The Real 40 Year Old Virgin
My husband Michael and I were both city kids, but our hearts were in the vast expanse of the American West, specifically the Wapiti Valley of Wyoming. We spent most of our vacation time there, and we were planning on settling there in our retirement. We had even purchased a place on a few acres west of Cody. The only structures were a one-bedroom cabin and a stable for horses, but it had breathtaking views of the Absaroka range and easy access to Yellowstone. We had started to consult an architect to build a larger home, with windows that would face the sun as it set behind the mountains, when Mike was suddenly taken from me. One moment we were chatting happily over a leisurely weekend breakfast, the next he had collapsed, dying swiftly from a cerebral aneurysm at the age of thirty-eight. Knowing he probably felt no pain was my sole consolation.
I thought about selling the property in Wapiti. I couldn’t even bring myself to visit for several years, but I couldn’t quite let it go either. Five years after Mike died, though—having just turned thirty-eight myself—I decided it no longer made sense to be lonely in the midst of well-meaning but misguided friends and family. I made up my mind to take my loneliness somewhere that emotion made sense, to the isolated corner of the planet Mike and I had both loved. I looked up the architect, found a builder, and moved into the small, but serviceable cabin on the property while I waited for the house to be built.
I was a curiosity when I went into town for groceries. The people were not unfriendly, just reserved, which was fine by me. It meant there were no prying questions, no one asking, “But how are you really?”
The one exception was Skipper, or Skip, the incongruously named builder I had chosen, who also served as a handyman whenever something went wrong in my cabin. Skip had been in command of some vessel in the Navy, hence the nickname, but once he got out, he vowed never to see the ocean again. He couldn’t have chosen a more appropriate location. In contrast to the townspeople, Skip was gregarious and a bit of a gossip. He knew everything there was to know about everyone in the valley, and kept me abreast of all the goings-on in town.
Grant, my nearest neighbor I had seen, but never spoken with. From time to time, I would see him riding out near our fence line, and I would give a wave, which he generally returned with a nod and a tip of his hat. I knew he ran a successful stable, but that was about it. One day, I asked Skip about him.
“Well, you two are a matched set,” Skip began. “Grant lives there all alone on that big old place he bought. He’s ex-military like me, you know. To hear people talk, he was really something back in high school—smart, handsome, point guard on the basketball team, most-likely-to-succeed. He and this girl, Tonya, were really thick, but he was raised right, and they apparently never did the horizontal mambo, if you take my meaning. He went away to the Air Force Academy, did his tours, and saved up to buy that property for Tonya. Meanwhile, she was galavanting around with every man in the county while still stringing him along. Just before he got out of the service, she ran off to Denver with another man, and Grant never took up with anyone else. Supposedly he’s still a virgin.”
Skip finally paused to chuckle. “Can you imagine? A real live forty-year-old virgin, just like in that movie. You like that Steve Carell? Boy, that ‘Office’ show really cracked me up.”
I could imagine. I was practically a virgin again myself after five years. Mike was the love of my life, and we had had great sex. But I hadn’t been touched since he died, not even by myself. Remembering Mike’s body on mine just made me too sad, and I was sure no one would ever compare, so I had given up. I found that, for me at least, if I didn’t have sex—or even thoughts of it—I could keep myself from wanting it.
I had been out in Wapiti for almost a year. The harsh winter had finally shown the first signs of breaking in late March, with several days of sun and above freezing temperatures, but it looked like another howling snowstorm was coming up fast. I added another log to the fire, and pulled the blanket closer around me on the couch before settling back into my novel.
When I looked up a bit later, I saw I had been right. In the dying light, I couldn’t see any farther than huge, fluffy snowflakes swirling outside my window. I was glad I was indoors, safe and warm.
The storm continued to rage after night fell. I could no longer see it, but I could hear it. I was starting to nod off when I was jolted awake by what I thought was a knock at the door. “Who on earth would be out in this,” I thought. I was sure I must have imagined it.
But a minute later, there was another knock, this time louder and more determined. “Ma’am? Open up please!” a voice shouted above the wind.
In the city, I would have been more cautious, but I figured the odds of anyone out here trudging through this weather just to do me harm were slim. It was far more likely that whoever was there was in serious need of help.
I got up and flung open the door to find that it was my neighbor, Grant. He practically filled the door frame—handsome, rugged, and nearly frozen over.
“Good Lord,” I exclaimed. “Get in here. What are you doing out in this?”
Grant began speaking as if we had known each other for years. “Trudy got spooked. You know she’s a good old horse, but she’s gotten skittish in her old age. Still, I couldn’t leave her out there. I should have known better, but I thought I could find her and get in before it started. Hope you don’t mind that I put her in your stable. The fence is down, by the way. That’s how she got here. We’ll have to fix it come spring.”
I tried to digest all of that, failed, and finally just said, “Come in and sit by the fire. You’re soaked, or at least you’re going to be when that snow starts to melt. If you take off your clothes, I’ll throw them in the dryer.”
“Won’t your husband object?”
“Husband?” I was confused. I couldn’t see Mike being angry about me helping out a neighbor even when he was alive. Surely he wasn’t going to put up a fuss from the great beyond.
“Ma’am, you’re wearing a wedding ring,” Grant pointed out.
“Oh.” I had never stopped wearing the band. “Right. He…he died five years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” Grant said softly. “I didn’t mean to bring anything up. I just assumed a lady like you had a man. I did wonder why I had never seen him, though.”
I nodded. “You want coffee? I’ll fix it while you get out of those wet clothes. There’s a blanket on the couch to wrap up in while they dry.”
“I’m not much on coffee.”
“I’ll Irish it up,” I said, grabbing a whiskey bottle from a shelf and wiggling it.
Grant smiled and laughed. “Now you’re talking. I’m Grant Walsh, by the way. I don’t think I’ve ever introduced myself.”
I realized then that I hadn’t actually known whether Grant was his first or last name. I extended my hand. “Pleased to meet you Grant. I’m Anna.”
He shook my hand. “Anna,” he repeated with a smile.
I turned to make Irish coffees for both of us in the kitchen, and I could hear the sound of clothes being removed in the living room. I couldn’t help peeking out the doorway—I had chosen to celibate, but I still had eyes, after all. Grant was lean and athletic, with faint tan lines from previous summers, washboard abs, muscular legs, a tight ass, and, well…he was hung.
I found myself swallowing hard. “Damn,” I thought.
“Sit by the fire. I’ll get your clothes, then bring the coffee,” I managed to call.
By this time, Grant had wrapped himself up in the blanket and was sitting on the hearth, so it was safe to go into the living room. I scooped up his wet clothes and carried them down the hall to the dryer, then returned to the kitchen to grab the coffee. I handed him his mug, and sat down on the couch with my own. We sat quietly, sipping our drinks before Grant finally broke the ice. “It’s unusual for a city girl to move out to the country all alone.”
“How do you know I’m a city girl?”
“There’s just something more…refined about you, I guess,” he said, glancing around the room at my many bookshelves. “Seem to have a good head on your shoulders, though.”
I didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered, so I chose the latter. “You know I’m here to stay, right? The new house should be ready by the end of summer.”
“Well, if Skip can stop talking long enough to build it,” he smiled.
“You know Skip, huh?”
“You want some more coffee?” I asked.
“If it’s Irish again, please,” he nodded.
I walked over to him and bent forward to take his mug from his outstretched hand. I couldn’t help but notice that his eyes drifted down to the tops of my breasts, visible as the neckline of my shirt fell away from my body. I felt a pleasant tingle as his fingers lingered on mine just a bit too long as we exchanged the mug.
Grant and I wound up talking long into the night about everything and nothing at all. He was everything he purportedly had been in high school: intelligent, charming, and very handsome.
Finally, I yawned and stretched. The wind was still howling, and it sounded as if the big fluffy flakes of snow had changed over to sleet. “Your clothes are dry, but I don’t think you’re going home tonight,” I said.
“Trudy will be okay in your stable, and I’ll be okay on the couch.”
I went to my bedroom and retrieved an extra blanket and a pillow. “Much obliged,” he said, winking and tipping an imaginary cowboy hat to me.
I smiled and wished him a good night, then we both turned in.
I’m not sure how long I had been asleep when I heard someone calling my name. It took me a moment to remember where I was, but when I did, I crept out to the living room, afraid Grant was sick or hurt.
In the light of the dying fire, I could see Grant, still on the couch. “Anna,” he moaned. I started toward him, concerned, then realized he had his erect cock in his hand, slowly stroking it, while quietly calling my name. With embarrassment, it dawned on me that he was masturbating, and I was the subject of his fantasy.
I had never seen a man do that before. I knew Mike had, of course, especially when he had been away on business, but I had never personally witnessed more than the couple of pumps he would occasionally give himself to make sure he was hard before making love to me.
I knew I should turn around and leave him in privacy, but I was mesmerized by the rhythm of his hand on his shaft and the way the fingers of his other hand were tracing over his balls. From time to time, a drop of moisture would appear at the tip, and Grant would reach up with his palm to capture it, using it to lubricate his strokes. Watching him, something stirred in me that I hadn’t felt in years, and I grew wet with desire. Almost without realizing it, I reached my own hand down the front of my pajama pants and began touching myself.
I was rooted in place, spying on him, pleasuring myself, when he suddenly opened his eyes. “Oh, God!” he exclaimed, clutching the blanket around himself.
“Oh, God!” I quickly pulled my hand out of my pants.
We stared at each other for what seemed like an impossibly long time. This time I really should have turned around, but something inside of me prompted me to stand my ground and say, “Did you call me?”
“Yes.” He was breathing heavily.
I crossed the room to the couch and knelt beside him. “What do you need?” I asked, reaching under the blanket to touch him. His cock was hard and throbbed under my fingers.
“You. I want to watch you,” was his response.
“Do what?” I whispered, though I was pretty sure I knew.
“Do what you were starting to do in the hallway.” His voice was low and full of longing.
Something in the way he asked enabled me to overcome my usual inhibitions. It wasn’t as if Grant just wanted to see me—he needed to see me. I shimmied out of my pajama bottoms and underwear, then lay down on the rug in front of the fireplace, spreading my legs wide so he would get a good view. I leaned back on my elbows then slowly fingered myself, from my clit to opening, then back up, lightly tracing my inner lips before repeating the process. With my other hand, I lifted my top so I could caress my breast, gently circling until I reached the nipple. I heard Grant sigh as he sat up on the couch, cock in hand, and resumed his own stroking, more vigorously this time.
It was intensely erotic watching each other get ourselves off, but I wanted more. I stood up and walked over to Grant on the couch. “You know, there’s more we could do,” I breathed into his ear. I knelt over him, a knee on either side, then slowly lowered myself onto his stiff cock.
Grant let out a gasp as I engulfed him in my wetness. “You should know I’ve never done this before,” he said. “I was waiting for a marriage that never happened.”
So it was true. “There’s a first time for everything,” I reasoned, giving him a kiss.
For a first timer, Grant was a quick study. He held onto my waist as I ground up and down on his shaft, moving his hips in time with me. He pulled off my top, then bent his head to my breast, biting and sucking timidly at first, then with abandon as he neared his climax. He tensed, and threw his head back, coming inside of me, filling me with his hot semen. I was still working up to my own orgasm, and I tried to milk what I could from his dwindling organ, but it was too late.
“I’m sorry, Anna. I came too fast. I just didn’t know you would feel like that.”
I was disappointed, but I didn’t want to show it. “It’s okay,” I said.
“No, it’s not. I don’t know much, but I do know you don’t leave a woman unsatisfied.”
Grant lowered me carefully to the floor and knelt between my legs. Starting with my mouth, he kissed his way down my body, keeping me just on the right side of arousal and madness. Placing a pillow under my hips, he teased me with his tongue, licking and sucking on my clit, then diving down to probe my opening as deeply as he could. When he sensed I could stand no more, he applied all of his attention to my clit, flicking it with his tongue until I was writhing under him, arching my back and pushing up against his mouth until my release mercifully came.
He pulled himself up next to me and held me tight while I began to regain my senses.
“I thought you were a virgin. Where did you learn that technique?”
“I said I was waiting for marriage, not that I didn’t understand the mechanics of how to please a woman.”
“Now that you’ve done it, are you going to marry me?” I said. I was joking.
Grant was not. “Seems like it’s the right thing to do,” he said, reaching for me, and kissing me hard. “But maybe we should do it again to be sure.”
Copyright GWinterbourne 2018.