With a mature woman in the swimming pool In the swimming pool I lay completely relaxed on the sunbathing lawn and let my eyes wander over the women present. All figures, all ages are represented. I especially like looking at their crotch, imagining what it might look like under the panties: whether shaved pussy or hairy bear, whether big mons pubis or rather camel toe, maybe long labia from the cleft protrude, and so on. A hobby of mine.
Not far away was a mature, plump woman lying on her stomach, the one-piece black bathing suit barely covered a luscious buttocks, I could see large breasts .. Not bad, I thought, you’d have something to massage and knead properly if you …. Now she turned around. My gaze falls on a small, round tummy, slightly parted tight thighs, in between the mons pubis, tightly covered by thin black lycra, obviously quite fully developed and what is visible at the edge could be some cheeky pubic hair.
Oh how I would like to lie between these thighs…. I always try to deduce from the eyebrows and lips of women how they are built underneath: whether the pubic hair is dense or thin, dark or light like the eyebrows, whether the lower lips are like the upper ones: narrow or fully developed. Are just such erotic mind games. So my gaze wanders up from the crotch – straight into her eyes, which look at me slightly amused and knowingly.
Fully caught !!! Awkward !!! I avert my gaze, embarrassed. But a short time later I peek again. She bends one leg, spreads her thighs a little. Her hand wanders to the crotch of her swimsuit, fingers lifting the fabric to adjust it – just high and far enough that I can see her full labia for a split second, beautifully embedded in an incredibly lush pubic mound – before her thighs close again.
Coincidence or intention? Shortly thereafter, the Rubens woman stands up and walks right past me. She must be in her fifties: shorter, white-grey hair. She gives me an enigmatic, sensual look as I pass. She knows exactly what I was just thinking about. Now she also pulls her panties tight in passing. her vulva is clearly visible between her thighs from behind – lying on my stomach, I am painfully aware of my erection . A few meters away she stops, greets a grey-haired man, kisses him briefly and whispers with him, grins.
Obviously her husband or boyfriend. He laughs, hugs her from behind, playfully bites her neck and whispers something in her ear. She laughs throatily. The man embraces her hips, puts his hand briefly on her crotch, squeezes and then lets his fingers slide under the edge of the panties. That’s impossible !! Looking half over her shoulder, she looks at me: lasciviously – eyes half closed now, mouth slightly open.
– I get a pipe, such a horny, mature fuck !! The two, hugging each other, push off in the direction of the cabins and disappear into one. My pants are tight and hot, I need to cool off, rush to the pool, dive in and swim a few laps. doesn’t help. I can’t get the sensual mature woman out of my head!! My boner is pounding, I have to do something. Out of the water, I’m heading towards the changing room when I see one of the cabin doors open and the man from before come out – alone, behind him the door closes … read more
You have written many love letters. Many to declare. Many others to say goodbye. Some to apologize. But I think you’ve never written a love letter to yourself. And maybe it was time.
This is a letter for you to forgive yourself. For you to say goodbye to your ghosts. To remind you how important it is to love yourself, even if sometimes you think you don’t deserve it.
You needed time. Maybe too much. Only with that perspective can we see ourselves from the outside, see how we were and what we did wrong. Everything that at the time we did not know how to distinguish clearly. That’s not to say that watching it doesn’t hurt. Don’t feel ashamed of yourself, for having dragged yourself so much for love. Don’t feel sorry for that girl who put herself down and let the rest of her put her down. Don’t be mad at her for being so naïve. That it is difficult for you to recognize yourself in that person that, luckily, you are no longer.
But you were. You were one of those girls who would do anything to be loved. That she feels is never enough. That she offers sex in exchange for crumbs of affection. You were from your first love, the one who rejected you unceremoniously. You were with your first time, the one that she used you when she wanted, but that loving you, she never loved you. You were the times you became “the other one”, thinking that the fact that they came to you was because they preferred you, without realizing that in reality you were never being the chosen one.
But above all you were with him. The one you thought was the love of your life. The one that, with perspective, at best was the first with which to enjoy sex in your life. Sex and love are always easy to confuse. They still are at 40 and 30. How could they not be when everything was new at 20? Stop beating yourself up.
Yes, of course you did things wrong, of course you could have done them better. But nothing justifies him treating you the way he did. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t because you were worth little. Of course, no less than him. It wasn’t because you didn’t deserve to be loved. You deserved it. Only he didn’t see it. Or he wasn’t the person to see it.
You have not been the only one to lower yourself for love. You just have to listen to those mythical songs for a while. What the hell happens to us women with love? Why do we seem to value it precisely when it is not worth it? It is as if we needed to go through that vital experience of “suffering for love” to rise from our ashes. To hopefully make us stronger.
For love it is worth suffering, but only when the other person is so worth it, that their suffering is yours. It’s not worth suffering because you love a person and she doesn’t love you, but she has you in a continuous tug-of-war so that you live in doubt. Hopefully one day we’ll stop thinking that game is fun. In the long run, it never is.
Don’t ever get mad at him again when you trip over the memories. Maybe he didn’t know how to do better. Maybe it’s that he didn’t even give for more. It wasn’t that you were kids, or that you were … read more