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No editor this time around, so please forgive any errors.
“Dammit, Emma, where are you?”
The conductor was climbing back onto the train as it lurched into motion. A lithe figure in a long, flowing skirt scampered down the steps and leaped onto the platform.
“Typical”, I thought, then chastised myself for a lack of generosity. Her father had never been good with time either, so I suppose she came by it honestly. We had originally planned for me to meet her train nearly two hours ago. As so often happened, later texts explained unexpected complications and an eventual request to come to the station not one, but two trains later. Ah, well. I guess the mother of a 21-year-old should expect to be low on her daughter’s list of priorities.
As she walked towards me, I was once more struck by what a lovely young woman Emma had become. That beauty was even more evident when her face lit with a radiant smile. “Hi, mama. Thank you for picking me up. Sorry I’m late.”
We were crossing the station parking lot when Emma exclaimed in delight at hearing the long, drawn-out whistling call of a whipbird, followed by the distinctive cracking sound that gives the creature its name. “I know we must have them in Wollongong, but I never hear them there.” Emma has struggled a bit with homesickness, so it’s wonderful to have her greeted this way upon her homecoming.
The next instant, we saw the flashing white of a pair of cockatoos wheeling overhead. Their piercing shrieks ripped the relative quiet of the small town morning. Emma grimaced, “We certainly have plenty of those and I’m not sure I’d miss them if we didn’t.”
She began chatting animatedly about goings-on at uni when she halted mid-sentence and mid-stride, looked around and asked, “Where’s the car?”
I pointed to a row of vehicles to my left. “Just over there. We’ll come back for it later. Right now, we’re going to walk into town, okay?”
“Sure. Where are we headed?”
“Ever been to The Magic Bean?”
“Um, nup. I’ve passed by it, but I don’t think I’ve ever been inside.”
“When the two of you were young”, I referred to Emma and her close-in-age sibling, Eleanor, “you may recall that your father was not immoderately involved in your day-to-day care.”
Emma chuckled at the understatement. I went on, “Between looking after you, working part-time, taking care of the house and, in my copious spare time, finishing my thesis, it seemed as if I rarely had a moment to catch my breath.”
It was a warm spring Saturday and the sidewalks of the main street were generously populated with passersby. As we made our way to my favourite coffee shop, I conjured a sliver of my past for my daughter. “It didn’t happen often, but on those days when I could steal the time, I made a beeline for The Magic Bean after I’d dropped you two off at school. As soon as I crossed the threshold, it felt like my blood pressure dropped ten points. No matter how stressed I was, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and scrumptious baked goods granted me peace.”
As we neared the café, I drank in the sunlight and the view of pedestrians in their vibrantly coloured, form-fitting attire. The occasional comely physique on display provoked a pleasant frisson; a reminder of how long it had been since I had attended to my needs. I would address that as soon as Emma was on the train back to uni.
“Usually”, I resumed, “I could only afford to while away a half an hour or so, but I was thrilled to have it. On rare occasions, I would luxuriate in the calm for an hour or so, nursing a couple of cups of coffee, maybe indulging in a croissant or even having brekkie. Sometimes, I’d read the paper; other times I’d people-watch or eavesdrop on the conversations of other patrons, imagining what their lives might be like. Any and all of it provided much needed serenity in a life that sometimes seemed unmanageable.”
I looked sideways at Emma, who had been silent for most of our walk while I raved on. Her expression was pensive. “I’m sorry you had such a hard time, mum. I guess I never realised how difficult it was for you…”
“No worries. That’s all done and dusted now. I only told you that so you’d know The Bean is kind of special to me. I thought it would be nice to introduce you to my old haven.”
Though the café was in the heart of town, it wasn’t on any of the main streets. Confused? Imagine a square city block with—-instead of alleys behind the buildings—-an enclave consisting of a few small businesses with their facades turned towards the interior. Each of the four streets comprising the exterior of the block had a passage between a couple of the buildings that allowed pedestrians to reach the interior. A driveway was placed in the centre avenue so that automotive traffic could gain admittance to those shops as well. It made for an area of the town that was accessible, yet snugly tucked away from the noise and pollution of traffic.
As we approached the entrance, I suddenly realised that I hadn’t been to The Magic Bean Escort İstanbul in a couple of years. Now that the children are grown, my thesis finished and a bad marriage behind me, I’m nowhere near as stressed as I used to be. I hoped it hadn’t changed much in the interim; I’d feel rather foolish after the buildup I’d given it.
I needn’t have worried. As we stepped inside, Emma and I were immediately wreathed in alluring aromas. A quick reconnoitre revealed that the layout of the place hadn’t changed at all since I was last there. Just as before, the canary yellow walls lent a cheery ambiance to the big room. The dark wooden tables and chairs were spaced at intervals that allowed conversation without infringing on the chats of nearby diners.
We each ordered lattes and a light brekkie, after which we found a free table. We had arrived at a good time; between the morning rush and the lunchtime scramble. Emma was filling me in on the details of a job she’d begun only recently. It seems she was getting stalker vibes from one of her male co-workers and she wanted my advice. Before I could answer, a waiter arrived with our coffee. I looked up to thank him and was met with a closeup view of the most sublime paragon of manhood I’ve ever beheld in the flesh.
His eyes were what I noticed first: smiling, a glittering burnt sienna, and fringed by impossibly long lashes. A dark mane of lustrous hair framed a face whose symmetrical contours seemed designed to seduce my gaze. As if that weren’t enough, nature endowed him with a bewitchingly proportioned physique which he had the good sense not to cover too modestly. God bless tight tees.
I don’t know if I can convey the effect he had on me without gushing more than I’ve already done. I certainly could enthuse further with no effort whatsoever. I’m embarrassed to say, I stammered and blushed like a schoolgirl. Emma rescued me with an appropriate “thank you”, after which he gave us a jaunty smile, said, “No drama”, in a warm, liquid voice and strode back to the kitchen. I was mesmerised by his retreating figure. The broad, muscular shoulders and upper back, the nipped in waist and a real stunner of an ass that his jeans did nothing to disguise. Christ. That ‘frisson’ I mentioned earlier? It had transformed into something considerably less subtle.
Luckily and surprisingly, Emma didn’t seem to notice my discomposure. She was venting now about one of her core curriculum professors who possessed an unintelligible accent. In the meantime, I was shocked at how rattled I’d been by the proximity of that young man. A fellow young enough, it suddenly occurred to me, to be my son. On the heels of that thought, it crossed my mind that my reaction to him was anything but motherly.
As Emma regaled me with campus tales, my attention was lured magnetically to his movements. As if needing to confirm the comeliness my eyes had previously reported, I could hardly bring myself to look away. While I was engaged in this not-so-surreptitious ogling, a part of me was puzzled by my reaction to the waiter. I turn up at my gym six days a week. In that environment, I take notice of a steady parade of handsome blokes and splendid builds. While I do indeed appreciate the eye candy, I’d never come undone like this.
Oh my. He’s coming this way again.
Of course, you dolt.
He’s bringing the food.
Stay calm.
Just breathe.
Oh Christ, do you hear yourself? What am I? Fifteen again? I have a Ph.D., for fuck’s sake.
As he laid the plates on the table—-doctorate be damned—-I stared shamelessly. I hope like hell he was intent enough on his task to be oblivious, because I was not sly. I was fortunate that Emma was too much in her own headspace to be aware of the just-below-the-surface tumult going on just across the table from her.
All too quickly, he moved away and returned to his tasks. The way he went about them did not go unobserved, I assure you.
When Emma and I finished our meal and readied to go, I left him a generous tip. Not just for the excellent service of course, but more so for the delectable buzz he’d unwittingly sparked. The objectification took place in the seclusion of my own thoughts, so no harm, no foul, right?
Emma and I spent the rest of the afternoon and the early part of the evening together. We browsed through shops and talked of school, siblings (mine and hers) and other family, romance and a myriad other things. Later, we cooked a delicious meal together before I put her back on the train to Wollongong. I enjoyed Emma’s company thoroughly, but if I’m honest, thoughts of the disconcerting young waiter were never far from the surface.
Would it surprise you to learn that once I returned home from the station, I headed directly for my bedroom and the bureau drawer where I keep my favourite vibe? Okay, so long as I’m in full confession mode, my two favourite vibes.
Suffice it to say that I indulged in an extended romp of self-pleasure that prominently featured the magnificent İstanbul Escort Bayan specimen who had so unbalanced me. I don’t think I’ve had that many orgasms in one session in twenty years. I envisioned a spate of improbable fantasies that eventually (and I must stress that word) left me sated. I suspected it would not be the last time I employed visions of Mr. Gorgeous in such a fashion.
**********
I am an excellent cook, if I do say so myself, and I’m fairly health-conscious. For those reasons, I don’t dine out often. I’d taken Emma to the Magic Bean as a special treat because—-now that she’s at uni—-we don’t get together that often anymore. Even so, I must confess that for several days I’d been wrestling with the impulse to return to the scene of the crime.
Let me make it clear that I don’t view myself as some sort of cougar. I was not labouring under the delusion that I was going to seduce this young man, or even approach him, for that matter. I still wince when I recall how tongue-tied I was in his presence. I was simply considering going back to the café to savour his loveliness again.
If that sounds weird or creepy, let me make an analogy that might help you to view my motives in a less unflattering light. No one looks askance at a person who returns to a museum to view an especially moving work of art. When it comes down to it, is what I’m contemplating all that different? Okay, yeah, there is the perving aspect, but I’m not really hurting anyone. What I ultimately do with the visual stimuli is my own affair, right?
I realise this all sounds like rationalisations for bad behaviour, but I’m not at all convinced the behaviour is bad. At any rate, I’d had all this whirling ’round my brain for several days and hadn’t decided one way or another, though I grant you, I was leaning towards a revisit. These thoughts were uppermost in my mind as I cycled into town for a workout at my local gym. A vigorous weight lifting session was often an excellent means to clearing one’s head.
At my fitness club, opposite the shower rooms, there are a row of cubbies where patrons can stash their gear. As I crammed my backpack and bike lock into one of them, I glanced around the weight room and who should I spy but Mr. Gorgeous.
Seriously.
In a singlet, fer chrissake.
Every sculpted muscle gleaming with sweat.
Fuuuck.
I’m not sure how long I stood transfixed in front of the cubbies; I only hope I didn’t drool. In any case, I did pull myself together and move on to begin my warmup routine.
I won’t deny that as I went about my exercises, I kept track of his movements as best I could in between focusing on my own reps. The room wasn’t crowded at that moment, which facilitated my surveillance. Oh, c’mon, it was all but irresistible. As you should have surmised by this point, I am a visually oriented girl and seeing that body in action was out of this world. Let me tell you, if you saw him, you wouldn’t judge me.
I was about half an hour into my program when it came time to do the dreaded deadlift. Don’t misunderstand me; I am one of those odd bods who genuinely enjoys exercise… for the most part. I don’t even have anything against doing deadlifts per se, it’s the apparatus I dislike.
Whether it’s a barbell or a hex bar, when it’s not loaded with weight, it rests flat on the floor. That means you have to lift up an end of the bar with one hand while you heft a heavy plate with the other to slide the plate onto the bar. That can be challenging anywhere, but especially so in my gym. You see, there’s some kind of roughness on the ends of these particular bars (rust, maybe?) that makes it impossible to push the plates on easily. You have to twist them, turn them, wriggle them, and this all takes time. Did I mention these are heavy weights? Both the bar and the plate.
As I struggled to load the bar, cursing under my breath, I heard a voice behind me ask, “Can I give you a hand with that?” Uh-huh. You guessed it. Mr. Gorgeous.
I straightened up but still had to peer up to him. I gawked silently for a moment before I got a hold of myself. I am an intelligent, articulate woman and I’ll be damned if I was going to be rendered mute by a pretty face.
“Um, yes, please.”
Alright, alright, I’m aware that’s not classical rhetoric. Baby steps, m’dear, baby steps. At least I said something.
“Okay”, he said, “do you want me to get the weights or the bar?”
“Oh… how about the weights, please.”
I lifted the bar while he didn’t so much slide the recalcitrant plates on as he half screwed and half shoved them on. Then we repeated the process on the other side. And yes, I sneaked a couple of side glances at him. As he hoisted the plates, the sight of his muscles shifting and contracting was enthralling.
“Ta. That was a lot more manageable with two people doing it.”
“It’s all good; I’m glad I could help.” He began to move away and then turned to face me again. “I work over at The Anadolu Yakası Escort Magic Bean. Didn’t I see you there the other day?” Huh. Though I had been fixated on him, I would’ve sworn he wouldn’t have noticed me with a bombshell like Emma beside me.
“Yes, I remember you too.” It was all I could do not to giggle. I suppose sending someone into a masturbatory frenzy counts as memorable. “You waited on our table.”
He extended his hand. “Hi, my name’s Ethan.” His grip was firm, but not unduly so. “Pleased to meet you, Ethan. I’m Melissa.”
“I’m new to the area and haven’t had the chance to meet anyone other than my co-workers at the coffee shop, so it’s nice to have a name to match a friendly face.”
“Welcome to The Highlands, Ethan. I hope you find it to your liking.”
“If the people here are all as friendly as you, how could I not?”
“Huh. Well-spoken, Ethan”, I thought, “So you’re not just a hunky featherbrain.” He possessed an affable smile that dispelled my jitters which, at my age, struck me as more than a little ridiculous.
That pleasant expression made me uncertain how to interpret what he said next: “From those biceps of yours I’d guess that you are a long-time gym-goer.” I’m not sure what he read in my face, but a look of concern passed over his features. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No, not at all, it’s just that, um, I was teased when I was younger… for being, well, too muscular for a girl… too… mannish.”
His eyes widened in what seemed to be authentic surprise. “Seriously? What kind of idiot thought you were ‘mannish’? Probably a woman who was jealous of your figure and needed to put you down to boost her own ego. Or if it were a man, it would’ve been some wanker who was threatened by the idea of a strong, capable woman.”
*Ahem* A feminist to boot? Mr. Gorgeous was looking better every minute.
“I could say the same about you, y’know.”
“Hmmm?”
“I meant that you look like you know your way around a gym too.”
He blushed charmingly, and fidgeted as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. When he unconsciously scratched the back of his head, his bicep bulged dazzlingly. Whew. I hate to sound shallow, but God, he made my mouth water. Well, at any rate, something was certainly wet.
“Actually,” he replied, “I’m just learning the ropes. If you’re referring to the muscle, that came from growing up on a farm. The place went under during the latest drought, which is how I came to be in town. Now that I’m no longer doing such physically demanding work, I thought I should do something to stay in shape and voilà… here I am.”
As he said that last bit, he extended his arms with a flourish. Oh, what a sight that was. Did he really have no idea how beautiful he was? He’s probably just a nice boy being polite to someone’s mum, with no idea he’s making her panties sodden. I’m sure he’d be mortified if he knew.
I guess I’m officially shameless, because I told him, “My ex was an athlete and I learned a lot from him. I’m also research-oriented, so I’ve picked up a lot more about health, nutrition and exercise since. If you ever have any questions, I’m happy to help.”
In my defence, this was all true, and I have provided considerable help to several other gym-goers in the past when they’ve looked a bit lost. Two of them were older folk and one was a woman, so I had no ulterior motive. Actually, I practically became that woman’s personal trainer for several months. If I have a chance to encourage someone to live a healthier, more rewarding life, of course I’ll take it. So, I truly wasn’t trying to bed Ethan, but yeah, the idea of spending time with him wasn’t unappealing.
Ethan looked pleased. “Gee, that’s incredibly generous of you. If we can come up with a schedule that works for both of us, I’d really like to take you up on that. Are you sure you don’t mind? I really don’t know much about this stuff. You’d almost be starting from scratch.”
“It would be my pleasure.” I gave myself a mental pat on the back for managing to say that with a straight face.
“Won’t teaching me interfere with your workout?”
“Not at all. I’ve done this before. You’re going to work out with me. I’ll show you what to do as I’m doing it. At the same time, I’ll explain the point of the exercise and how it works in conjunction with the other exercises. If you’re interested, I can also teach you how nutrition can enhance your routine and your life in general. Sound good?”
“So, basically, I’m getting a free personal trainer. Wow. This is my lucky day.”
I allowed myself to smile back at him. Mine too, Ethan. Mine too. Only, of course I didn’t say that out loud.
**********
Never mind how I later “processed” the encounter I just described. Did my vibe earn its keep that evening? Was Ethan’s name wailed to the rafters of my bedroom… until I was too spent to do more than gasp it?
Could be; could be.
Did I feel a skerrick of guilt for polishing my pearl over a fella who’s likely half my age? Not on your nelly. Why should I? What Ethan doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
**********
As I mentioned before, I am a devout, six-day-a-week gym rat. Ethan must’ve been eager to begin the lessons because we scheduled our first workout for the next day.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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