I was twenty-six when Cheryl called and acted like we were old friends.

We were from the same small town, a thousand miles away, and I didn't think we had ever spoken.

She was the most beautiful and popular girl in high school, the homecoming and prom queen her senior year. I was a popular athlete, but only a lowly freshman.

When I began college, in 1966, I was surprised to see her on campus. I didn't know she was a student there, too. I started to say hello, but she stuck her cute little butt up in the air, turned her back to me, and continued talking to her sorority sisters. Boy, did that hurt! After that, I snubbed her before she could snub me.

Now we were old pals. We had so much in common, growing up a few blocks apart, and she wanted to have lunch. Sure, I said, why not? I wondered what she looked like at twenty-eight. Probably fat and faded, the mother of several brats, living in the 'burbs with dishpan hands and tired bouffant hair.

She arrived at my apartment with a gourmet picnic basket. Shrimp on ice, duck pate, champagne, and she was more gorgeous than ever. She drove a Mercedes and although she had her longish dark hair in a ponytail, no makeup, in jeans and a t-shirt, she looked like a million bucks. And those big brown eyes, so happy to see me!

I didn't have much to say about myself. I was still a hippie, unmarried, and despite my degree in History, I worked in a restaurant kitchen for near-minimum wage. She had married a dentist several years older than her and though she was still childless she had a wonderful life. She couldn't ask for more. Except one thing.

"I don't know why," she explained, "but I can't get pregnant. We've been to specialists. There's nothing wrong with either of us. It doesn't make sense. He's a great guy."

She frowned, pouting sadly, and sighed.

"He is so busy, he works so hard. Four, sometimes even five days a week. His only pleasure is golf. And bridge. He's up at the crack of dawn almost every day and off to the Valley." The Valley Country Club was the most prestigious one around here. "We get together, if I can say it that way, maybe once a month. Sometimes less. The last time was three months ago. He seems to like his golf buddies better than me."

She sobbed, a total loser.

We were sitting on my ratty old couch. I patted her well-toned shoulder. She worked out. I didn't.

"There, there," was all I could think to say. "There, there."

"Fuck me!" she begged. "Please! Please fuck me! Fuck me hard, you fucking hippie!"

We were in each other's arms in a dickthrob.

We began on the couch and ended on the floor. Her tits weren't big but they were waggers, firm and bouncing all over the place, thick sexy nips pointing up like hungry little love puppies. I don't think I'd even heard of a manicured puss, trimmed and shaved around the edges, much less seen one, but you could see her ripe slit and hard bud, open and wet and begging for attention.

"Put it in!" she pleaded. "Oh, God, put it in! Fuck me! Please fuck me!"

My tail is tiny, barely three inches hard, and it was buried to the hilt in her love hole. I didn't care. I shot about a gallon of hot baby goo up her sweet snatch. At twenty-eight she still seemed tight. Even at twenty-six I was strictly a Johnny-One-Squirt but before it was over I came three times, until my boys were shooting blanks. A dream come true. More than that. I'd never in my wildest teen dreams ever imagined Cheryl's hot twat would someday be squeezing my weenie and milking my balls dry.

When we were done she pulled her legs up, knees over her shoulders. I thought she wanted something kinky, butt stuff, and I tried to stroke Junior hard again but the little fella was finished and about an inch long, an exhausted turtle peeking out of its shell. I didn't know it then but she wanted my spermies to swim into her primordial swamp, not leak out.

The only way I knew to satisfy women was orally and I went down on her. Licking and knicking on her pulsing back door with my tongue, then her juicy Lucy, then sucking her love button until she came.

"Gosh, Peewee," she told me as she dressed. Peewee was my high school nickname. I'm six feet tall. "I'm glad I didn't know about you back home. We'd have a dozen kids and live in a trailer."

I was sure she would call me the next day. It was true love. When she didn't, I cried. I cried for a month. Sometimes, I still cry. Not many losers like me see the impossible dream come true. I fucked the Prom Queen. And she liked it!

When she returned, three months later, she brought an even better picnic basket. This time, though, no champagne. She couldn't drink. She was knocked-up.

"I did it with you and three other guys that day. The last was my husband," she said. "You were first. I hope it's not yours. Your wiener is pitiful. If it's a boy he'll never find a good woman."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I like what you did with your tongue," she said. "Eat my cunt, you little twerp."

I did. We were happy together, behind her husband's back, for many years.