The last boyfriend I had was actually quite a bit older than me. He’d said he was forty, when he asked me out. Turned out he was 48. Not a bad age, ...xactly, except that I’m 30. A ‘young’ 30, although I wince at the term. And to put it mildly, he couldn’t keep up with me, in bed or out of it. The memory that springs to mind is the two of us climbing a set of stairs outside a mall, with me trying (a bit impatiently) to subtly slow down and him puffing along behind me. He kept asking me to marry. Her hand would drop slowly, lightly touching her breasts over her t-shirt. She would let out a slight gasp. Just enough that I would hear it…tease me, make me wonder whether it was my imagination or not. She would pat her tummy before she would slowly slide her hand under her T, upward toward her delicious breasts. Touching herself, feeling her warm chest. She would tell me how good she felt. She would tell me how hard her nipples were getting as she squeezed and pinched them.. More

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