A Walk On The Wild Side - Sex Stories

A Walk On The Wild Side

... conversations, discussions and political debates while other walkers would slowly morph from one group to another. You know how it is, all very pleasant. Rachel was a younger woman, single but with a spark to her that I liked. And I am sixty-seven years old, mostly single, mostly male, but old enough to not care so much about what people thought of me, harmless but nice with it. So I like to think.

Rachel seemed to think so too. I asked her if she was OK going on a ramble just with me and she looked at me like I was crazy.

“Of course I'm OK. Why, what are you going to do to me?”

“Nothing! I'm too old for any shenanigans, I'm just looking forward to having a nice walk.”

“Me, too,” she said, playfully punching my arm.

The other thing about me is that a long time ago I had found that wearing a short denim skirt, along with the rest of my male clothing, suited me best when on a ramble. The crotchless skirt was far cooler and more comfortable around my privates than normal trousers or shorts. And denim, because it seems to be that the only skirts that have pockets are the denim ones. So I wore those.

I got remarkably few odd looks, and even fewer comments or questions about my skirt habit. Maybe because the rest of my persona was unmistakably male (it was). Maybe they were afraid I'd punch them in the lights if they asked a rude question (I wouldn't). Maybe because they thought I was Scottish (I'm not) and it was a kilt (it wasn't). Or maybe because they ...

... simply didn't care (they didn't). Or maybe they didn't even notice.

As Rachel and I set off, we were talking about the lack of other ramblers from the club, and the chatting progressed from there to all sorts of other things until we came to a steep uphill section. We stopped talking so we could breathe better on the way up. At the top of that section, there was a large rock by the path so I sat down on it and took a swig from my water bottle. That's what being sixty-seven does for you. Rachel joined me. It was a large rock, plenty of room for both of us. She took a swig from her own water bottle.

“So what's with the skirt, then?”

Rachel leaned towards me and poked my skirted leg with a finger. My hairy unshaved legs protruded from the lower hem of the skirt, which wasn't very low in any meaning of the word. The lower half of my thighs and my knees descended into socks and then into my walking boots.

I was just trying to remember my stock reply which I had rehearsed many times for when someone asked me that question but had never actually needed until now, when Rachel continued.

“What are you wearing underneath?”

She looked up at my face and giggled. I dropped my standard reply and was just about to think up a typically British response to the new question, slightly self-deprecating but with a bit of sarcasm and innuendo as well, when she spoke again.

“Why don't you show me?”

I was now in uncharted conversational territory now, and I hadn't made a single ...