We each bore scars. We met at our daughter’s soccer games in South Pasadena, a very contented upper middle class town on the edge of Los Angeles. I was the coach, she helped out with the practices and with the phone calls. My attraction to her was quick. I love ex-tom-boys, and I knew she was one: she had the walk, the bounce in her step, and the grace. When I met her for the first time, my eyes zoomed quickly from her face to her hand, pulse quickening, looking for a ring. She had no jewelry on her hands at all, not even a watch, and just a beaded ankle bracelet and little hooped gold earrings. I like them. They were cool. Earrings for me were iconic. I had my code: the more it dangled, the more she entangled. I also stayed away from anything resembling fruit in the ear, art work, and more than two piercings. She definitely did not look like South Pasadena: no make-up, no fake blonde streaks to lighten her hair, no Volvo station wagon. I fell in like immediately. I drove home from. I lathered up again and took hold of his cock. He started to get hard again, and when I looked up his eyes were closed. I moved my hands up to his shoulders and turned him around. I lathered up again and began working on his neck and shoulders, then moved down his back to the small and then to his buttocks. I slid my hand into the cleft, and almost as if I'd pushed a button he moved his legs apart so the crack opened wider. I hesitated. I wasn't sure what he wanted me to do, and how far I'd be willing to go. But I lathered up once more and slid my hand downward, following the cleft further and further forward between his legs. When my fingertip reached the puckered skin of his asshole, he gave a little gasp. I pressed it gently, and he moaned. I reached around with my other hand and again took hold of his cock, which was fully hard. I pressed again on the puckered opening with one hand, and felt his cock twitch with the other. I pressed harder, sliding the tip of my finger into.
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