A. Green
Freewheeling Barbara Toys With Boys
Chapter One
He had curly blond hair, he was about ninteen years old, and the look in his eyes told Barbara that the young man had other thoughts in his mind than the eggs Benedict he was eating. Look how his tongue curls around the bacon, the woman thought. Like it could curl around my…
He stared at her. Then he smiled. A shy, young smile. What was she thinking of, anyway. How silly! Here she was a mature woman watching a teenaged young man eat his breakfast, getting damp between her legs as she did, not knowing why, narrowing her eyes in a lust filled response to his lewd smile. She hoped Annette didn't notice.
She directed her attention toward her partner, Annette. Her partner.
How foolish that sounded. Oh well.
No, Annette hadn't noticed. Good.
Barbara leaned away from her cheese omelet and glared at the thick slices of French toast buried beneath a mountain of fresh strawberries and whipped cream on Annette's breakfast plate.
'That's disgusting, Annette, how can you eat like that? she said.
'Here, I'll help you.' And she scooped up a bite, glancing back at the young man at the other table as she rather obviously rolled it around on her tongue, lips slightly parted.
The two women had just finished an eleven-day, 638-mile bicycle tour down state. In past years they had peddled thousands of miles together, 150 miles in one stint, 500 in another. They were already planning a bike tour across Europe that might very well get them into the Guinness Book of Records. They had both often agreed that it was their mutual 'visions of hotcakes' that made them dedicated cyclists.
The two women never allowed themselves breakfast until they had gone 20 or 25 miles. They had long before agreed, 'We'll have to be starving first, and then we will both agree that it was the best breakfast we ever ate.' And every night they would have the best shower they ever had. But that seemed to be it. No great sex, just a great shower.
The two women had been biking together for years. They had met four years before when a mutual friend, a real estate agent, introduced them, saying that, 'Annette will be great for you! She will help you decorate your home.' Annette had, and now the two houses looked exactly alike.
Their first long ride together had taken them some twelve miles, to meet their husbands for dinner at the beach. As they approached the restaurant Annette had called out, 'That's twelve. Thirteen is a luckier number!' So the two women circled a car wash, next to the restaurant, about fifteen times to make up the mile difference.
The difference between them, Barbara had finally decided, was that Annette was a record-breaker idiot. There was something else about cycling that Barbara loved, screw the records, the distance and all that. She loved the wind in her hair, her face, the coolness of it. And her legs pumping, sometimes aching… and she associated that thought, strangely enough, with sex. The moment of exhaustion was not unlike the moment of orgasm.
But then how would Barbara know? She was in her mid-thirties, and except for a little side-trip of sexual adventure, had never experienced true sexual fullfillment. And that had been a mind bending experience.
And of course it had been with the young man who had stared over his eggs Benedict at her during breakfast that morning at the little roadside motel. A soul-filled look in his eyes, that was what it had been that turned her on so. She had had a husband and many other men in her life — so why was this youth's look so different, so exciting?
Perhaps it was a case of Monday Morning Quarterbacking — he had satisfied her. Oh, did he ever satisfy her!
She had become sick to death of Annette's bribes of 'Tell you what, Barbara, a big luscious hot fudge sundae if we push on for another three miles, what say?' Annette was obsessed. Annette was a nut.
There had been the feedback from friends — 'You two will kill yourselves.' Actually, there had been few mishaps. The two women had prepared thoroughly for their long-distance runs, and both had worked themselves into demons for conditioning. Barbara, in her first burst of enthusiasm after meeting Annette, had taken a semester-long course on bicycling at a local Junior college, and the whole thrust of it had been safety. Safety was something Barbara was sick to death of. The young man's eyes — ahh, there was danger, a much spicier dish than safety.
Annette had insisted they have their bikes checked out before each and every trip, and then they would train, leaving home before
5:45 a.m., getting in 12 or 20 miles of vigorous cycling. Always, though, they were back before 7:45 in time for Annette to cook breakfast for her husband. Barbara had become jealous of that. She had no one except her son Jerry to even think about breakfast for.
And her son Jerry, at this point in his life, anyway, needed a bicycling mother like he needed a hole in the head.
But the conditioning had paid off. She was slim, tight of body, didn't pant, even when cycling up a continuous twenty-five mile hill.
Maybe it had all put her in condition for the very young man who was to be her first satisfying lover.
In his arms, she was to forget the challenges of roads that had no shoulders, logging trucks and sawdust trucks whizzing by, hills to pump up.
But, in young Jim's arms, Barbara, a bit late in life, realized the wonderful exhileration of another kind of uphill pumping, her mind screaming to itself, 'Look what your body is doing now!'
'Hi!' he had said to her as she sat outside her motel room door.
She and Annette always had their own room, no matter where they were cycling to or from. It had been Annette's husband's idea. 'If you do break any mileage records, people will get to talking, and the next thing you know you'll have reputations as being lesbians. I don't mind the bike rides off into nowhere, but I don't think I can hack the lesbian talk bit,' he had declared. Both women agreed immediately, for that was not their game.
Barbara now lifted her sun glasses and looked into the young man's handsome face. She said nothing, but did manage a smile.
'You and your girlfriend are bike freaks too, eh?' he said.
'Freaks? I don't like to think of it exactly that way,' Barbara replied, crossing her legs, a subconscious protective measure — against her own compulsions, not against the young man who had approached her.
'Sorry. No offense. I call myself a bike freak. I biked up here all the way from State College. There are bike freaks and there are bike freaks, see?' He pulled up a deck chair next to her. His body was tight, compact, tanned. 'I live on a particular street down at college. 'It's off campus, actually, and I have a basement apartment. Anyway, this street is known for bachelor parties, and out on the street and on the balconies, anywhere. Sort of like New
Orleans. And the girls that live there in the dorms, freshmen, mostly, they ride their bikes by this street every morning, see. It's like a beauty parade. They know that only studs that are seniors and have some bread can afford apartments on the street. Not that the apartments are so great — mine was flooded knee deep last year during the rains — but then I got a basement two-roomer, the rent's cool.
Anyway, these freshies ride by, and whoever doesn't have a hangover from a bash the night before watches. Good watching, too. They purposely wear these little bikinis and no bras under their T-shirts, so their boobs bounce and all.'
Barbara smiled, and reddened a bit. He's so young, she thought, so fresh, so ready to attack life. I wish I was like that. I was once.
He grinned, and his teeth were very young and white and square.
'So there they go, pedaling along, dozens of them, up and down the street. Their boobs bounce, and sometimes when I look up from my basement window I can almost see the balconies above bouncing in the same
