Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Mrs. Robinson

In last Thursday’s post, (Cleaning the Erasers), I talked about another case of a female teacher having sex with male students.  (Quick summary: What’s the freakin’ problem?)  I also mentioned that I, myself, once “dallied” with an older friend of my mom’s.  As no one seemed to want to comment on the teacher, and rather wanted to hear about my story, I will bend to the will of the people.

(Yeah, that took a real push, didn’t it?)

The time was somewhere around 1985, while I was living in the Bowling Green apartment, before the Summer of Bow Chicka Wow Wow.  The girlfriend and I hadn’t technically broken up, but I was thinking about it a great deal.  Things weren’t going well

The occasion was a Barn Party… I don’t remember the reason, but it didn’t take much back then.  I do recall that it was a “big one,” because I not only had my work friends over, but my folks brought people too.  As had become my habit for our Barn Parties of that era, I went alone and would spend the night in my old room, leaving the girlfriend at home.  She hated parties, drinking, loud music and fun of any kind that didn’t involve theater or show tunes.  (Yeah, like that relationship was ever going to work.)

So the party was rolling along; I was spinning the tunes and there was the usual drinking and dancing and carrying on.  At one point, Mom came up to me and said, “Mrs. Robinson wants to dance with you.”

Director’s DVD Commentary: Mom introduced her to me by her first name and that’s what I used that night.  I don’t want to use her name here, of course, so I looked up what Mrs. Robinson’s first name was in “The Graduate.”  Funny thing though… none of the adults in “The Graduate” were given first names.  Only the young ones were identified by first name.  So here, I’m just going to have to go with Mrs. Robinson.  But we were never that formal with each other.

Mrs. Robinson was reasonably attractive, looking to be in her late 40s.  She was tall, had long brown hair and looked good in tight jeans.  I knew absolutely nothing about her except that she was one of Mom’s poet friends.

Not wanting to be rude, I asked her what she’d like to dance to.  She asked if I had “Whiter Shade of Pale.”  I did, but not the original version.  I had a cover by a band Sammy Hagar and Neal Schon of Journey put together (for one album).  Think more power chords, less trippy keyboards.  But she said that would do.

So we danced and chatted a bit… about what, I have no idea.  But even a numb-nut like me could see that she was flirting with me big time… she was totally giving me the googley eyes.  She never propositioned me or anything; her behavior alone gave me plenty to think about.

Problem is, when you’ve been drinking beer all night at a party, it’s hard to do your best thinking.  So you kind of just stop and go with your instincts.  And the instincts of any 24-year old dude is to bang anything available.  So I stopped drinking a bit earlier in the evening than was my custom and plotted my next move.

A great thing about hosting these Barn Parties was that I had home court advantage.  I could just leave the party whenever I wanted and walk inside to go to bed.  So as the party was breaking up, I went inside and saw that Mom was in the kitchen, talking with Mrs. Robinson.  I joined in the conversation with the objective of getting rid of Mom.  At one point, Mom went upstairs and I thought she was going to bed, so Mrs. Robinson and I began to googley-eye each other with renewed intensity. 

But Mom came back down again, saying she would see Mrs. Robinson out.  I told her that I would take care of that for her.  I probably said that with more ‘edge’ in my voice than is appropriate when talking to one’s mother, but she was inadvertently putting on a major CB.  So she said goodnight and went back upstairs, probably due to the visible pheromone cloud hanging in the air.

With Mom and Dad upstairs in bed, Mrs. Robinson and I went over to the living room couch and proceed to claw each other’s pants off.  I asked if I needed to get a condom.  She laughed at me and said that it wasn’t necessary, as she was “sterile.”

I took that to mean she’d had her tubes tied, but her choice of terminology cracked me up.  (Inside.)  It sounded like she’d been dipped in alcohol and hermetically sealed for my protection. 

So we got busy with great gusto.  Everything went pretty well, all things considered.  I know I held up my end of the bargain.  I could tell because she kept going, “Shit!  Shit!  Oh shit oh shit oh shit!”  (It was like a good thing, as opposed to like she stepped in something.)  As flattered as I felt, I was also concerned because my parents were in bed, not 30 feet away in their room at the top of the stairs.   It was like I was in that scene from “Porky’s” when Kim Cattrall starts howling when she’s up in the equipment room with the young coach.  I almost considered the solution the movie presented, but thought better of it.

That would be kind of undignified for a poet.  I kind of shushed her instead… I mean, the last thing I needed was Dad hollering down, “Hey, shit or get off the pot!  We’re sleepin’ up here!”  Would have totally killed the mood.

Anyway, we did our thing and I kept my word by seeing her out to her car.  I felt pretty excited about the whole thing.  I mean, it’s an ego-boost to know that you took an educated, worldly grownup and turned her mind into jello.  The “cougars” may be on to something.

Director’s DVD Commentary: Why do older women going after young guys get a cute name like “cougars?”  Older guys going after young girls are just called “dirty old men.”  Unfair.

In the harsh light of day, the following morning, I began to reconsider what the hell I’d just done.  I was just hoping I could keep a lid on things.  The last thing I wanted was for the girlfriend to start hearing rumors.  I began to worry even more when I went to work the next time and my co-workers who were at the party and had seen me dancing with Mrs. Robinson were all, “So how did it go?  Hmmm? Did ya get some?  Hmmm?

I was all, “Nothing happened.  We just danced and that was it.  I went in and went bed, so don’t be spreading any bullshit.  Nothing happened.” 

I definitely left the ‘edge’ in my voice.  Luckily, I was able to keep a straight face.

But I needn’t have worried.  No one said anything more and the girlfriend and I broke up on our own shortly after.  I saw Mrs. Robinson at other parties, but kept my distance.  I considered our liaison to be strictly a one-time thing, right up until it happened again.

It was another party, maybe a year later during the summer.  By this time, I was living on my own and unencumbered by any relationships… meaning I wasn’t getting any.

I never mixed with Mrs. Robinson at that party either, but by the end of the party, I was feeling like I wanted a little some’um-som’um. 

Again, when I came in, Mom was talking in the kitchen with Mrs. Robinson.  This time, I was much more subtle.

I went upstairs and changed; or rather I should say, I took off all my clothes and put on a pair of knit shorts.  Then, as opposed to now, when that would be considered Babe Repellent, it was a good look for me.  I was all long and lean and tanned.

Knowing full well what I was doing, I went downstairs to the kitchen to get a drink of juice.  I knew Mrs. Robinson was mentally undressing what little I had left on.  I had my drink, said goodnight and went back up to my bedroom to set the trap.

I left my door ajar and sat up in bed, petting Amos, our Siamese. 

Before too long, Mrs. Robinson peeked in the door and slipped inside.  She sat on the side of the bed and pet the cat with me.

Cats are so sensual, don’t you think?

Yeah, so sensual that he got tossed right out the door, landing with a thump and a “Rooowl.”  I made a mental note to give him a treat, later.

Mrs. Robinson pulled the covers back and went to work on favoring me with a treat.  When she finished “treating” me, she asked if I had anything for her.

Hop on,” I said. 

Always the sweet talker.  Lucky for her, it was 2-for-1 night at the House of Bluz.

Oh to be 25 again.

When we’d finished, she went back downstairs and returned to the party.  I rolled over and went to sleep.  (Yay for home court advantage!) 

I never saw Mrs. Robinson again after that night.  Before long, I’d moved to Cleveland and began the non-cougar-bait portion of my life.


Justin said...

Wow what a great story! Did you ever see or hear from her again? Or heard what became of her through your mom or anything?? Inquiring minds need to know bluzman!!!

Mary Ann said...

Good tale. Ms. R. was, indeed a panther. But she did send you little notes, Valentines and ladylike stuff.
She moved to Boston with a Toledo poet we all called "The Ice Cream Poet', becaue he drove an icecream truck in summer and collected stories and lore from street kids. He was known for having bells on the underside of his mattress. Ms. R. always did like a jingle.

ettible said...

I could tell because she kept going, “Shit! Shit! Oh shit oh shit oh shit!” (It was like a good thing, as opposed to like she stepped in something.) Cracked me up.

Dirty old men do have a cute name, right? Sugar daddies!

Also, don't your parents read this? I love that.

bluzdude said...

Well, there you have it... asked and answered in the next comment.

Mary Ann aka 'Mom',
I don't remember any notes, but I'm not saying it didn't happen. I may have blocked it out. I do remember she came into the record store shortly after the first encounter. I think I said hi, then hid out in the back room, in a panic.

I'm glad she went on to be happy with her Jingle Man.

Katie Ett(ible),
I thought you could only be a Sugar Daddy if you had a lot of cash to spend on the object of your desire. The Sugar was the operative part, as opposed to the glazing.

Yes, the folks read this... as evidenced by the comment preceding yours. They knew this story anyhow... just maybe not all the "behind the scenes" stuff.

ettible said...

Meanwhile, I've still never said a curse word in front of my parents. Maybe in another ten years, I'll grow up.

bluzdude said...

Cursing was never an issue in our house, depending on timing and usage. If I said, "Dad, I just smashed my fucking thumb," no problem. On the other hand, if I ever said, "Fuck you, Dad," I'd probably still be in the coma.

Jessica R. said...

Wow, just wow. I'm impressed at your ladies man skills and your complete unconcern for your parents in the same house... and that they obviously didn't care. I'm in the same boat as Ett.

Sandra said...

Love the part about the sensual cat being tossed out on his sensual cat ass!...I read each and every word of this...I'm such a cougar!

bluzdude said...

Ladies man skills? Hah! All I did was not sabotage myself. She totally did all the work. All I had to do was be agreeable. (And, you know, long and lean and tan.)

I never bought into the thing about not having sex in my parents' house out of 'respect.' The way I saw it, respect for my folks had nothing to do with sex. Out of respect for my parents, I didn't bring home a bunch of punks, drug users or criminals. Sex wasn't immoral or taboo. (Just regretfully infrequent.)

That cat would have done wonders for me, if I could have leash-trained him. He would have lured all the pretty kitties in close. Of course, then I'd have been a dude walking a cat, which would have carried it's own issues.

I love it when you say you're read each and every word... I know how uncommon that is for you so I take that as validation from on high! Glad I had a good one here for you tonight.

And I bet your son's friends already wish you were a practicing cougar.

sherry stanfa-stanley said...

See, now here's the difference between daughters and sons. Not a CHANCE a guy would have made it in and out of my bedroom alive while my parents were home.

Whenever I went with a guy down to our basement (under the premise of playing pool), my dad found an excuse within fifteen minutes to come down there. I suppose a fifteen-minute lapse in the sound of billiard balls being hit was a pretty good indication we were taking some kind of a break...

bluzdude said...

I agree that it’s a complete double-standard and if I were the parent of a daughter, I’d probably adhere to it as well. In fact, I’d probably have the girl’s bedroom door removed, as well as the door to the rec room (or whatever.)

I was lucky as a kid… I had girlfriends up in my bedroom whenever I wanted. And if that failed, there was the Barn with its many couches (and natural soundproofing). It was much trickier maneuvering at the girl’s house, which unfortunately, where we were most of the time. Sometimes it’s a bitch, living out in the sticks.

A Beer for the Shower said...

Mother of God, after reading that story I feel like I should fist bump you. I had a smoking hot cougar lust after me long before I met the wife. Funnily enough, we couldn't do anything because Brandon and I were sharing a hotel room together (we were at a writing convention), and he was already asleep when I was looking to come back to the room. The cougar was sharing a room with her girlfriends too, so that was a no-go as well. Yep, CB'd by my best friend. :(

Anonymous said...

For some reason, I always got away with a lot more "bow-chika-bow-bow" at girls' houses than at my own. Maybe just the thought of my parents walking in on me was enough of a wet blanket. Or, maybe I just liked living dangerously knowing that there was a dad and a shotgun right upstairs.

And I always had some Procol Harum at the ready.

bluzdude said...

Bryan (Beer)
Fist bump accepted. But dude, ya gotta improvise!! Wasn’t there a pool or secluded whirlpool or stairwell or your car or something you could have used? Where there’s a will, there’s a way… it’s just that sometimes you gotta launch a guerilla attack (wherein no one sees you coming).

I weep for your lost opportunity. Also, I gotta check out one of these Writing Conventions…

I know there was one occasion when her father came with in seconds of catching me with my pants down. My college GF and I were upstairs in their room "playing video games", (playing 2 games of Atari Dragonfire, then frolicking like crazed weasels.) Lucky for me, the door to their room was at the bottom of a stairway, then you came upstairs into their room. Anyway, I was in mid-stroke one night when the he opened the door and began climbing the stairs. I barely had time to get my drawers back up. Luckily, my shirt hung down over my waist, so he couldn't assess the state of my belt or zipper (or what lay beneath). Close call. I'm pretty sure that sealed it in my mind that we had to move in together.

Reeik said...

We also now have the dreaded TURKEY VULTURE you know circles the BARS til the young lionesses and cougars take their prey then they swoop in and pick over the carcases bein to OLD to take down the young healthy prey .....

bluzdude said...

And this, coming from someone who has no right to talk about the old preying on the young and nubile. Buddy, I’ve got T-shirts older than your last date.

Judie said...

Geez, Tone! I knew you were hot, but this goes beyond hot! I am visualizing you with Anne Bancroft and the cat.

When I was in my thirties, married with two children, I still looked like I was in my early twenties due to some excellent genes in the family. Of course, that has all changed in the last couple of years, unfortunately. Since I had led such a sheltered life, I never would have dreamed of hitting on a younger guy, even though I knew that one of my son's friends had the hots for me. He used to come up behind me and slip his arms around my waist. I would always give him the "Mom" look, and he would blush.

You certainly have a lot of information to share with your siblings' progeny when they come of age, Bluz!!

Judie said...

Oops! I forgot to sign off with my usual, "your (formerly) Hot Arizona Auntie."

bluzdude said...

See, you were still married. Things might have been different if you weren't, and the young bucks were sneaking up behind you.

I'm totally looking forward to when I can start talking to my nephews about grownup stuff. I just have to be careful about what I tell them about their daddy. (That's his job.)

But last summer when I was out in Toledo, (on the occasion of our communal 50th Bday jamboree), as we rolled into the wee hours of the morning, my buddy's 16-year old daughter Kyrie (the little blondie) was out there with all her drunk uncles, and the topic of our past exploits with the ladies came up. She wanted to hear all about it.

Now, her dad couldn't really say much without looking like a total man-whore, so I figured my more slow-paced past might make for a better example. So I told her about my relatively low number of partners (I actually had to get out some paper and count'em up, just because so much of it was so long ago) and the relatively late age at which I began (21). She seemed shocked, but I wanted her to know that there was nothing wrong with waiting a while to get started.

All in all, it was my favorite part of the night, being able to include her in the grownup conversations.

Lastly, "formerly?"

Cassie said...

If this was my kid, I'd kill 'em.

Just kidding.

Not really.

You man-whore!

bluzdude said...

You'd kill who? The cougar-friend you sic'ed on your 24-year old son? Remember, this story didn't happen in a vacuum.

And I was not a man-whore... a 24-year old boy-whore at best. But that's kind of redundant.

Mrs. Bachelor Girl said...

Bluz, you dog, you! Color me impressed, lady killer.

bluzdude said...

No, if I was a real Lady Killer, I'd have landed a teacher. Or college grad assistant. Or anyone before I was 21.