“You love it, Jeffery,” she would breathe huskily, the words rolling off her lips and enveloping me in a fog of desire as her fingers caressed my hair and provided a subtle pressure on my scalp. “And I aim to take full advantage of it. A boy like you, a true Frenchman, is a rare delight.” Mrs. Brown was a saucy little blonde divorcee who rented me a room and a bath during my last semester of graduate school, almost twenty years ago, and I’m sure that to this day, a sexy smile, makes her lips curve when she thinks about me. My memories of her are equally fond and precious.

In 1970, the Southern college town was loaded with ripe, nubile coeds suitably inspirational to provide abundant plying of my lusty addiction. Yet the fertile field proved a mirage. Most of the alluring maidens were... Read More