Life Imitates Art… Sort Of


For the good old USA, the winter of 1968 was a placid time relative to the violence and turmoil that was to come in the ensuing months. In April came the assassination of Martin Luther King, followed by urban riots. In June, an assassin’s bullet felled Robert Kennedy; and in August, police beat up demonstrators outside the Democratic National Convention in Chicago.

But relative calm prevailed that winter when “The Graduate” played in theaters around the country. The movie was based on the novel about a young man (Benjamin Braddock) just out of college, socially awkward and confused about his future and naïve to the ways of the opposite sex. Enter Mrs. Robinson, the middle-aged, burnt-out, alcoholic neighbor who seduces Benjamin into a summer sex fling.

The movie became a template for horny, virgin boys who wished for their own Mrs. Robinson. Wendell Perdofsky was one of those boys—shy, eighteen year old Wendell and masturbator extraordinaire whose sex life existed in only one place: his mind.

Enter Janet Wilcox, his sexy, chestnut-haired, forty-one year old neighbor, married for close to twenty years and bored to the point of concocting fantasies of seducing young men (years later, women like her would be called cougars) like Wendell, her reveries influenced after she too saw “The Graduate.” No alcoholic she, just a bored housewife looking for adventure, thinking of ways to do Wendell the way Mrs. Robinson did Benjamin.

Why Wendell? Because for Janet, he personified the “right” image, the somewhat nerdy looking, horny youth who craved female intimacy but was clueless about how to get it. Wendell, a college freshman who lived with his parents, was no stranger to the Wilcox household. Nathan Wilcox, Janet’s tubby hubby, was a coin collector, a hobby he shared with Wendell, a newbie to the process. Nathan mentored Wendell, giving him tips on what he should look for, what to buy, what to sell, what coins were likely to become valuable in the future, etc.

If Nathan failed to notice Wendell leering at his wife (and he didn’t let on if he did notice), Janet sure didn’t. No surprise to her, for men of all ages had been leering at her ever since she began menstruating. Even at the gateway to middle-age, Janet Wilcox stirred many a guy’s sexual appetite, young guys, old guys and those in between. She was pretty, and how (!), with big green eyes, full sensuous lips and shoulder-length, chestnut hair that swirled around her face on windy days and when she shook her head, a habit she picked up ever since she sensed its value as an aphrodisiac. She stood five-foot seven, with proportions favoring her legs, long, shapely and still smooth owing to the right genetics and daily applications of body lotion—a leg man’s dream one might say. But even boob men, ordinarily unimpressed with her “average” sized bust, could not help but admire those beautiful, eye-popping extremities, often exposed in short dresses and skirts.

Wendell’s own fantasies involving Janet Wilcox became more vivid after he saw the movie. Anne Bancroft didn’t exactly look like Janet Wilcox, nor did Wendell look like Dustin Hoffman, almost thirty when cast in the role of Benjamin Braddock. Still, he could picture himself and Janet in that scene where Mrs. Robinson, sitting at her home bar, spreads her legs before a startled Benjamin: “Mrs. Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me.” The movie furnished Wendell with weeks of masturbatory material. Ultimately, though, it left him frustrated, for he wanted the “real thing.” How to get it was the question. He had enough trouble approaching girls his own age; never mind conveying his desires to an older married woman. What would he say and how would he say it?

He needn’t have worried, because Janet had a plan. With her daughter away at college and her husband at work during the day, she’d invite Wendell over when he didn’t have class at the local college he attended. She’d need a pretext, but that shouldn’t be a problem. She’d ask him to help her move something or simply have him over for tea and a friendly chat.

And so, on a clear, blustery morning in late January 1968, Janet Wilcox made her move. She could see from her window Wendell’s car in the driveway, a good indication that he had not yet left for class.

“Hi Wendell, Janet Wilcox.”

“Hi. What’s up?”

“Not to impose, but would you be so kind as to come over and help me move a piece of furniture? I really would appreciate it.”

Wendell said he’d be all too willing to help, never suspecting what his conniving neighbor was up to. It didn’t take him long to get an idea when she let him in wearing nothing more than a pink negligee with matching panties and silver-toned slippers with one-inch heels. He gawked, ran his hand through his Beatle-length, sandy colored hair and then shook his head.

“Please pardon the way I’m dressed,” she said, “or undressed, but I got up not too long ago. Would you like some coffee or tea? Have you had breakfast?”

Wendell, still in his blue ski jacket, said, “Um, ah, no Ataşehir Escort thanks. I just had breakfast. You said something about moving furniture?”

He followed her up the stairs with his eyes fixed on her luscious gams and sexy butt, half of it hanging out of her panties, her gluteus maximus flexing, revealing just a touch of cellulite. She led him into her daughter’s room to move a desk into a spare bedroom that Nathan used as a home office. “Juliana’s away at school, so she won’t need this,” Janet said. “Take your coat off, Wendell, and stay awhile.”

Wendell did, and then gripped one end of the desk while Janet took the other end. He backed out of the room and into the hall, looking both ways, backward to avoid crashing, forward to focus on his neighbor’s boobs, half exposed by her garment’s plunging neckline and paper-thin material.

The desk was light enough where Wendell could have moved it himself. Heck, light enough for even Janet to have moved it alone had she wanted to. But she had a plan and was sticking to it. “You WILL stay long enough to have tea with me, won’t you?” she said. “I’d like to hear about your school, the classes you’re taking and so forth.”

Wendell didn’t argue. His first class wasn’t until one in the afternoon and it was just past nine. He followed her downstairs and into the den, a cozy, half-carpeted room lined with bookshelves and furnished with just two pieces, a plush sofa and black leather, Eames-designed lounge chair. Nathan had his fancy stereo in there too: AR turntable, Marantz amp and tuner combo and speakers built into the bookshelf. While Janet went to the kitchen to make tea, Wendell sat on the Eames chair, reading the titles of all those books and also catching sight of a photograph, a family portrait shot months ago on the Wilcox lawn. Janet and Nathan flank a smiling, very pretty Juliana, not exactly a spitting image of her mother, though one would have to be blind not to see the resemblance, the long legs and coloring alone being dead giveaways. “She’s out of our league,” one of Wendell’s nerdy buds once told him, and Wendell hadn’t disagreed.

“There you go,” Janet said, handing Wendell a cup and saucer, and then easing on to the sofa and crossing her legs. Every few minutes she would alternate, crossing her left leg over the right, then right over the left, her crotch fully exposed when she did so, with nothing to conceal her mons pubis but pink panties, thin enough to where Wendell could see “all the way to China,” as the expression went.

Janet listened with detached amusement as Wendell talked about his classes, watching him squirm in his long sleeve Polo shirt, his brown loafers and green, cuffed Farah pants, struggling to avert his eyes from her privates but hardly succeeding. Fully in the driver’s seat, she took a detour, steering the conversation toward his social life, such as it was. “So, do you have a girlfriend?”

“Not at the moment,” he said, his fair complexion reddening from the warm tea and Janet’s leg crossing act. “I’ve never really had a steady girlfriend,” he added. “Still looking.”

“Yes, I see that you’re looking,” Janet said, seizing Wendell’s comment as a convenient means to her naughty end. “And do you like what you see?” She crossed her legs again, this time pausing a few seconds with legs akimbo, before hanging her left leg over the right.

Wendell blinked REM-like and dropped his jaw, nodding in the affirmative.

Holding the cup and saucer in her lap, she smiled, warmly. “No need to be shy, Wendell. Women love admiring looks from men, especially young men like you who find older gals like me attractive.” After pausing, she said, “You do find me attractive, no?”

He stole a sip of tea and cleared his throat. “Um, well, yes, of course. Who wouldn’t?”

She placed her cup on a side table, then folded her hands in her lap. “Mind if I ask you a personal question?” He nodded. “Have you ever been with a woman before? I mean, to have sex?” She followed his silence with, “It’s okay, you can be frank with me. I won’t laugh, I promise.”

“Not all the way, no.”

“Part of the way?”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

Pursing his thin lips, Wendell squirmed in his seat, seeing visions of Mrs. Robinson spreading her legs on the bar stool. “Mrs. Wilcox, you’re trying to seduce me. Aren’t you?”

She chuckled. “Sounds like we both saw the same movie. Let’s just say, BENJAMIN, that I’m willing to help you out, give you some experience. That’s if you want it. Do you?”

He nodded hesitantly. “What about Mr. Wilcox?”

“What about him?”

“I don’t think he’d like the idea of—”

“Look, don’t worry about him. You and Nathan can still do your coins thing as if nothing happened. Now, why don’t you join me over here?” Tentatively, Wendell got up and sat an arm’s length away on the sofa. “Slide closer,” she commanded, “I don’t bite or smell bad. There, that’s better.”

“You smell pretty good, actually,” he said.

“Thanks, I was hoping you’d Anadolu Yakası Escort notice. For your future reference, I’m wearing Arpege.” She book-ended his face in her hands and began kissing him. French kissing, while his experience there was limited also, it wasn’t completely foreign to him. “That was nice,” she said pulling away. Looking down, she noticed the bulge through his pants. “And I’d say you enjoyed it as well.”

She began fumbling with his belt, loosening his pants. He helped the rest of the way, kicking off his shoes, then sliding pants and underwear down to his ankles. His breathing picked up when she wrapped her hand around his stiff dick, then picked up even more when she bent over and took it in her mouth.

“No, no, don’t come yet,” she said, sensing that his climax was just a few strokes away. “At least not until you fuck my titties.” Wendell stared, curious and clueless. “Here, let me show you what I mean.”

After pulling off his pants, she went to the floor on her knees, slipped her arms out of her nightie and then squeezed her boobs around his cock. “Feel good?” He nodded. She moved back and forth, increasing her speed in rhythm with his breathing. “You love fucking my titties, love the feel of your rock-hard cock against my soft titties, don’t you?” Another nod. “Well, I love it too, because I’m so wet that my pussy juices are starting to drip down my thighs.” She reached down and poked a finger up her hole. “Imagine that, Wendell. Can you picture that?”

That did it. Seconds later, Wendell’s still technically virgin penis shot a geyser of hot cum, splattering droplets of the sticky white stuff all over Janet’s ‘soft titties’. She licked the residual cum from his cock, then grabbed a couple tissues to wipe away the excess. Standing up, she bent down and took his hand. “Here, Wendell, I’ll show you how wet I am,” she said, pulling his hand to her crotch. “Feel that. Don’t be shy, stick your fingers in there. Ooooo, that’s it. Ooooo, that feels so good. Now go higher. Feel that?” Another nod. “That’s my clit. Rub it.”

Closing her eyes, she rocked slightly from side to side and messaged her boobs. Feeling a bit dizzy, she grabbed the back of the chair and opened her eyes to see Wendell’s young cock starting to stir out of its flaccidity. A jolt of excitement shot through her, anticipating what she wanted to happen next.

“Okay, now you’re ready for the real thing,” she said. “Well, almost ready.” Stooping down, she began to employ her lips to aid in his cock’s resurrection. Up it went, millimeter by millimeter. Slowly but surely the blood rushed back in, inflating his sex to full hardness under Janet’s deft licking and stroking. “I think you’re more than ready,” she said.

Standing up, she lifted her negligee to her waist and flicked the crotch of her panties aside. Then she mounted him and proceeded to bounce on his cock. “Fuck me, Wendell, fuck me! Fuck your Mrs. Robinson the way you always wanted to. You did always want to, didn’t you?” Her “didn’t you” came out more as a statement of fact than a question.

Nodding, Wendell was at a loss for words. “Huh huh” was about all he could manage while Janet pile-drove her wanton self into him and he sucked on her tits and ran his hands along her smooth, white thighs. Grunts, groans and moans filled the room as the wind outside howled and the pungent aroma of sex wafted through the air, mingling with the spicy scent of walls paneled in Cocobolo wood. “Ohmagod, you’re gonna make me come,” she cried. “Oh, Wendell, I just love that marvelous appendage of yours.”

She collapsed against his chest, spewing out one long monosyllable of pleasure, a word not found in Merriam-Webster but one universally understood nevertheless.

She leaned forward and kissed him, then slid down to the floor once again. “Poor thing, you’re still hard as a rock,” she said, stroking his boner.

“Can we do it again?” Wendell said, his smile revealing a semblance of confidence that he had heretofore lacked with women.

While stroking him, she said, “Oh, aren’t we the stud?” She reached down and felt her crotch. “Of course we can do it again. My pussy’s still wetter than wet.”

Again, she lifted her nightie. But this time, instead of pushing her panties aside, she slipped them down her leg. “Now you take top,” she instructed, and proceeded to lay flat on her back, panties dangling from her ankle.

“It’s getting hot in here,” Wendell said, slipping off his polo shirt. His chest, bare except for a few light hairs, looked flushed from the heat.

“Yes, it sure is.” she said, spreading her long legs and then guiding Wendell’s ‘marvelous appendage’ into her. “And it’s about to get even hotter.”

Janet had that right, for Wendell found missionary more to his liking, and he fucked her this time with a wild abandon. He loved the deliciously erotic feel of her soft, shapely legs around his waist. Plus, he felt more in control. Now HE did more of the work, the pumping and thrusting. He alternated Kadıköy Escort between holding her arms down above her head and tucking his hand under her butt to lift her against his loins. He was, in the literal sense, banging her, pounding his pelvis into this beautiful, sexy woman who in the past, without trying, had stiffened his dick, getting him all hot and bothered to the point where he had to rush home, collapse on his bed and relieve himself as various scenarios played in his head. One of them even involved fucking Janet Wilcox in her den. Fantasy had thus become reality, live, vivid, and delicious.

Ditto for Janet, whose expectations prior to inviting Wendell over had been murky at best. She never dreamed that the normally quiet, reserved Wendell, who she had known since he was knee high to the proverbial grasshopper, could pleasure her the way her hubby hadn’t done in years, could morph into the sexual athlete she now held between her legs, stuffing her hot pussy with his equally hot cock, while pleasing her orally as well, working his tongue on and around her mouth and titties. He might be just a C student in college (as he once told her), but he was earning an A-plus today, proving himself a quick study under her experienced tutelage. Little wonder that she saw stars when she came a second time—technically a third time, for this was a double banger, an “exponential climax” as she described it once she returned to planet earth.

“I, um, have lots more furniture that needs moving,” she told him at the door. She smiled coyly, lifted her negligee and rubbed her pussy, just in case he missed the symbolism. “Could you come over between classes to help me move it?”

“You call and I’ll come, maybe twice like I did today,” he said, chuckling at his own corny pun.

She kept calling and he kept coming, at least twice, sometimes more. His comings and goings reminded them both of that scene in “The Graduate” showing Benjamin Braddock flitting in and out of hotel rooms to the soundtrack of Simon and Garfunkel’s music. By mid-February, their venue of sin had moved to other places. First, to Janet’s and Nathan’s bedroom, which required her to change the sheets after they had finished; and then, on occasion, to seedy motel rooms, white stucco, early post-World War Two affairs built on the suburban fringes to accommodate those seeking extra marital mischief.

Janet’s diligent changing of the sheets spared Nathan Wilcox the telltale scent of his wife’s infidelity. What he couldn’t understand was Wendell’s sudden lack of interest in coin collecting. At least it appeared that way when Wendell stopped coming around. “Oh, I’ve developed other interests,” Wendell said when Nathan saw him in passing. When Nathan asked like what, Wendell hemmed and hawed, shrugged and slinked away.

By March, Wendell Perdofsky carried himself like a changed man. He exuded confidence, holding his head up, no longer bent over, staring at the ground when he walked. Spring Break came, and Janet and Wendell took a sabbatical in deference to Juliana who was home from Brandeis. “It’s too risky, wait until she returns to school,” Janet advised. She recognized his new-found confidence, a confidence that sometimes bordered on arrogance. She had to admit that she was mostly to blame, boosting his ego with a string of superlatives in praise of his prowess on the mattress (or the sofa, depending…), making her feel desirable again, “like a natural woman,” as the song went.

In fact, Wendell felt so confident that on the third day of Spring Break he called Juliana and asked her out. Up to then, an intrepid move like that would have been unthinkable. Still out of his league? Perhaps, Wendell thought, though his latent adventurous spirit compelled him to venture forth. Unlike in the movie, where Ben’s parents forced him to call Elaine Robinson (threatening to throw another dreaded dinner party if he didn’t), this was Wendell’s idea. But, like Elaine’s mother, Mrs. Robinson, Janet Wilcox didn’t take kindly to Wendell messing with her daughter.

When Wendell went to pick her up for their dinner date, Janet’s look of contempt wasn’t lost on Juliana. “Did you and my mom have a tiff when I was away?” she inquired as he drove to the restaurant in his ’65 maroon Pontiac Le Mans convertible.

Wendell glanced sideways at a bell-bottomed Juliana, so pretty in her colorful, faux hippy outfit and long, chestnut hair, laced with green ribbons. “She might think I’m not good enough for you, that you’re out of my league.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said.

“You mean because I’m not out of your league?”

“More because mom doesn’t think like that. She’s never been an elitist.”

Wendell disagreed but dropped the subject. Over dinner, they engaged in lively conversation, trading tales of their college life and other topics, including movies they’d just seen. Wendell tensed up after Juliana revealed that she and a couple girlfriends went off campus to see “The Graduate.”

“What a hypocrite,” she said, referring to Mrs. Robinson. “The bitch commits adultery by sleeping with her friends’ son and then tells Ben he’s not good enough for her daughter.” When she then asked him if he harbored an older woman fantasy, a la Mrs. Robinson, Wendell could do little more than grin and say “sometimes.”

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