half falling over.
When I was nineteen I was not only female bait, but fag bait. I'd count the number of propositions within a year on my fingers and need my second hand. Since turning fifty, I can count them all on one finger.
At fifty one a woman decades younger eagerly offered and gave me a blow job once I'd spent a little time with her over a period of a few days only. Believe me, it hasn't happened since.
Indeed, on those rare occasions when I pursue acquaintance with a woman, it starts off promising, but quickly bumps into a rut: promises broken. They don't keep a date, don't return phone calls.
At thirty I wasn't the only male without an income nevertheless finding pussy left and right. But somehow, after thirty, that changes: even for SybaRight.
Uh, actually, I've had some fabulous fucking a sucking with women recently met: but only online, only long distance, only without actual contact.
I'm not talking about whores. I mean women legitimately met: not in a sexual context. Life-long I've had only one experience with a declared pro; but in that case I'd been fucking the woman for months if not years before she declared herself pro. Only then (only once), did she ask for payment. (I never called her again: though had I, given the amount I'd volunteered to give her, she might not have agreed to come.)
Toothless Sex Scrapbook
I fish to be away from people, not to socialize, and certainly not to stalk women. Skiing, you could take a date, or pick up a chick, in the lodge or on the slope. But I'm recalling my past, my distant past. Now broke, half-blind, half-deaf, the lake could be littered with nymphs and what would it have to do with me? Still: I spend enough time on the water that I've now accumulated enough odd on-water runs ins with females that a couple of such might now get told here.
For instance, last night: did I get an eyeful of tit in a circumstance where I was just looking for bass. Actually I was casting for bass while very carefully surveying a highly tricky section of lake bottom.
There's a section of shore on Lake Jackson that used to be impenetrable weeds and brush. Houses on shore had views of tangle, not water. No one boated near it, and when I approached it wading, I see 'gators hiding but no hookable fish. Well, the municipality now wants a "scenic" lake. They've dredged, they've put in grass carp, they chopped the bushes just below the waterline ... Now you can see the houses, the houses can see the water ...
Every house there now has a realtor's sign in front, everyone's living on spec, everyone's hoping the price is tripling, not doubling. Two owners just invested in fancy boat docks, for sale signs up throughout the construction.
Understand: I'd given up on fishing those areas. Once "water" opened up, boaters found it illusory: you'd run aground, get free, run aground again. My recent attempts to wade those waters have encountered a variety of treacheries. I always worry about stumbling and getting impaled on something under the water line. Those who sheared the vegetation below the surface were "beautifying" the lake, not worrying about the safety of waders. But in this section, though there are plenty of stumps, full of bristles, there also seem to be rocks, even boulders. One moment I'm standing in water up to my chest, next to me is a structure, I can't tell whether natural or human accidental, certainly not designed, practically reaching the water surface. It seems to be a boulder, but there are no rocks in Florida lakes, none that I've known of. Within inches there will be low rock, easy to step up onto, which will suddenly let your foot slide into a crack. You can get skewered underwater anywhere in this area; specifically here you can break a leg, break an ankle, drown, amid the rocks.
I have yet to catch a really good bass in this section with the rocks but just this summer I have been finding a few bass here. One day last week I caught three bass in short order near this one dock here. Now I'm just trying to get closer, still upright, still in one piece, still functioning, to lob a finesse worm in closer to the dock.
The wind changes. From stiff in my face the wind now has the dock in my lea. And I'd just changed lures to a bullet-weighted Texas worm. And lo and behold there's a woman on the dock. I'm behind her. She's sitting, reading, with her back to a timber. My purpose here, other than teaching the rocks to my feet, is to steal close enough to the dock to probe its underside. These swirling winds could land my hook in this woman's lap no matter what I'd intended with the cast.
I'm thinking I'd better back off and try learning this treacherous area when it's unoccupied, when it occurs to me that if the woman lives here she just might know the history of human interference with this stretch of lake bottom. I'm not geologist, but I don't believe these rocks are native. And I can't imagine what history, natural or human, would have put them the way they seem to be. I want to ask her. But I'm now so hard of hearing I'd better be right next to the dock to hear her answer. But I don't know the bottom and don't know if I can get next the dock. Behind me there's not two inches of water over the boulder, but it could be dredged to eight feet right by the dock!
So I call out. "Excuse me, I'm not trying to sneak up on you." She jumps. I mean she starts. She turns. She's much younger than I'd anticipated — an adult, but not from the retirement crowd — and very easy on the eyes. "I want to ask you something. I no longer hear well, so if it's OK, I'm going to try to wade over there."
"Don't fall in a hole," she says, now watching my progress. Suddenly, between me and the dock, on this north side, there seems to be nothing but sandy bottom. Now I go right up to the edge of the dock. She moves over to the edge herself, hunkers down low, smiling, welcoming. I'm not shaved. I'm not wearing my teeth. Ah, but I was polite: she seems to be welcoming me.
I'll skip the part of our conversation about her name, whether she lived there or elsewhere. She did know something about the history of the municipal interference there; not about the rocks specifically, but that the city had worked to expand the lake there, "beautify" the shoreline. I'm interested in the rocks but neither the rocks nor the bass are why I'm telling the story here. The sun was shining brightly overhead. She was wearing a shorts and a halter. Clearly one could see the outline of some kind of a bra through her halter, but much clearer, utterly clear, was the impression in the material made by her nipples. This woman was hung. Her nipples articulated. Christsake, she had spigots.
She's being very nice. I'm trying to be nice. I'm trying not to state at her tits. But that's impossible. What I really can't help staring for is to decipher what kind of an undergarment she can possibly be wearing: bare nipples, but held up and pushed forward by a structuring garment. What the hell: if I can't take my eyes off her, it's deliberate on her part. Though she obviously hadn't expected company from the sea side.
No, one doesn't normally go wading toothless and unshaved in the muck to find prime female. But there's enough prime female in the world that you never know where you'll cross it. I now know, not too too much to my surprise, that there are some women who like to exhibit themselves sufficiently that they'll even exhibit themselves to an old fart in a boat, or an old fart standing in water up to his neck.
Yesterday's acquaintance let me come right up to her, but then I'd asked. On other occasions I've been careful not to say anything, not to get too close, to concentrate on presenting my lure to the relevant boat dock, and let the resident female choose how much of herself to show. One very comely blond had a vigorous catch with a frisbee and her Irish setter so long as I lurked by her dock. When I moved on, she went into the house, the dog stayed on the beach.
One blond walked her spaniel on her dock when I was faced toward her dock but from the distance of another dock. When I came to fish her dock directly, she walked her dog there again!
Her I talked to, came closer, found her continuing to be friendly. Though she did not continue to be friendly on a second occasion. Too bad, cause she had invited me to come back, said she was always walking her dog there.
As you get older you have to be satisfied with less and less; or be very unsatisfied.
I'm tickled to have stimulated some female behavior on odd occasions despite my age and non-existent social status, but I see it in other old farts too. I was fishing Lake Placid with my friend Ron a few years ago. A female fish and game warden approached, Ron running the trolling motor from the bow: obviously the boat's owner and captain. This gal put on such a display for him I couldn't believe it. I might as well have not existed for her. Her ignoring me was pissing me off enough for me to speak up and address her. She answered me: still looking at Ron. And Ron was damn close to seventy at the time.
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