My Dear Helen, I’ve just re-read your letter for the fourth time. I could have written it myself. From the moment Jeff asked me how the conference went I’ve been talking about you as if you were the only thing about the week worth mentioning. You were. I’m fairly sure that if either one of us had dared to slip her tongue tip between the other’s lips that night, Frank’s fantasy of the two of us sharing a bed might have become reality. I don’t doubt that Frank is a delightful partner for bedtime romps, and he’s begun to play a part in my masturbation fantasies, but I believe that you’d find Jeff to be just as much fun and everything you could want in a young fuckstud. He tells me he’d very much like to prove that to you himself. I want to talk with you again soon, Helen, if only to assure myself that my pleasant memories of our brief first meeting were accurate and worth pursuing. I’ve reserved a table for two for lunch on Wednesday at that wonderful Italian place I told you about – the one just a block south of my office. Twelve noon sharp. I hope you’ll find a way to join me then. Love, Roberta
Roberta was waiting at the restaurant when Helen came in. They greeted each other with the kind of almost-hug and glancing pecks on the cheek that women feel comfortable with in very public settings. They scanned the menu and ordered quickly. Then they picked up their talk where they’d left it the week before. But this time there was an important difference. They had opened themselves to each other in a way they’d never done with anyone else, and the heady blend of affection and eroticism which had grown from it was not to be denied. They showed each other pictures of their sons, and managed to convey their primitive carnal desires for their sons’ strong slender bodies without attracting unwanted attention from other diners seated nearby. They felt like young girls excitingly discussing boys they knew, eagerly sharing veiled hints about the naughty things they’d like to do if they were alone with the boys, and knowing that they were turning each other at the same time. The lunch was as delicious as was the conversation that accompanied it.
A week later the women were taken out to dinner by their sons at a fashionably tacky diner-styled joint, a place that specialized in huge burgers, absurdly rich ice cream sundaes, and 1950’s music from a real jukebox that would still play Elvis’ “Love Me Tender” for a quarter. Frank unashamedly flirted continuously with both of the women, and Jeff found it easy to play the same game with them too. The women loved it.
Afterwards they went to a double-feature repertory cinema, and sat in the very back row of the nearly empty theater. The young men necked and made out with their own mothers, like hormone-crazed teens, all the way through a subtitled French art film none of them had ever heard of. After the intermission they tried exactly the same thing with each other’s mother, through another equally forgettable film. If the men hadn’t been masturbated all the way to orgasm by the women, at least once during each movie, they might not have been able to leave the theater without their rockhard erections causing them embarrassment and discomfort.