Porch Passion Rekindled

My name is Lauren, and I’m 43. I’ve been married to my high school sweetheart, Jack, for 21 years. It’s hard to admit, but we haven’t been intimate in nearly four years. I know I share some of the blame, but Jack doesn’t make it easy. He’s a mechanic, spending his days hunched under car hoods, coming home reeking of oil and sweat. It’s not exactly a turn-on. And me, sprawled on the recliner binge-watching cooking shows, probably isn’t sparking his desire either.

It’s a brutal loop – the less we connect, the less we crave each other. Our early years were electric, though, full of stolen moments and hungry nights. I’m not out of the game yet, I think. At 5’6″ and about 125 pounds, I still catch glances when I bother to dress up. The rare times I’ve dipped into spicy video chats with younger guys online, their eagerness made me believe they’d sprint to my doorstep if I dropped a pin.

I’ve known for a while that Jack sees escorts. Since we’re not physical anymore, I’ve felt safe from any health risks, barring some freak laundry mishap. But his occasional grimaces when he adjusts himself down there make my stomach twist. Back when we were insatiable, Jack was a force – well-equipped, with hands and lips that devoured me. My friends used to tease me about his stamina. We’d tangle up for hours, multiple rounds a night, leaving me sore and sated. Now, those memories feel like someone else’s life.

After I was let go from my job managing event staff for a local venue, my libido tanked. Jack’s was already long gone. Alone in the house, I’d sometimes lean into the pulsing stream of the handheld shower or rely on a sleek little vibe I snagged at a girls’ night hosted by my friend Megan, who’s always been a bit too touchy-feely with me. I’ve never outright rejected her advances, though.

Jack dropping out of trade school never derailed us, despite my friends’ snide remarks, likely hoping he’d be fair game. Jack’s the kind of man whose only windfall is a rare playoff win for his team. Everything else is sweat and grind, which I think fuels his passion for his work – and, once upon a time, for me.

Nothing’s permanent, which is why I’m spilling this here. Last Tuesday, Jack stormed home in a black mood. I’d thrown together a sandwich for him and was sorting laundry in our cramped utility room. I wasn’t checking if he was eating the tomato salad he swears by, nor was I focused on him – he’s a big boy, he can fend for himself. I yanked open the dryer and tossed damp clothes into a basket, bending over without a care for proper form, my backside in the air.

It was a muggy week, and I wore a thin sundress that rode up my thighs. Bending over, it probably flashed my plain cotton panties. My hair was a frizzy mess, and my chest was half-spilling out of the dress’s neckline – I was the opposite of seductive, and my sex drive was equally absent.

I grabbed one of Jack’s countless work shirts and stepped onto the back porch to pin it to the clothesline. I didn’t care about prying eyes from the neighbors – I’m too old to worry if someone’s sneaking a peek at a wardrobe malfunction. On the fourth shirt, as I stretched to clip it, calloused hands clamped onto my waist, and a voice I’d nearly forgotten growled in my ear.

Damn, I forgot how good you look like this.

His breath, sharp with coffee and grease, warmed my neck as his broad, softened frame pressed into me.

Your memory’s crap, then, – I shot back. – Same body, same name, just darker hair since that cheap dye irritated my skin.

I try to say something nice, and you shut it down, – he muttered, half-irritated.

That’s your idea of sweet talk? – I retorted, more playful than pissed, especially with the stirring I felt against my lower back.

Quiet, just feel this.

Jack’s hands slid under my dress, finding my breasts, still soft but aching for attention. His palms molded to their curves, thumbs brushing my nipples through the thin bra, coaxing them to stiffen. His rough skin scratched lightly, so he guided his fingers to my lips. I sucked them slowly, swirling my tongue like I was tasting something forbidden, wetting them thoroughly. He returned them to my chest, the slick warmth making my nipples peak harder, sending jolts down my spine.

His mouth latched onto my neck, teeth grazing just shy of pain, then softening to suck gently at the spot below my ear. He never went for the ear itself – thank God, I hate that – but his tongue’s slow, deliberate drags along my pulse point melted me, pulling me into a haze of need.

His thick thighs nudged mine apart, slotting himself against my ass. One hand left my breast to fumble with his belt, the clink of metal loud in the quiet evening. His jeans hit the porch floor, and I felt him straining against those god-awful plaid boxers he insists on wearing. He hiked my dress higher, hooking a finger in my panties and tugging them down, the fabric catching briefly on my dampening skin.

Eyes shut, I arched back, grinding against his growing hardness, desperate for the way he used to claim me when we were young and reckless. A whimper slipped out – I felt wild, like a woman possessed, ready to be ravaged by a man reborn. I peeked through half-lidded eyes; the porch was dim, lit only by the neighbor’s floodlight.