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The 55-year-old Virgin
by The Big Bopper
Are you intrigued by the title of this story? How many women would there be who had managed to keep their vagina intact to that age in this age? Well, I can assure you that life’s circumstances brought me to meeting one such woman and I am about to relate the story for you.
Should I start at the beginning? No, I better only go back as far as I need to take you to have all the details become relevant. I am a 55-year-old guy and, no, I am not the 55-year-old virgin referred to in the title. I have never felt comfortable describing males as virgins, simply because they hadn’t yet sunk their erection into that beautiful, warm female cavern. I mean, no aspect of a penis is torn or abused as a woman’s vagina is … it is just a wonderful slippery slide into paradise. Right, guys?
No, I am about to tell you of a real, living, breathing woman — physically a virgin — who still possessed an unruptured hymen at the age of 55, and who having passed the half-century mark, would perhaps have anticipated never having her vagina sullied by the insertion of a man’s penis. But at the point where I will take up this story, I didn’t know of this 55-year-old woman’s secret internal sexually intact condition.
Before I set about telling you of meeting the mature aged virgin, I need to pay my respects to my gorgeous wife, and mother of our three great kids. I was married to this wonderful loving woman for almost 30 great years, and we had a good life. Two years ago, she became ill with a form of cancer that is most often fatal. She suffered these past two years and was taken from us six months ago. I miss her terribly, and I brooded for months after the funeral, feeling miserable and cursing why God had to take such a good woman as her.
Everyone around me tried to encourage me to snap out of my melancholy. My kids, of course, my closest buddies, and some couples that my wife and I had known and socialised with for years. I was unmoved for several months, but then a buddy, who had travelled down a similar path a year before me, took me aside to tell me how much happier he was once he accepted that his late wife would have wanted him to move on and start living life again.
I took his sage words on board and determined that I should at least open a dialogue with single women, but how to get myself out there and onto the dating scene for the first time in more than 30 years? I have been a regular on Facebook in recent years, initially to keep up with what my kids were doing. One day, out of equal amounts of boredom and a little curiosity, I began to search on Facebook for the names of young women I dated from school days until I met and married my late wife.
What initially seemed a great idea to reacquaint with former girlfriends, turned out to be a stupid idea because obviously, their names changed once they married, making them almost impossible to trace. Duh!
After failing with the first eight names I tried, I actually found one that could be a young woman that I dated for only 8 weeks back when we were twenty … Amy Martin. Could this Amy Martin be her? The photo at the top of her Facebook page didn’t look much like I recalled, but then it was 35 years ago. What convinced me was that she had listed her old high school and that matched, and I recognised one name among her list of Facebook friends … fortunately, her page was public. Must be The Amy I knew. I clicked a Friend Request and was pleasantly surprised when she confirmed it within 12 hours.
I posted a short note on her page, saying: “Hi Amy, remember me? Do you still live around the same area? If so, would you like to catch up for lunch one day, compare notes on how our lives have evolved?”
I wasn’t all that confident that she would accept my invitation. After all, ours was one of the shortest relationships in my life. In eight weeks, we didn’t even get to becoming sexually active. Oh sure, we kissed a lot at the end of our dates, but the best of our making out was on our last date. I remember her having a great pair of breasts, but such a waste that she kept them hidden most of the time.
A reply to my post came back quite quickly. She said simply, ‘Are you married?’ That was all! I typed my response, ‘Widowed last September,’ and clicked ‘post.’
In my email Inbox, I got a Facebook message, telling me to look in Messenger for a personal message. Amy had moved our communication to one-on-one, giving me her phone number and inviting me to call her. I did.
“Hi Amy, how are you?”
“I’m fine thanks, Jason. It’s interesting to hear from you … after all this time.”
Was that a touch of sarcasm, or is that cynicism, that I was reaching out after 35 years to a woman I had known for all of 8 weeks? That is not quite right. We only dated for 8 weeks, but I had known her for at least a year before asking her out. She was part of the group that I hung with toward the end of mobilbahis güvenilir mi our teenage years.
Amy at Twenty
I remember that I never thought of Amy as a possible girlfriend back then, she was just one of the gang … about a dozen guys and girls, who socialised a fair bit, went to all the same parties.
I think we each found ourselves between relationships and, needing a date for a friend’s wedding, I made a call to invite Amy. I recall being a bit surprised when she said yes? But we both had a good time that night, so a week later, I called and asked her to come to the movies with me. We sort of clicked, and so I upped the invites to two or three a week.
On our third date, we went to a pizza restaurant and were back in my car by nine, so I suggested we go for a drive. There was a big lake not far out of town and, by the age of twenty, I knew the best parking spots along the foreshore. I drove to my favourite one, usually quite isolated from other cars, and turned to Amy, who was wearing a skirt and sweater.
I had come out of a 10-month relationship that had been relatively serious — and quite hot and heavy at times. It had ended only two weeks before I got the idea to ask Amy out, so it was close to a month since I’d had any sex. Not that I had any expectations on this third date. One of my good buddies had dated Amy previously, and I recalled him at the time I started dating her, describing her as an Ice Maiden, a moniker subsequently confirmed by another of the guys in our group.
So, on that third date, as I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and leaned in for a kiss, I half expected rejection. However, Amy gave me a half-smile before our lips touched, but she did keep hers firmly closed, maintaining a no-entry stance for my tongue for at least the first ten minutes. I allowed my free hand to wander, up and down her arm, around the back of her head, my fingers tangling in her hair. Taking a chance, I brought my fingers lightly across her chest, firmly contained within her pink sweater. I felt her upper body tense, and, for a moment, I thought she was about to withdraw her lips from mine.
When she didn’t, I rolled my palm over the generous shape of one of her breasts, and again I felt her tense. Amy pulled her lips away, but only to express a decisive, “No!” and then allowed me to reclaim her lips … still pressed tightly together. I did think of moving my hand lower, but this was only our third date, and if she didn’t want me to feel her breasts, there was no way she would accept my fingers sliding up under her skirt.
A couple of times, I broke the kiss that was no more exciting than kissing one of my aunts, to allow us both to come up for some clear air. Each time, I filled the awkward moment with some idle chatter about how nice the lake looked at night with the moonlight shimmering on it. Then, I would dive back in to resume the kissing.
I said a moment ago how Amy continued to keep her lips pressed tightly together for about ten minutes. I thought that was going to be about as far as I would get … even when my palm closed over the mound of her left breast for the third time. This time, she didn’t say ‘no’ … only gave a soft sigh from between the clamp of our lips and I felt hers part ever so slightly. My tongue was ever ready, and I slid it between the slight gap she presented. My tongue tip felt her bottom teeth, and then our tongue tips touched, setting off a magical spark through my loins. She gave a second sigh, louder this time and my palm rolled over and around the shape of her breast through the sweater.
Now we were making some progress. If Amy was indeed an ice maiden, then was I getting further than either of my buddies had? Did they give up too soon, or maybe Amy found me more appealing than they? The intermingling of our tongues raised the passion on the front seats of my car. Emboldened, I slipped my probing hand down to the bottom of her sweater at her waist and slid up under it, my fingers tracing over bare skin between her waist and the bottom edge of her bra.
Amy broke the kiss to utter her most definitive “NO!” yet. When I tried to resume the tongue kiss, she pulled her face back away. She was staring at me with an unemotional look. She explained, “Too soon!”
I told her, “Sorry!” because it seemed the most appropriate response for a guy to give when he’s caught with his hand in the cookie jar … so to speak.
We sat close together, almost like statues, our faces close, our lips still slightly apart, mine ready for more while I wasn’t sure about hers. I hadn’t withdrawn my hand, holding my position with my hand and wrist up under her sweater, my fingertips lightly pressing against the lower half of her bra at that left breast.
Do I go for it? Ignore her latest and loudest ‘no’ and grasp her entire orb in the palm of my hand while pushing to resume the kiss?
She could obviously read mobilbahis indecision in my eyes, so she decided to set out her position lest I go the same way as my buddies had and never ask her for another date. “I like you very much, Jason. I liked you even before you asked me out. I don’t know what you do with other girls and frankly don’t care. You might call me old-fashioned, but I am saving myself until I feel I’m with the right man.”
WTF? I wasn’t trying to breach the citadel concealed within her panties, for god’s sake. I only wanted a feel of her breasts, and maybe — either tonight or next time — get to wrap my lips around a nipple and suckle on it for our mutual pleasures. But for now, I guess I needed to assure her I wasn’t after only one thing, even though my previous girlfriends had been more than willing to allow me that one magic thing. Yes, it was magic to a 20-year-old … can’t you all remember?
The tongue kissing had me wanting more at that time, even if it was only applying my lips and tongue to her nipples. I had been getting very regular sex in my previous almost year-long relationship and it had been a month since we parted. But on that night, on my third date with Amy, I withdrew my hand from under her sweater. We did kiss a bit more before I drove her home, not with quite as much passion as we had been building up.
Our fourth date was a daytime outing, and we didn’t go parking after it. Not quite the same in daylight by the lake, far less privacy for some intimacy. The fifth date was in our third week, and we found ourselves back down in the moonlight by the lake after seeing an early evening movie. Amy wore a skirt and blouse this time with buttons down the front. The tongues saw action much earlier in the kissing this time, giving me hope that we might progress a little further this night.
While our lips and tongue played intertwiningly together, causing me to believe I had Amy preoccupied, I sent my free hand roaming again. Soon, my fingers were (I thought subtly) unbuttoning her blouse and slipping my hand in, to this time grasp a firm hold of that left breast, encased only in her bra. She seemed to accept the caress of my palm, even when I used my fingertips to rub across her stiffening nipple.
I drew encouragement when Amy brought her hand to hold the back of my head as if ensuring I didn’t withdraw my lips and tongue from hers. But how to get her bra off without appearing to push this beyond her limits? My fingers traced up onto the upper slope of her bare smooth flawless skin above the top of that lacy bra cup.
A similar sigh to the other night. I tried curling my fingertips inside the top of her bra cup, managing to touch that now engorged nipple and she emitted a muffled gasp from behind the kiss. Yes, you guessed it, I had pushed too far, and she ended the kiss abruptly, her hand darting off the back of my head to pull my fingers from out of her bra cup.
We looked closely into each other’s eyes, she with an expression of ‘what am I going to do with you?’ Mine would have been more an impassioned pleading look of ‘come on, let me go just a bit further, please.’
By our eighth week of dating, we’d been out about fifteen times. Girlfriend Amy had so limited my access to her body that I now knew that my fingers must never touch a nipple, and don’t even think about sliding a hand up under her skirt. Yet, there was this one intriguing night in the eighth week when she took me completely by surprise. I parked my car in my favourite spot down by the lake, switched the engine off and turned to start kissing her, finding her lips already parted and tongue at the ready between her lips.
Immediately, Amy was way more passionate than on any previous night. I don’t recall how aware I was back then that a woman’s libido changes on different days of her monthly cycle. Thinking back to that night now, she must have been in that hottest stage that evening. By then, I had almost given up any prospect of getting her bra open or off, but finding her more passionate, I gave it one more try.
She was back to wearing a sweater on this evening and eventually as our lips and tongues entwined in an intensely passionate kiss, I slipped my free hand up under the bottom of her sweater. My palm slid over the cup containing her left breast, and she gave one of her sighs. Her response was to raise her hand up to the back of my head. Although expecting my effort would be futile, I ran my palm over and around the orb that I held, then let my fingertips play with the stiffening nipple through the material of her bra.
Another sigh, maybe it could be called a moan even. Her hand slid off the back of my head. ‘Here we go,’ I thought, ‘here’s the hand coming to rip my hand off her breast.’ But to my amazement, her hand didn’t go near mine. She did break the kiss, but only to lean forward in her seat and she used both of her hands to raise the sweater up over her head. Then, still leaning forward, her hands met behind mobilbahis giriş her back. Oh man, was she unclasping the bra? I saw the cups loosen over her breasts, then watched as she eased the bra straps down her arms and the cups fell away, revealing two wonderful perfectly formed perky breasts, nipples stiff and prominent in the moonlight streaming in through the windscreen.
I couldn’t believe what was happening. I stared into her face, almost seeking her approval to proceed. She spread her two arms wide to me, seemingly inviting me to covet her upper body. I needed no further encouragement. My face closed on her chest and I wrapped my lips around the closest nipple, beginning to suckle on her taut teat. I can recall it as if it were yesterday, stunned at her sudden change. I avidly feasted on both nipples for a long time that evening.
Emboldened by her newly revealed sexuality, I even had a compulsion to push further, sending my fingers on an exploratory mission to the lower half of her body. My hand touched a knee and slipped under her skirt, sliding slowly up along her inner thighs. Too far! Amy abruptly stopped my progress before I got anywhere near the juncture of her torso with the tops of her thighs.
If the sudden switching on of a new sexual appetite by Amy had taken me by surprise that evening, then what happened next completely blindsided me. Once she had reclasped her bra and pulled her sweater demurely into place, she turned to me to ask, “Err, Jason, before you start the car, I need to tell you something.”
She gave me a serious look as she continued, “I like you very much, and I have had so much fun with you these past few weeks, but I need to ask you if we could go back to just being friends? It’s the sexual part that I’m not at all comfortable with. It’s nice to just kiss when we come down here, but I am constantly aware that you want so much more, and I’m not prepared to give you what you want.”
I tried to interrupt, “Amy, we don’t…”
She raised a finger to my lips to stop me mid-sentence, “Shush, be quiet, hear me out. What I’m saying is true. I know what you want, it’s what all guys want from a girl or woman every time they are alone with her. And it’s not fair of me to string you along, having you think every time we come here that this might be the night when I know in myself that it won’t ever be. It’s not a commitment thing, I don’t see anything for us long term, not when we’re only twenty. So many years to be single and see the world before settling down. I may be different from any other girl you’ve dated. I don’t want sex, not now, not this soon. I hope that one day I will really feel like it … want it and need it, I mean. But for now, for me, the sexual side of dating is a complication that I don’t want. It’s not for me, and I know that’s unfair to you, so you should be free to date any girl who will happily make out with you. Jason, I am hoping we can remain friends and it would be great if we could go out occasionally. I just don’t want the afters that follow every date.”
I had gone from wanting to interrupt to becoming speechless. What should I say, do I rush to deny that I was a sex fiend, only interested in one thing? Back then, when I was twenty, her assessment was cruelly accurate of me. But I couldn’t work out why we had just gone through our most intimate night in the eight weeks? She had been more sexual in the past half-hour than at any other time since we began dating, “Amy, what was tonight all about then? If you had already decided we were going to break up, how come you suddenly let me loose on your breasts. It was so good tonight, we seemed to be getting somewhere. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy all of that? You looked and sounded like you were really into it.”
“Oh yes, Jason, I did, and you are very good at that, you made me feel extremely good deep inside. What do they say … you got my juices running? I hoped you’d be good, and damn it, you were. But I know that if we continue to date, you will want all of that and more every night that we come down here. Jason, I am not prepared to give you any more of me. This might surprise you, but until tonight, I’ve never let any guy even see my nipples, let alone kiss them the way you did tonight. I know you’re confused; I can see it on your face. You’re wondering why I let you do that if I was about to stop dating you. So, I will explain … I am definitely not ready for full sex, but I have always wanted to try what we did tonight. With every other guy I’ve dated, I wasn’t confident that they would respect my wishes to stop when I said stop. You are the first guy I felt I could trust, a guy who was so incredibly patient through all of our previous dates, accepting it without complaint whenever I said stop. I have to stop us dating now because it wouldn’t be fair to you. Whatever I let you do, you will always want more, and I can’t do that.”
“Is it a religious thing, is that why you don’t want to enjoy the pleasures of great sex?”
“Jason, I suppose it’s a bit about religion. My family is quite religious, I was raised Catholic, but it’s more a moral question. My parents have very strong moral values and they instilled those in me from a very early age. I won’t give my body to any man until I marry.”
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