Dale's Women

"Come into the kitchen," she almost ordered. "You can help."

Dale was happy to oblige. Putting a huge pot of water on to boil, Gloria gestured in the direction of the refrigerator and told him to open it. "There's a packaged salad in there," she said. "It's all I have, but we can augment it with various other things."

Dale did as he was asked, and Gloria also told him where he could find some tomatoes, carrots, and other items he could add to the salad. Meanwhile, she had fished out some Italian sausage and began cooking it on the stove while waiting for the pot that would contain the pasta to boil. She also managed to find some Italian bread that could be turned into garlic bread.

In a surprisingly short time, the meal was ready. Gloria popped open a new bottle of Merlot—"Sorry, no Chianti at hand!"—and they sat down to enjoy the ample dinner.

"Tell me more about yourself," she said at one point.

"There's not a whole lot to tell," Dale said deprecatingly. "I grew up in Greenwich, went to college at Cambridge College in Ridgefield, and now I'm . . ." He didn't quite know how to finish.

"A gentleman of leisure?" she supplied with more than a hint of sarcasm.

"I guess you could put it that way," he said with a boyish grin.

"You have nothing you actually want to do in life?"

Gloria perhaps didn't intend to make that statement sound so critical, but it seemed to come out that way. Dale flushed and said, "I'm still working that out. There are a number of things I might like to do. I'm in no hurry."

"Well, I suppose it's good to take your time."

"I'm not super-wealthy, you know," he added, a bit agitated. "You shouldn't think I'm just a member of the idle rich."

"I never made that assumption," she said evenly.

"Sorry," he said, looking away.

"What about girls?" she said boldly.

"What about them?"

"Don't you like them?"

"I like them just fine. I like women better."

"Touché. Good answer."

"I mean that."

"I can see that you do. But you're telling me no sweet young thing has stolen your heart?"

"Not yet. Maybe it'll happen someday—I couldn't really say."

"But surely there have been girls in the past . . ."

"Oh, yeah," Dale said, shrugging his shoulders uneasily. "I had some flings with girls at Cambridge—several, in fact. But they all seemed so . . . silly. More concerned about clothes and makeup than about the serious things in life."

"That's a pretty broad generalization."

"I guess it is—and maybe I just didn't meet the right girls."

"Maybe." Gloria gave him that wry smile that he had already come to find so entrancing. "You're only young once, you know: there's plenty of time for the 'serious things in life' later on."

Dale scowled. He didn't like the trend of the conversation—it made him feel inferior, and he couldn't help sensing that Gloria was patronizing him a bit, even if she didn't intend to. He needed to turn the tables.

"What about your husband?" he said bluntly, even aggressively.

Gloria's expression turned blank. "What about him?"

"How long were you married?"

She squinted, as if struggling to do the math. "Twenty-one years, I think."

Almost longer than my whole lifetime, Dale thought. "Were they good years?"

"Mostly," Gloria said. She now seemed to be the one who was uneasily. "Yes," she said more decisively, "they were."

"Then what happened?"

"What do you mean?" She seemed to exude a hint of hostility.

"Why exactly did he . . .?" Dale couldn't finish the sentence without making it sound like an insult. Why did he run off with his secretary if you had such a wonderful marriage?

"I told you: midlife crisis. Lots of guys in their late forties go through it."

"You sure that was it?"

"What else could it have been?"

Are you certain there was nothing you did to cause your marriage to blow up in your face? But Dale knew he could never speak those words aloud: Gloria might order him from the house.

"Do you still love him?" he asked, then bit his tongue. That might get me into even more hot water . . .

Now he could tell that Gloria was angry. "Of course not!" she exploded. "After what he did to me, how could I?"

"He did say he was sorry, didn't he?"

"Yes, but it's going to take a lot more than that for me to forgive him."

"You don't think you ever could?"

Gloria gave him a flinty glare. "What are you, a marriage counselor? How'd we get on this subject anyway?"

"I don't know," Dale said, abashed. "I'm sorry."

She looked away from him and tried to turn her attention to her plate of food, which seemed suddenly unappetizing. He could see her breast rise and fall rapidly and agitatedly—she was clearly upset. There were red splotches on her face, and her eyes seemed to be glistening.

Dale suspected that Gloria wasn't one of those women who cry easily—who in fact take pride in not giving in to tears at the least opportunity.

But she was close to tears now.

Dale slowly got up from his chair and kneeled down beside Gloria. He took one of her hands in his own and kissed it fervently. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Gloria looked down at this peculiar young man in a mix of anger, pity, and disbelief. She continued to breathe heavily. Then a burst of shaky laughter exploded from her lips; looking up, Dale saw two big tears fall out of her eyes, hastily wiped away with a napkin.

"Get up, will you," she said with faux harshness, "and finish your dinner."

Dale struggled to his feet and resumed his seat in the chair. He dutifully wrapped a big ball of spaghetti on his fork and stuffed it into his mouth, looking at Gloria with a boyish expression: See, Ma, I'm eating just like you said!

That evoked still more laughter out of Gloria, and Dale was proud of how he had defused a potentially awkward situation.

Gloria had some store-bought canoli for dessert, and they ate them with coffee. After the dinner was over, Dale sauntered into the living room, shuffling his feet indecisively.

"Now what?" he asked ingenuously.

Gloria gave him a critical scrutiny, as if she were a scientist examining a curious new specimen in her microscope.

"I like to watch movies in the evening."

"That would be great!" Dale said with an excess of enthusiasm.

Without a word, Gloria went to a cabinet in the sideboard. It turned out to be loaded with dozens, perhaps hundreds, of DVDs of films of all sorts. She chose a boxed set of rare mystery/suspense films and loaded the DVR with a movie that Dale had never heard of—Kansas City Confidential. It was one of the more obscure film noirs of the 1950s, chiefly because it had no noteworthy stars in the cast. But the movie turned out to be surprisingly compelling, even hypnotizing. And, of course, it was in glorious black-and-white.

Dale and Gloria sat next to each other watching the film. There was no cuddling; indeed, they hardly touched each other. About halfway through, Gloria paused the film and doled out some liqueurs—amaretto for herself and Bailey's for him.

By the time the movie was over, it was close to 10 p.m. Once again, Dale was uncertain what would happen next. There was something about Gloria that made him tentative, even shy. In spite of his previous experience with older women, she somehow made him acutely conscious of his age.

"That was really a good movie," Dale said after it was over and Gloria had turned on a few lights in the living room. "I'm glad I saw it with you."

"I've seen it before, of course," she said blandly. "But it's always worth another look."

Dale couldn't bring himself to ask again, Now what? The question seemed lame—suggesting that all he was interested in was "scoring" with this exceptionally attractive, supremely confident mature woman. He realized that he wasn't interested in that at all—he just wanted to continue soaking up the magic of her presence.

She sensed what he wanted to say, and doused his ambitions in no uncertain terms by saying, "I think I'd better take you back to the station."

Dale looked at his hands and said glumly, "I guess so."

"You'll have no trouble catching a train back to Greenwich?"

"I'm sure I won't."

"Good. I wouldn't want to leave you stranded."

He was waiting for her to say something, anything, that would convey that she had enjoyed his company as much as he had enjoyed hers. Once again, she intuitively sensed what he was after and said, "I've had a very nice time tonight."

"So have I!" Dale cried out, again embarrassed that he was sounding like an eager little boy.

She smiled to herself as she led him to the door. He had no wrap, only his leather satchel. He couldn't quite believe that this wonderful evening was ending on such an anticlimactic note—but maybe she'd agree to see him again some other night.

As she was about to open the door, he dropped his satchel, took her gently but firmly in his arms, and kissed her on the mouth.

She struggled at first, but after a few seconds relented. He knew full well that she could have broken out his grasp if she had really wanted to. But as the moments passed it became evident that she didn't want to.

Initially she let her arms hang by her sides: clearly she didn't wish to encourage him too much, or too fast. But as he continued to keep his lips fastened to hers, she snaked her arms around his neck.

That made him hold her body closer to his. He could feel her breasts pinned against his chest, and he couldn't help press his erection against her belly.

She didn't seem to mind that, so Dale—now kissing her all over her face and neck—placed one hand gently on her bottom. That's all he did: he didn't stroke it or knead it, but just put it there, feeling its firmness and warmth through the thin fabric of her dress.

She said warningly, "Dale . . ." and initially made an effort to pull his hand away. But all she ended up doing was to grab his wrist and hold it in place. Once again, he had no doubt she could have swatted the hand away as an offensive and improper advance; but she didn't. Eventually she let his wrist go and again encircled his neck with her arms.

That gave him the confidence to reach under her dress and brush her bottom over her underwear. She heard her utter a heavy groan and swallow hard. He pulled her underwear down to her thighs and then swung his hand around to her front. In seconds he was fingering the moist crevice between her legs.

Moaning loudly, Gloria felt the need to protest by again grabbing his hand around the wrist—but she did no more than that. Again, her gesture had the effect of keeping his hand where it was so that he could continue his intimate massage. He knew that some older women had difficulty generating suitable moisture in that secret spot—but Gloria wasn't afflicted with that problem.

As he gently fondled the little nub at the top of her slit, he could feel her bucking her hips as increasing waves of pleasure coursed through her. Her lips were now fastened firmly to his, and he felt that her moans were being thrust out of her mouth and down his own throat.

In less time than he expected, she pulled her mouth away from his and burst out with a sharp cry that almost seemed to have a bit of pain in it. A tremor shook her entire frame, and she pressed her legs together to keep his hand fixed on her orifice as the shudders continued to work their way through her. Now the arms that she had thrown around his neck were being used to support her—but his firm grip around her waist made sure she wouldn't fall in a heap to the floor.

As Gloria strove to regain her self-composure, she pulled Dale's hand away from herself while still holding him close. They were almost exactly the same height, so she could rest her head comfortably on his shoulder. As her breaths became more normal, she said tartly:

"That was very naughty of you."

He spoke gently into her ear: "I hope you liked it."

She said nothing to that, but didn't release him from her embrace. Dale then came forth with the question she knew he would now ask:

"Do you really want me to go home?"

Gloria took a long time in answering. Her response, she knew, would determine the course of at least the next few weeks of her life—maybe the next few months and years. There were plenty of obvious upsides in getting involved with this young man—but some equally obvious downsides. She wasn't one of the "silly" twenty-something girls Dale had expressed such scorn for—but precisely because she was a mature woman, she instinctively considered the complex ramifications of an affair with a man who was in many ways highly unsuitable for her, and whom she could hardly call even an acquaintance after a single evening's association. She tried to express some of her reservations by saying:

"You know, I'm old enough to be your . . . aunt." She was going to say the obvious word, but checked herself after remembering the horrible fate of Dale's parents.

"Does that bother you?" he said.

"Yes," she said emphatically. "Yes, it does bother me. Shouldn't it?"

"Does age really matter in a situation like this?"

"Of course it matters!" She pulled a little away from him, looking him in the face. "Dale, you're a charming young man, but I don't do things like this! I've never done something like this—not even when I was young and foolish."

"I doubt that you were ever foolish," he said. "But sometimes it's nice to give in to the moment, isn't it?"

"Yes, but—"

"You don't always have to think about the future, do you? Let's just think about now."

He was gazing at her with those soft, kind brown eyes of his. In that sense, he was as far from a roué or a playboy as anyone could be. She couldn't deny that he was an unusual specimen of young manhood. She didn't feel in the least threatened by him, and her only hesitancy was in the thought of where an affair with him—if that's what it was—would lead.

But yes, there are times when you should yield to the moment. Maybe this is one of those times.

"All right," she said, not without a dose of unease and regret. "Let's go upstairs."