As Soon As I Saw Him - Sex Stories

As Soon As I Saw Him

The last two years since my husband died have been very difficult for me. My friends have been kind to me, and I cannot really claim to have been lonely. In fact, at times I would have valued a little space to come to terms with my loss. What I have missed has not been company, but the physical intimacy that I so often took for granted; the loving cuddling, the touch of his hands, the sound of his voice, and above all his masculine scent. Of course, once a decent period of grieving had passed, my friends went out of their way to introduce me to eligible men of my own age, mainly widowers, although some were living in sham marriages, where all love and intimacy had died. There was one very nice man whose wife was in the final stages of dementia and who no longer knew who he was. I am sorry to say that none of them really attracted me as a potential partner, the vital spark was just not there. Having known friends who became so lonely and desperate they were willing to say 'yes' to any man that would pay attention to them, I knew this could lead to complications and hurts that I was determined to avoid. I at least wanted to start with someone who ignited my interest in them as a person. I know that many of you might want to ask about sex, but are too polite to broach the subject. Like many long married couples our sex life had become rather unexciting - vanilla sex I suppose you might call it - more a matter of habit than passion, but no less loving for that. In the last year ...

... of my husband's illness, sex became impossible, and I had found other ways to satisfy my libido. At first I had just masturbated with my fingers, but I found that I missed the feeling of a penis inside me, and bought a couple of dildos and a vibrator from an online store. While these were not as satisfying as the real thing, they did allow me to have a very satisfactory climax, and occasionally I would reach levels of pleasure comparable to sex with my husband. All this changed a few months ago in a fashion that I can only describe as miraculous. In an attempt to get out of myself I had enrolled in adult education classes in art history at a local college, where a series of visiting experts would come to give lectures on subjects as diverse as the techniques of the early European masters, and the place of art in shaping social attitudes. It happened that one evening in early November, an otherwise dreary and depressing day, the lecturer was a man in his early fifties, who I was immediately attracted to. Oh my, it is such a mysterious thing, attraction. Dr Anthony Alexander, Tony as he asked us to call him, was quite distinguished looking, just under six feet tall, with a neat little beard, and he had obviously taken good care of himself - or somebody else had, which is what I assumed at the start. His subject was the influence of Native American art on the modernist school, which I found fascinating, and when he suggested that those who were particularly interested might like ...