'Of Risk Takers & Menopause'   Chapter 2 -- FaceBook Baited Hook

  She was fucking easy to consume and so, yeah, I was in—ALL in, that sweet bottomless dug way-down well. Like. Love. Want. Need. I inhaled her nicotine inducing, endorphin drunk highs. The swirling ecstasy with her.  I drowned myself in her spun-drunk light and dark. Jesus, you know? That perfect-mixed and mixing, spinning, blended-smoothie loved liked lust with her...and it was so goddamn easy. So goddamn easy. She was every woman I want and wanted, every girl flailed and fawned. A Masturbation Mistress in waiting.
   Oh my sweet goddamn how we banjo dueled our roles, played our parts. We the two middle-aged expatriates from teen love lost found, re-found.  LOL, oh sweet baby Jesus, how easy it began. That first Facebook baited hook lobbed out over that shallow pond.  And wouldn’t you know it? DAMN, I snagged into and onto this old friend girl, from the polaroid posing before-life time. You-know, one girl, of what, how many from back then? I don’t know, but she, that red-head freckled face, SHE, with the sweet soft ass and pert-personality, SHE, the playground friend-first like, my Becky Thatcher-from-the neighborhood then, SHE bit the friendship request line.
   Sweet goddamn, the pics on her profile page. It was my her again. I see her smile in old throw-back pic-post and I remember the sweet smell. Yeah. She the sure and unsure casual pre-teen, teen, post-teen romantic fuck interest love buddy of mine from forever ago. The warm goo that clogged my veins.
   We all have them, don't we? Or did at least. We middle-aged- miss the ride-wonder ‘what-if?’-“god-what-does-she-look-like-now?” feeders. We troll, click, look, remember, hope. Maybe? Just maybe? We never know, do we? Is it worth the risk, worth the hide?  The “what if” is the game, but the mind-hung spun has to bleed a vexing possibility of “yeah, maybe so” There has to be a bit of real to make the fantasy feel. Maybe she’ll come out and play. Maybe.
   But we want, need and I wanted, needed too and it was that red head that bit, tugged on my line. The glossy selfie family pic post.  The low-rent glamour shot edits. She looked enough, more than thirty some years later, at the menopausal advent season middle-aged, STILL so much like the fun fuck I missed out on so way whacked back when.  
    Missing out on sex? No, no it’s NOT for wanting as a teen—hell the fun-fuck is what we ALL were wanting for then. Or now. Or always. But no paradise-fuck release did I find unzipped in her jeans then. God help me though, but I miss the casual trying, in front seats, backyards, basement family rooms. The casual pre-text trying that comes guilt free with youth. But it was my she all right. My she found again on a social-media menagerie of middle-age best edited-don’t-look-too-fat photos.  I rubbed her face pic on my tablet and tapped it with my digit and bit the tip of my tongue recalling that guilt free high school trying.
   But I try harder now, right? Or will at least, that I goddamn promise, and THAT one, she, the red-head, SHE accepted my friend request. I don’t know, maybe after debating, GOD, maybe masturbating the possibilities pre-accepting that bait I lobbed out there?  But really, whatever zipped through her sexy middle-aged once-was red head, it was SHE putting me through that dangling-out there-- waiting on a response, a reply.  Dangling, hanging. Little crimson heat on my face watching that screen.  An intense, what, thirty seconds, a minute to float past maybe before she tapped that good-times ‘accept’"? HELL yes. A little try and a little like.  Older. Smarter. Yeah. Tugging that line.
   And all that first night, the message lights and lightning, pings, pops.  Little vibrating mode. First, you see, you have got to follow all the required social rules. You know, the blah blah blah banter quasi-flirty but-can-still-back-out and-it-just seems-friendly banter “amazing you, hey right back at ya” polite shit?
  Well she did and we did so it started limply loose and easy. Then we binged and bonged and edged a few little winking emotes here and there as if to squeak crack that door of ‘maybes’ just a fudge wider.  Damn winking foreplay emoticon is like squirting WD-40 on a wailing serpentine belt. It lubes the pulse and makes the slide quietly juice right on in and around.  Yeah. She dropped some wink faces on me too, little flip-page pre-porn striptease winks with a keyboard.  
   But all that rap-play is the accepted courting tribal rights rules followed faithfully until, until we score the good stuff, you know? The little nudge past the polite-company friendly messages. A little invitation, and she invited. She hinted first the TEXT exchange. Scribble in that little black book. Feel a little propane push. The text number increases the heat. It’s that little slide into the private party line. Fuel the flirt and all is OK, on-limits.  The text number raises the curtain. And the play is on, staged on our little phone pad screens.
  Coy and cool, clean and crisp tapped out words. Private-dancer text messages. Little spin and then it begins. Hints in and out. Dare with a question mark to cover the motive. Text muscle brave hidden behind the screen. Be and blow. Give and show. Tap the keys and make the heat rise. Remember and reminder. Make a vow and pledge, confess and sin. All via text screen spin. Thank Jesus for risk takers and menopause, right?  Thank God for old front seat long lost once was flames just needing that stick-rubbing friction to re-ignite.  Wanting, willing…and knowing now and knowing how.
  She and I would re-meet and re-visit we. It was all there in those first words trimmed and shared. All menu presented in a dirty evening friend-request-accepted “hey what’s up-do you remember-God you look great-jeez, you ever wonder what happened to..” dialogue dance.
Written by Somedayman (Missouri Breaks)
Author's Note
Chapter 2 -- Middle age struggle for life, liberty, & the pursuit of sex
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