The Adventures of Maggie the MILF and Cereal Boy

A couple of weeks ago, I was on IM with Blue. It was a Tuesday morning and I was complaining that I had to go to the grocery store. She challenged me to find something at the grocery to write about. The following story is the result of that particular trip.

   *   *   *   *    *   *

There’s nothing but sand as far as the eye can see.

OK, it isn’t literally sand. It’s more like beige linoleum punctuated by occasional outcrops of unpacked boxes of canned goods and by little old women with blue hair in their mobility scooters. But, my point is, the supermarket is a sexual desert on weekday mornings.

And here I am, pushing a cart down the juice aisle, with no oasis in sight. Three aisles down and I cannot find a single distraction to lighten the drudgery of grocery shopping. It’s not as if I don’t have an open mind and an active imagination, but there isn’t much to work with. Most people are at work this time of day and won’t show up here until late afternoon or early evening. Without a decent salad bar, this store doesn’t even have much of a lunchtime crowd.

Not that it’s entirely empty. The Coca-Cola man is restocking shelves in the soda aisle and there’s Wally, the middle-aged produce clerk, spraying his greens. The cashiers are discussing “American Idol” and their grandchildren. Apart from me, the only customers seem to be the two dozen old folks who arrived in vans from the nearby retirement community just as I pulled up. “That’s going to slow me down,” I thought, ducking into the Starbucks in order to give them all a good head start. But the grocery carts don’t have cup holders, so I only got a small coffee, which the sleepy barrista has the good graces to not repeat back to me as “Tall.” With a slight caffeine rush, I’m able to dodge the first three seniors without breaking stride.

But now I’m stalled in the cereal aisle. I took too long choosing a granola bar and now a little old man is reading the ingredients of Shredded Wheat. Or he would if he could find his glasses, which are currently on top of his head. I’m not in enough of a hurry to ask him to let me get by or to turn my cart around. I’ll wait. Killing time, I start to scan the latest varieties of Captain Crunch and try to find whether anyone is giving away anything cheap and plastic inside the box.

Into this reverie falls inspiration in the form of a child’s pacifier, which lands at my feet as if it’s been spit out by Tony the Tiger himself. I look around to find a young woman and a grocery cart with a toddler sitting where my produce usually sits. The little girl is around one, towheaded, and giggling in self-satisfaction at making her mother stop the cart. Her mother is in her late twenties, early thirties, but seems younger in her white tank top and denim skort. Her light brown hair is pulled back in a scrunchie. I wonder if the diamond stud earrings are real? Who would wear real diamond earrings to the supermarket? I wonder if her breasts are real? Those are remarkable breasts. I should pick up the pacifier. Her legs are nice, too.

“Five second rule?” I ask, smiling, as I start to hand her the hot pink binky.

The hand that reaches out has a wedding ring and an engagement ring with a pretty serious rock. But, seeing me see, she quickly turns her hand over and opens her palm. I gently place the pacifier in her hand. As she closes her fingers, they brush against my hand. I look up into eyes the color of honeydew melons.

“Well, that and a good washing. For now, though...” she says, smiling back at me and rubbing her little girl’s legs which are swinging out the back of the cart. The young woman sticks the pacifier in her own mouth, sucks on it a bit, pops it out, and hands it back to her daughter. “That should work.” She looks at me again and laughs a little. “Can’t be too careful.”

She steps away from the cart. I watch her walk slowly back and forth, looking at cereals. Her ass is nice, too. She looks at me, probably noticing where I was looking. “What do you think? Lucky Charms or Cheerios?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Sure. You seemed to be surveying the stock pretty carefully just now. Sydney and I trust you. Which cereal should we buy today? Lucky Charms or Cheerios?”

“Well, Cheerios are a classic. A little high in sodium, but much lower in sugar than Lucky Charms. But babies and Cheerios are kinda predictable. And you two seem more like trend setters, more cutting edge. So Lucky Charms may be better for you. For one thing, they’re magically delicious. They have Lucky the Leprechaun. And this month, they seem to have these blue moon and red balloon marshmallow shapes that should be really easy to spot when Sydney drops them on the kitchen floor.” I grin and hand her a box of Lucky Charms. She puts it in her cart, laughing.

“Thank you. Well...” she says, biting her lip just a bit, then smiling again. “We have to get moving. Much to do in the life of us cutting edge gals.” She takes hold of the cart handle and starts to roll away down the aisle.

“You two take care,” I call after her. “Watch those flying binkies.”

She looks back at me over her shoulder. “Why don’t cereal boxes ever have free prizes inside for grown ups? I’d really go for Special K with a free bullet vibe.” She laughs again, turns, and vanishes around the end of the aisle.

Whoa.

How much of what went before is fact, how much is part and parcel of the fantasy that follows? I can’t tell or won’t tell. But I found my inspiration in the flirting and suddenly the grocery became a place with at least a chance of someone taking a chance.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll be back in this same grocery, needing to buy the dozen eggs I’m forgetting today after our first encounter. Walking quickly through the produce section to the back of the store, I’ll be trying to get in and out in as little time as possible. Ten items or fewer.

And yet, I won’t be able to help looking up the cereal aisle when I pass. And there will be Sydney in a cart, her mom squatting nearby, retrieving a fallen something or other. I’ll smile and walk slowly up the aisle. Sydney will see me and make a silly sound. I’ll wave and make a face. She’ll laugh. Her mother will look up and have to grab the cart to keep from falling over. Her skirt will be too short for this particular pose and I’ll catch sight of shaved pussy. And she’ll know that. She’ll look up to confirm either my smile or blush. I won’t be sure if she’s surprised to see it’s me.

“Are young mothers so rushed these days that they usually run out to the Stop & Shop without their underwear?” I won’t be able to say “panties” in the cereal aisle. And really, if you haven’t tried it, don’t judge.

She’ll stand up, not looking at me, but smiling and touching Sydney’s cheek as if caressing her own breast. But then she’ll turn and pin me to the Hungry Jack pancake mix with directness and her pale green eyes. “They do if their husbands won’t fuck something they’ve seen a head come out of.”

Not much will be said as we both head together to the same checkout line. I’ll have my eggs; she’ll have a few items she may or may not need. I’ll walk her to her mini-van and stand by the door as she puts her daughter into her car seat.

“Look, this is what it is,“ she’ll say, looking me in the eyes. “Serendipity. Tomorrow I’m moving to Sharon and I’ll be shopping at Roche Brothers. But today, you’re here and I’m here. I’ve got two condoms and Sydney’s got a bottle and a Teletubbies DVD that will keep her looking the other way for close to an hour.” She’ll trace a forefinger down my chest and smile. “Carpe diem, Cereal Boy.”

“Are you sure?” Why is it that, even in my fantasies, I always look a gift horse in the mouth? My fantasies need both a rewind and a rewrite. And perhaps gift horses with their jaws wired shut.

Then she’ll move closer to me, her shirt touching my belt, her face inches away from my face, looking up. “Look. Yesterday, it was you I was flirting with. Today it could have been someone else, right? But it wasn’t. It was you again. That’s fate, right?”

Of course she’ll be right. It’s suburban kismet.

She’ll look away for a second. And when she looks back, I’ll see her eyes soften, as if saying “Please?” But she won’t say that. Instead, she’ll go all Karla DeVito and Meat Loaf. “What’s it gonna be, boy? Yes or no?”

The back of a Dodge Grand Caravan is not the same size as a king, queen, full, or even twin size bed. It’s cramped even on the diagonal. But, given that, its windows are tinted so any passersby at the edge of the parking lot won’t see anything. And, not only does the DVD player fold down from the cab ceiling, it also comes equipped with wireless headphones. Sydney won’t hear a thing except for Dipsy and Po.

I will help fold down the stowable third row seats and spread a beach towel on the carpeted floorboard. And while this young woman checks on Sydney one last time and locks the doors, I’ll remove my sneakers and shorts. There’s so much about this situation that should make me too nervous to be excited, and yet my cock will be making a tent out of my boxers. It’s not a mercy fuck, something that’ll become even more obvious when she returns to where I am, kicks off her sandals and we start to kiss. Her skirt will never come off, even though I’ll take off her tank top and bra almost immediately. My shirt will stay on, even though my boxers won’t. I don’t know why. Completely naked would be reckless?

There’s something inevitable about desire given permission. It’s a roller coaster going over the crest of that first big hill. Once you’ve gone that far, all you can do from then on is throw your arms back and scream. What’s going to happen is going to happen.

So perhaps even foreplay is excessive in this situation. We’ll be beyond that within the first two minutes. Our tongues will be playing tag while I knead her breasts and she clutches my ass. My cock will nestle between her legs under its own volition, seeking and finding her wet center like some sort of instinct-driven dowsing rod. She’ll grab my cock with one hand and slide the head along her slick labia. Yes, we’ll be beyond foreplay.

“Fuck me,” she’ll say. And she’ll say it in such a way that it will be a command, a request, and permission all at the same time. And with no other words, she’ll hand me one of the condoms, flip around, kneel with her ass facing me, and bend over, head down on the towel. I’ll rip open the condom wrapper and slip the condom over my bobbing cock. I’ll start to think I should play a little more, perhaps rub by cock back and forth across her clit, maybe flick her with my cock. But I’ll quickly remember the sound of that “Fuck me” and slip my cock inside her in one short, then one long deliberate stroke.

And it will be a hard, sweaty fuck. I’ll grab her by the waist and pull her back into me as I thrust my cock deep inside her. Sometimes she’ll take one of her arms and push against the inside wall of the van, pushing back against me until I can feel me hit her. I don’t know if the van will be rocking, but each stroke will be a slam of skin on skin, accompanied by her soft, hissing commentary. “Yeah… right there. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck...” And somehow, somehow we’ll keep going. In and out, body slamming into body, my balls and her breasts swaying, her hand pressing back between her legs, fingers finding her clit. I’ll stay hard; she’ll stay wet. And neither of us will want to come until we drop.

Afterward, she’ll pop her head up over the seat to check on Sydney. “She’s fine. Happy as can be.” She’ll toss me a diaper wipe for the used condom. Her face and chest will be flushed, but she’ll look lovely. “What a fucking asshole her husband must be,” I’ll think. I’ll smile. She’ll smile back and crawl back over to me. Kneeling, with her palms on my chest, she’ll say, “The DVD is only about half over. So… we can go again if you think you can.” Laughing, she’ll push me over, straddle my lower legs, grab my cock and start licking it before I have a chance to answer.

“Yeah,” I’ll softly say. “I think I can.” That will be obvious, of course. My cock will have never quite gone down all the way. But, as she licks it and plays with my balls, my erection will come back with a hard certainty. I’ll run my fingers through her hair as she runs her tongue along a visible vein before taking my cock into her mouth and throat, bobbing twice, and then letting the head pop out of her tightened lips, making a sound like a distant, wet champagne cork. Kneeling on top of my legs, one hand still grasping my erection, she’ll lean over and grab the second condom. Ripping open the wrapper with her teeth, she’ll take the condom out, roll it onto my shaft, and lower herself onto me.

The second time will be a luscious anachronism. With time running out, with all of our knowledge of how temporary and precious that last 20 minutes of DVD will be, one would think that we would be frantic, that we would fuck like crazed mechanical monkeys on oversized batteries and Red Bull.

But it won’t be like that at all. Instead of hurried animal thrashing, this time the sex will be slow and languorous. It will be in the moment. It will be fucking with our eyes open, committing everything to memory—the quality of sunlight as it comes through the tinted mini-van windows, the color of the beach towel, her crooked smile and the bounce of her breasts when she slowly moves on top of me. If we hurry, the end will come all that much sooner. If we take our time, perhaps time will return the favor and take longer. Of course, I won’t think this. It will just happen, because that’s the way it is supposed to happen.

I’m not a big one for talking during sex. Not small talk, not dirty talk, not much talking at all, really. Noise is good, but coherent thought seems intrusive and sometimes out-and-out comical. But this will be different. As she rides me, rocking her hips, slowly sliding my cock in and out of her pussy, she’ll tell me little things about herself, things that have nothing to do with being a mother, nothing to do with being a wife. She’ll push against my chest and stomach with her hands and I will hold them in my hands, moving with her, listening, looking in her eyes, occasionally reaching up to cup a breast. She went to college on a tennis scholarship. Her best friend from high school lives in Japan. Her first boyfriend was named Walter. She’s never been spanked or tied up or fucked up the ass and wonders if she ever will be. She has a gold vibrator she calls Jesus because he gets her through her days.

“How do I feel, Cereal Boy?”

And I’ll know what she means, what she wants to hear. She’ll lean forward until her face is near mine, her breasts grazing my chest as she continues to move. I’ll place my hands on her smooth ass, her curving waist and hips. And I’ll describe for her how tight her pussy feels wrapped around my cock. I’ll tell her how I can feel her warmth and her juices through the condom. I’ll compare the feeling of her cunt to hot fudge sundaes and to Beethoven’s Ninth and this will make her smile. “Thank you,” she’ll say, leaning back and placing my hand on her belly. “Now make me come.”

Is her belly less toned than it was two years ago? How would I know? Are there faint traces of stretch marks?  I won’t notice. It won’t be important. I’ll slip my thumb between us and press her clit against my cock as it slides in and out of her. Only then will she close her eyes. And as she gets closer and as she starts to bite her bottom lip, I’ll wonder who or what she is thinking about. Then she’ll open her eyes and look into mine and she won’t look away as she comes, allowing only one cry out loud before holding it in, letting go and staying quiet, all at the same time.

“Now you,” she’ll say, starting to roll her pelvis, slowly riding my cock, enjoying my cock, committing it to memory.

She’ll be dressed seconds after the DVD starts to roll the credits. As I finish getting my own clothes and shoes back on, she’ll already be tickling Sydney and finding her a snack.

I’ll get out of the van, thinking it best to just let the moment go and walk away with a smile and a wave. But she’ll call after me. “Wait a second!”

She’ll run over to me and hand me my carton of eggs. “You wouldn’t want to forget these, would you?” And then she’ll rise up on her tiptoes and kiss my cheek as if we were old friends.

“Maggie. My name is Maggie.”

I’ll smile and start to say something, but she’ll already be turning around to go. But then she’ll wheel around and jab a finger into my chest, look me in the eyes, and say, “Just remember me, Cereal Boy. Think you can do that?”

“Yeah. I can do that.”

# # #

Monday, June 04, 2007

Plucky Duck

Why is this duck smiling? Well, this little fellow is a Meller’s duck from Madagascar. If we assume that this duck is male, then he’s probably smiling because he knows he has a phallus that’s as long as he is. (Think of yourself or a loved one as suddenly possessing a 6-foot long cock and… OK, so maybe I wouldn’t smile over that. There’s bonus inches and then there’s inseam problems.) Or the duck could be a girl and the surprising owner of the Meller’s equivalent of a 6-foot long vagina.

I say “surprising” because, once again, researchers have concentrated on the male of the species and neglected to study the female. It was already known that the male Meller’s duck grows an enormous, corkscrew-shaped phallus every spring, only to have it fall off in the fall. (Apparently, it’s easier to regrow it each year than to keep something that size healthy. I can see that.) Given that 97 percent of bird males don’t have a phallus at all (they sort of dribble out their sperm), scientists had asked themselves why the Meller’s duck needed such an enormous schlong. As with all things (see any of 20 previous entries on this blog), the answer seemed to be linked to reproduction. The Meller’s duck female may choose to mate with one male duck, but she is often then forced to have sex by other males. Naturally, from a male point of view, the duck with the longest phallus is able to get his sperm further inside the female and thereby gain the advantage in fathering her babies.

Except… doesn’t that seem like overkill? Yes, if the female duck has a normal, short, tubelike vagina. But she doesn’t. She has a vagina that’s just as long as the male’s phallus and corkscrews the other way. And, no… until recently, no one had thought to check the female anatomy at all. (Remember, scientists are the same folks who didn’t care to look into that whole unimportant clitoris thing either.) Behavioral ecologist Dr. Patricia Brennan looked where no one had thought to look before and found that clearly the female Meller’s duck was evolving a longer vagina in a race to stay ahead of the longer phalluses. Why? To control whose sperm got to her eggs:

bq. “Once [the females] choose a male, they’re making the best possible choice, and that’s the male they want siring their offspring,” she said. “They don’t want the guy flying in from who knows where. It makes sense that they would develop a defense.”

Then again, instead of doing the coevolution tango, perhaps the female Meller’s duck could learn a thing or two from the female bonnethead shark that gave birth in a Nebraska aquarium—without there being a male bonnethead shark within several hundred miles. A virgin birth. While this seemed like a new occurrence for sharks, it isn’t unusual for many other species. As it stands now, mammals may be the last stronghold of male necessity. You do still need us, don’t you? Even if our idea of a duck cock looks like this?

Posted by Prospero on Mon, 4th Jun, 2007 at 10:33pm
(0) Comments | Permalink
Categories: Sex news   

Thursday, May 31, 2007

Trial and Terror

Kevin and Jen and Michelle perhaps had noticed the change in my sidebar last week. The spam had gotten to be too much for my poor tagboard to take, so I removed it. I know, I know. You really wanted to see those three-per-hour messages for “young gay twinks” mixed in with my complaints about broken photos. Sorry.

And then no one had ever taken advantage of the “private chat with Prospero” Meebo thingee I also had in the sidebar. In fact, sometimes when someone visited Word Oyster and I was logged onto Meebo, I would try to start a conversation with them. And they would run away! Immediately. So I took that down today as well.

However, not to leave us without our toys, I’ve put up another new Meebo widget. If you look at the bottom of this page, you’ll find a Word Oyster chat room. That’s all I can say. I have no idea whether it will get used, whether it will be a mess, anything. I should be there on and off during the day, but definitely late at night. And if I’m not there and you find someone else who is, be friendly. Be sure to change your nickname for chatting from “Guest” to something else. And play nice, OK?

Posted by Prospero on Thu, 31st May, 2007 at 12:12am
(1) Comments | Permalink
Categories: Sex news   

Friday, April 13, 2007

One Leg Up

Where does the time go? Sorry, but I’ve been switching computers and that’s a much bigger task than it sounds like it should be. Can you say “Where the hell does Vista hide the delete button?” Ah, but the new machine not only handles my blogging, writing for work, Photoshop, and so on, but it also has an HDTV receiver and a wide screen. Not that I would ever get distracted while I should be working. Not me.

In the first of what I expect will be several posts on sexual oddities in the animal kingdom, take the case of the male wasp spider. You’re already aware that mating can be a tricky and life threatening thing for the male spider. Hell, I think that’s even in Charlotte’s Web. But it turns out that the male wasp spider may get the last—though probably posthumous—laugh:

bq. “When a male wasp spider discovers a potential partner, he turns her on by shaking her web. The female thereupon supports herself on her long legs on the web so that the male, who is much smaller, can then creep under her body. The rest works hydraulically: the tip of a transformed leg filled with sperm is inserted into the female’s sexual orifice – like a ski boot in its binding.

The female usually puts an end to the affair after a few seconds by attacking her partner and killing him if he does not escape in time. ‘When the male detaches himself from the female, in more than 80 per cent of cases the tip of his genital breaks off,’ the Bonn lecturer Dr. Gabriele Uhl says. ‘The tip then remains in the sexual orifice like a cork, blocking it.’”

Think of it as a chastity belt. And the fair maiden has just happened to bite the head off of her knight before he is able to either go off to war or give her the key. Oh, well. (Damned urban myths. According to the Wikipedia article on chastity belts, “There is no evidence of the existence of chastity belts until ca. 1400 which was over a century after the last Crusade.")

Oh, BTW. The “login for access” panties (sans enlarged spider) are available from Jinx.com.

Posted by Prospero on Fri, 13th Apr, 2007 at 3:00pm
(2) Comments | Permalink
Categories: Sex news   

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Prospero
Massachusetts
Fascinated by language, drawn to art, and utterly amused by everyone's naughty bits. Beyond that, I'm hundreds of years old and I live on an island. Read the play.

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