The height of passion found three times in the summer heat—all by mistake.
Hounded by my irritating soon-to-be ex-wife and her latest beau, I went to the North Woods to clean out my dad’s old cabin. That’s when I met a gorgeous young blonde less than half my age who was convinced I was the object of her starstruck desire. To make matters worse—or better—her equally charming brunette friend insisted I was another conquest altogether.
Dodging my own scruples and nag-sessions from my estranged spouse, I did what many a forty-something guy with a spare tire and failing libido would do. Lucky for me, the brunette’s sexy, sassy, middle-aged mom got me off the hook—kind of.
It happens to all of us—we see that person at the store who looks just like an old friend, teammate, or lost chance at love. As we get older, it seems less important to bother approaching them to ask if they are who we think. It’s just easier to let go of the past.
But we are impetuous in youth—sure of ourselves, and our immediate future is a matter of urgency. We take risks that lead us to live up to old clichés such as learning from experience. Many of us fear the past may come back to haunt us, but once in a great while the chips fall in our favor. The past simmers and stews for years, waiting for the spark of revelation to change us forever.
My revelation was set in motion by a traumatic incident of my youth. On the first day of middle school, a buffoon twice my size named Jimmy Gibson mistook me for Tommy Halverson. I still remember it sounding something like, “I’m…thump…not…smack…Halverson!”
It wasn’t pretty. In fact, it was embarrassing. It got so bad the kids gathered around us all begged the brute to stop. Even Tommy Halverson happened by and advocated for me.
Jimmie Gibson didn’t seem to care much. He was a goon with itchy fists that needed scratching. I took a sound beating that day, but I always knew the scales would someday balance. A few years later, Jimmie was convicted of armed robbery and sent to prison. He never left. Tommy Halverson went on to be a talent scout for reality television shows. My reward was coming. It just needed to simmer for about three decades.
It happened just after my bio-dad passed away. We weren’t that close, but I was his only kid, so his nest egg and accumulation of cool toys were mine to do with as I saw fit. Once his will cleared the probate system, the lawyer handed me the keys to his weekend cabin. It was nestled in a wooded lot on the shores of, oddly enough, Karma Lake.
I was in my early forties and not the woodsy type. My intention was to spend a few days sizing the place up—maybe keep a few things of value and sell the property to someone who would appreciate it. It was just after noon on a hot August day when I rumbled down the long dirt driveway in my old truck. The place was as I imagined—a quaint little cabin hidden in a disheveled mess. Rather than go right inside, I kicked around the cluttered yard looking through the belongings of the dad I never knew.
When I made my way around back, I caught a breathtaking view of the mountains surrounding Karma Lake. Gazing over the water, I realized what my old man must have seen in the place. But my attention was drawn to a playful squeal and a splash. As I walked forty feet or so toward the shore, the hedges to the right gave way to the plush green lawn of the property next door, where a modern chalet with mirrored windows and a wraparound deck overlooked the lake.
But the most delightful sight was knee-deep in the mountain lake water. Two young beauties, a golden blonde and a brunette, stood in bikinis no more concealing than Band-Aids and dental floss. From fifty feet or so away, I could only guess their ages, but the University of Maine sweatshirt on the clothesline put them at college age in my estimation.
The blonde stood only about five-foot—a fit specimen with firm curves and cambers. Her tanned skin glistened against her yellow bikini, enhancing the cut shape of her arms, thighs, and torso. The jewel in her navel shimmered just above the water. “This lake is always freezing!” she squeaked, bouncing up and down.
“It’s refreshing,” replied the brunette—a taller, thin beauty with lanky legs and a thigh gap wide enough to throw a baseball through. As slim as she was, there was something about the way her nimble frame filled her turquoise bottoms. Her hips, tummy, and round ass cheeks were fashioned to a cock-stiffening, eyedropper appeal. She had tiny breasts, but it somehow didn’t detract from her nubile beauty.
