Guitar Lessons - Sex Stories

Guitar Lessons

As we grow older, it’s only natural to think back on the events of one’s life. Every now and then, I do the same. Religiously, I read through the ‘Irish Sports Page'. (For those unfamiliar with the term, I refer to the obituary column.) One Sunday, one of them caught my eye. It read, “Antoinette Dellasandro, 85, widow of the late Mario Dellasandro, survived by a daughter, Dierdre.” It brought me back to when I was a teenager. It was the spring of ’66 and I was halfway through my senior year of high school when it finally happened. I was neither a great student nor a great athlete. No one applying to Harvard had to worry about me taking their place in the class of 1970, and the state cross country record books were in no danger of being re-written by me. My parents tried their damnedest to bring me up responsibly, and I think they did an okay job. We lived in a quiet bedroom community on the banks of the Hudson River, and even though Pop was a fortune 500 executive and Mom was a school teacher, all of us kids were expected to work our way through high school and beyond. My particular rice bowl was lawn mowing and snow removal. I had three clients in the neighborhood in addition to our house. There were two older couples that flanked our house and a younger, childless couple that lived behind us, Mario and Toni Dellasandro. Mario was a cement contractor, who, it turns out, worked for the mob. I was totally unaware of the connection until years later; I read a newspaper ...

... article about the passing of Mario ‘Cement Shoes’ Dellasandro turning states evidence against his former employer. His wife, Antoinette, was a stay at home trophy that Mario liked to show off. I can fully understand why! She was absolutely gorgeous! She may not have been Dolly Parton in the breast department, but what she had was very easy on the eyes, and she wasn’t particularly bashful about showing her God-given assets and I spent many a summer afternoon looking out my window at the stunning redhead next door as she sunbathed while reading a trashy romance novel. One Saturday afternoon, I was sitting in our garage, chores done, lawns mowed, playing an old guitar I had picked up at a garage sale. I was strumming along to a Peter, Paul, & Mary record I was playing on an old console radio-phonograph. Toni, as she preferred being called, came over to pay me for mowing her grass, wearing a pair of Bermuda shorts and a tee shirt style top that showed no signs of a bra underneath.. Luckily for me, I was sitting down with my guitar in my lap, for it hid the instant and raging erection that appeared seconds after she did. Unlike all the other teenage boys of the era, I was not smitten by the sight of Annette Funicello. My fantasies were fueled by Toni Dellasandro! “That’s very nice!” she said as she bent over and handed me two crisp, new, dollar bills in payment for my landscaping services. “How long have you been playing?” Making sure that the guitar did not slip and show my ...