Bolder By Design

Page 1

His younger girlfriend was a cold bitch. It took a mature woman to give him what he wanted. My buddies don’t understand. They think I’ve got it made. Hell, I’ve got a thriving construction business that brings in enough cash to do plenty more than just pay the bills, a decent house, a couple of fast cars and a gorgeous young girlfriend. They figure I’m doing great, especially since I managed to score all of that before I hit 40 last year.
What they don’t know, mainly because I choose not to enlighten them, is that my life is not exactly as it appears. Oh, the house and cars are great, and the business is growing so fast, I can hardly keep up. But the girlfriend thing? It sucks. See, Liz is a bitch.
A hot bitch, to be sure, with her perfectly perky tits and her narrow waist and long, dark hair that, when she lets it down, hangs halfway down her ram-rod straight back. She’s the kind of woman who turns men’s heads as she struts down the sidewalk in her three-inch heels, her skirt an inch or so shy of the required corporate length so as to show off her elegantly sculpted legs, her eyes flashing under those trendy dark rimmed-glasses.
But what my buddies–and those poor saps who fawn over her in conferences and fall all over themselves to bring her drinks at mind-numbingly dull office parties–don’t know is that in addition to being a cold-hearted business woman, the girl has one cold pussy, too. “I don’t do sex,” she informed me in her “fuck you if you don’t like it” way one night early in our relationship as I was wining and dining her in a vain attempt to seduce her.
Of course, any sane man would have packed it up right then and there, would have lit out for greener pastures and wetter pussies. But not me. No, smitten as I was with her youthful beauty and her hipper-than-hip attitude, I stuck it out, convinced that I could be the one to convert my little ice-queen into a boiling inferno of lust. Yeah, right.
I eventually learned that she actually did “do” sex, meaning that occasionally she’d spread those perfectly toned thighs and allow me to stick my poor, pathetic dick into her artfully coiffed pussy. But it was hardly an enjoyable experience for either of us. It’s hard to have fun when the girl you’re fucking looks as though she’d rather be painting her nails than letting you fuck her. And her pussy was never wet. Every time I tried to fuck her, I had to go through half a bottle of lube.
Whenever I brought the subject up–meaning begged and pleaded, as in “Why, oh, why, won’t you fuck me?”–she swore that her generation, the youngish Gen Xs, had given up on sex. She said that wasting time and energy on fucking was just so last generation. Which kind of surprised me, considering that the members of her generation seemed to be showing more skin than ever. Were they all cockteases? Apparently so. “God, Sterling,” she’d say with a theatrical roll of her eyes, as if I were a fool for thinking otherwise, “none of my friends give a shit about sex, either. What is the matter with you?”
Hell, after two years with the Ice Queen and her equally frosty friends, I was starting to half-believe that sex really was dead. But then, thank the fuck-gods that be, I met Jo. One simple phone call, and my life, including my non-existent sex life, changed forever. It was an accident, really, how I met her. I needed a website for my company, and, somehow, I’d gotten hold of a business card. JJ’s Website Design, it said. I called, expecting, sexist son-of-a-bitch that I am, that I’d be dealing with a guy, and was at first a bit taken aback to realize that the woman on the other end of the line was the one who’d be doing my site.
After a few seconds, however, it didn’t matter, because I’d already fallen in love with her voice. All sultry sibilants and low tones, Joanne’s sexy tenor sounded nothing like the clipped, matter-of-fact words that forced their way out of Liz’s thin, cold lips.

“Darlin’,” she fairly cooed after we’d talked a bit, “I’ve got some free time. Why don’t you just come on over to my place, and we’ll talk about your site over a couple of beers?”
“Uh, okay,” I stuttered, wondering if this was common practice for web designers. Not that I cared. Already under her spell–and desperate for a voice that sounded even the least bit interested in sex–I would have gone anywhere to see her.
An hour later, freshly showered and at her doorstep, I was glad I did. The first thing I noticed about Joanne was that she was nothing like Liz. In her early forties, Joanne was softly rounded everywhere, from the pale, fleshy cleavage that practically spewed out of her too-tight pink T-shirt to her fine, round ass, encased as it was in an obscenely short, black skirt. Short, bleached-blond hair and a pair of huge, gold-hooped earrings framed her face, and her green, cat-like eyes smiled an invitation as she let me in. She oozed a sultry sexuality that I knew Liz and her little friends would never possess, and under the older woman’s spell already, I followed after her like a willing puppy as she grabbed a couple of beers, then led me to her cluttered desk. I had my eyes on her ass all the way. [read on..]

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