Memories Ch. 02

(Author's Note: Lucas continues to write his stories but he can't show all of them to his family. Read his first story on Literotica, 11/05/2019, //rosa-blanca.ru/desixxxphoto/s/memories-ch-01-4)

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My name is Lucas, I'm old and I have stories to tell. My family, daughter, granddaughter and great granddaughter, are avid listeners to my stories about my adventures, mostly exaggerated, some fanciful, but all entertaining.

Unfortunately, I can't tell some of them to my family. What follows is one of those stories I can only tell to strangers. It occurred after my lovely wife, Emma, passed away and soon after my first experience in extended relationships in a local home for the elderly.

As the complications with relationships with women in senior living environments began to become unmanageable, I began to seek solace for my loneliness elsewhere.

Fortunately, Jon, my neighbor, had another proposal. He told me the bowling league winter season was about to start and his team needed a new recruit.

"Jon," I said, "I've never bowled. I couldn't possibly be an asset to your team."

"It's easy," he replied. "It's not as hard as it looks. It's really fun and it would give you something to look forward to on Thursday nights," he said with a wink. "It's a mixed league and there's always women around. If you're willing to give it a try, we'll go down to the lanes tomorrow, I'll give you a few pointers and we'll bowl a few lines. If you like it, you can be on the team."

The next day, Jon picked me up and we headed for the bowling alley. Inside it was cold and noisy as dozens of bowlers rolled large, heavy balls down polished wooden surfaces attempting to knock over a triangle of white bowling pins. There were two dozen lanes along one length of the building and a service counter and a bar along the other.

Jon and I approached the service counter and Jon rented a pair of bowling shoes for me from the high school aged clerk and reserved a lane for us. At lane seventeen, I changed my shoes while Jon placed his ball on the rack between our lane and lane eighteen and changed into the shoes he brought with him. We spent fifteen minutes selecting a ball for me from the hundreds on racks around the facility.

Jon explained the basics and had me watch him roll a ball down the alley. He pointed out how he took five steps and slid his left foot on the floor as he brought the heavy ball down and released it. He then gave me my ball and told me to give it a try.

My slide bounced as my shoes stuck on the floor and the ball bounced on the hard wood as it slipped out of my hand prematurely and rolled into the right channel next to the alley about half way to the pins. I looked around, expecting laughter. There was none and Jon was serious as he approached me. "Okay, you've got the basic idea but those shoes suck," he said. "Take them off and give them to me."

I took off the shoes and Jon and I sat on the benches behind the alley. "These shoes are identical," he said. He took off his shoes. "Look. See how the left one is different. It lets you slide while the right one sticks to the floor for traction." He took out his penknife and roughed up my left shoe. "Here. Try this," he said as he gave me back my shoes.

My second shot was better. My slide was shortened, the ball left my hand closer to where I intended it to, actually made it all the way down the lane and knocked over four pins. We played it out and I finished with a total of 89 while Jon had a 167.

"Let's take a break," suggested Jon. He explained that proper equipment was critical, especially the shoes. "The ball provided by the alley is okay but the shoes suck. They might even be dangerous. You have a natural motion and I think you'd play well with the right shoes. Let's quit for now and go shopping."

Jon told me to remember the number engraved on my ball and put it on a rack where I could find it easily again. Jon paid for the use of the alley, I returned my shoes and we went to the mall. We went to a chain sports outlet and, with Jon's help, I purchased a pair of proper bowling shoes.

The next day we went back to the bowling alley. While Jon arranged for an alley, I hunted for my ball. When I found it, I looked around and saw Jon sitting behind alley twelve putting on his shoes. I joined him and put on my new shoes. The practice went much better than the day before. We bowled three games. My best improved to 123 with an average over 100 while Jon managed to average 159. The shoes were a great improvement.

The third day I averaged 121 primarily because I looked for a better fitting ball after the first game. Jon declared that I was ready to join the league so I became the sixth member of his team. The league started on Thursday, two weeks later, and I was ready. Only four team members were needed for each week's competition so we each sat out one week out of three. We all showed up each week to cheer on the team players or substitute if necessary.

The second week, I was scheduled. We were competing on lanes eleven and twelve, directly in front of the bar. During the evening, I noticed a stylish, attractive, maybe early fiftyish, woman sitting sideways at the bar and watching the play.

The next week we were on lanes thirteen and fourteen and the stylish woman was again watching the competition from her position at the bar. Jon came over to me and said, "She's watching you."

"Who's watching me?" I innocently asked.

"The hot broad you've been eyeballing all evening," he said.

I looked up and caught her eye. She toasted me with her glass and took a deep swallow. "Shit," I thought. "Jon may be right. She is stacked and she just might be watching me."

I thought about her off and on all week. The next Thursday, I wasn't scheduled. I showed up anyway. We were scheduled on lanes three and four but instead of sitting in the pit with the other players, I drifted to the bar and sat next to her. We had ten minutes of small talk while I downed a beer before I returned to the team. I learned that her name was Elizabeth but she preferred to be called Liz or Red for her red hair.

I bowled with the team each of the next three weeks. Each time the lady was sitting nearby watching our team. Jon had been doing some research on the lovely lady. He learned she had been a professional bowler in the PWBA. She had retired and now owned the alley we were using. He suggested that I should get to know her and she might be able to provide some pointers that would improve my game.

By the end of week seven, it was clear I was the team anchor. That's not an honor worthy of note. I didn't serve to unify the team as the term might imply. My average was dragging the entire team down with me. Jon's suggestion might have some merit and other benefits if I was lucky.

I wasn't scheduled to bowl on week eight but I showed up to support the team. Liz was sitting at the bar as usual and I decided to join her. I sat with her for two hours watching my team compete. She bought me four beers. Actually, she told the bartender to forget my tab, confirming that she owned the bowling alley and the bar. Along the way, she commented on my team's performance and shared her opinion of my ability. She was candid after she commented, "You haven't been bowling for very long, have you?"

I agreed. "It's only been about three months."

"It shows," she opined.

"I probably could use some lessons," I hinted relying on Jon's research.

"If you're serious, I might be able to help," she offered.

"Bingo," I thought.

"Hang around after closing and find me," she said.

I finished my beer and went to the pit to watch my teammates finish. Afterward, I loitered until the place was empty and the lights were mostly out. The bartender tried to shoo me out but Liz stopped her. When everyone was gone, Liz went to the control desk and restarted lane twelve and turned on some overhead lights. "Where's your stuff?" she asked.

I told her my shoes were in my car and she held the door while I went to get them. Back inside again, she looked over my shoes and judged them worthy. "How about your ball?" she asked.

"I use ball 273," I told her.

"One of those cheap, lousy, scared things we keep on the racks for the amateurs?" she asked.

"Yeah, one of those," I agreed.

"Okay. Get the ball and meet me down there," she said pointing to the active lane.

She watched me roll a couple of frames and then started making suggestions. She changed my approach from five to three steps and showed me how to slide properly at the finish. She also showed me the guide marks on the lane and how to use them. The next few frames were much better.

When we were done for the evening she had another suggestion. She insisted I have a personal bowling ball. She told me to come back the next afternoon, when things were slower, and she would have someone fit me and drill a ball for me.

I agreed and the next afternoon I had a nice, blue with white streaks, bowling ball fitted exactly to my hand and fingers and a faux leather bag to carry the ball and my shoes.

I bowled the next two weeks with my improved approach and new ball. My scores were significantly better but not outstanding. However, I was no longer the lowest scorer on the team. I didn't see Liz on either night. I took some good-natured ribbing about my 'girl friend' not being there to watch me bowl.

I wasn't scheduled for week eleven but I showed up to support my teammates and, hopefully, reconnect with Liz. I wasn't disappointed. Liz was at the bar in her usual spot and I spent the entire evening next to her. My teammates spent time alternately watching us but I didn't care. I was becoming hopeful that Liz could teach me more than just bowling moves.

We spent the evening just talking about everything except politics or religion. Eventually she asked me about my bowling skills. I told her that my scores had improved and thanked her for her pointers. I actually said 'pointers' while looking directly at her nipples outlined by her thin sweater in the cold room. If she caught my intent, she was non-reactive and continued the conversation as if I hadn't tried to change the subject.

Liz told me to hang around after the league finished and she would give me some more 'pointers.' Little Lucas took that comment hopefully and prepared for action. Liz, on the other hand, was referring to bowling tips.

Later, Liz showed me how to curve the ball as it traveled down the alley and how to aim it properly for the best result. I rolled a few frames to get the feel of the new swing until Liz was satisfied I could reproduce it consistently. Afterward, we sat in the seats behind lane twelve and talked some more.

We discussed our lives in general, omitting specifics, at least I did. Eventually, Liz suggested we go out to dinner together.

"Are you asking me for a date?" I inquired.

"If that's how you feel about dinner with me, I guess I am," she responded.

"Aren't I supposed to ask you?"

"In some old-fashioned sense, I guess you are but you haven't so I just got tired of waiting. So here we are. How about it?"

I needed time to think. Even in my fantasies, I hadn't considered an attractive woman, any woman, coming on to me so blatantly and asking me on a date. However, this was the eighties and maybe I should have expected it. To save my old-fashioned sense of decorum, I responded, "Liz, would you care to have dinner with me?"

"Lucas, I would love to have dinner with you."

"Where would you like to go?"

"Lucas, you asked me. You pick the restaurant."

"I just didn't want to pick somewhere you didn't like."

"It doesn't matter. You asked. I accepted. Obviously I want to have dinner with you no matter where or what the restaurant is."

"Is tomorrow night too soon?"

"Strike three. Your invitation, your choice. I only have to say yes or no. Want to try again?"

"Okay. Tomorrow night. What time should I pick you up? Wait. I'll pick you up at seven."

"Terrific."

"However, you will have to tell me where?"

"Right here. At the alley. I'll be out front at seven."

I drove home exhausted from the short conversation. Liz was either the most difficult woman in the world to please or the easiest. Or, maybe, I was afraid of not pleasing her. All those years with Emma I never made a move without her consent. But we were married. Liz and I aren't. Does the decision process change after marriage? I can't remember.

As promised, Liz was waiting in front of the bowling alley when I pulled up at exactly seven o'clock. I drove us to Jake's Italian Restaurant, a small eatery just outside the city that had excellent food in an Italian atmosphere, no take-out pizza and a liquor license. We were seated in a side booth with low lighting and privacy.

Conversation during the meal was stiff and aimless. During the lull between the main course and dessert, Liz suggested a change in approach. She asked if I was willing to answer a few questions if she would agree to the same.

I agreed. We ordered a couple of limoncellos and Liz laid out some ground rules. We could ask each other three simple questions and we were required to answer. When I asked for further explanation, she suggested easy questions, things we might want to know about each other that were not usually socially acceptable or polite, to ask. Nothing very personal but interesting to know. Finally, she said, "You can object to any question as too intrusive or embarrassing and age and weight are off the table."

I agreed to play along, already trying to think of three things about her I might want to know.

"Okay," she said, "I'll go first. How old are you?"

"Wait a second. I thought you said age was off the table."

"I meant for me. I didn't include you in the restriction."

"That's not really fair. If I have to answer so do you."

"Okay. Age is in. Weight is definitely out."

"Agreed. Fifty-five. How old are you?"

"Forty-six. Liz paused for a minute. She sipped her drink while thinking. "What's your favorite color?"

Not what I expected after her elaborate setup. "Something on the blue-green spectrum, like teal or ocean green." I wasn't going to waste the opportunity to get some useful information. "Have you ever been married?" I asked.

"I should throw a flag on that one but I'll answer. Yes. My turn." Another pause. "Do you have any children?"

"Two, Lucy and James. What's your favorite sports team?"

"Honestly, I don't have one. I am a sports freak. I love a good contest in almost any sport from football to curling. I enjoy most in person and I usually root for the underdog.

"All right," she continued. "We're out of questions. Want to try again?"

"Sure."

"This time we can ask more personal questions but nothing extreme."

"What constitutes 'extreme'," I asked.

"Like obscenity, we'll know it if it comes up. I went first last time. Three questions, you go first."

At the end of round two, I knew Liz slept on her right side, naked and wore a 34C bra. She knew I wore blue colored briefs, thought about sex frequently and enjoyed physical contact.

"Want to play some more?" she asked.

"Why not?" I responded.

"Okay. No limit. Anything goes and we have to answer. Agreed?"

"What the hell," I thought. "This could be interesting." "Okay," I said. "Your turn."

"Do you fuck on the first date?"

That took the air out of the room. "Just so I understand the question, are we on a date?"

"I thought so."

"A first date?"

"Certainly."

"And I don't have to answer verbally?"

"Affirmative."

"I think we need a change of venue. Someplace more private and definitely more comfortable."

"Agreed."

We finished our drinks and skipped dessert.

Back in the car I suggested, "There's a motel about a mile down the road."

"Why don't we go to my place? I have lots of room, lots of premium adult beverages and a huge bed."

"Lead the way."

"Back to the bowling alley, please," she said as she leaned over the console and put her hand on my thigh. Little Lucas begged for attention.

I drove to the bowling alley, around the side and parked near a door at the rear of the building. Liz produced a key and we entered a long hall that extended behind the alleys the length of the building on the right and a stair that led up at least three stories on the left. We climbed the stairs and Liz used another key to open the door at the top. The lights came on automatically as we entered.

We were in a huge room with several, clearly identifiable areas. On our right was a large seating area consisting of a sofa, two half sofas and a couple of over large chairs focused on a large, wall hung television and a complex sound system with at least eight visible speakers. On our left was another area with a curved sectional sofa facing a ledger-stone wall with a built-in fireplace ten to twelve feet wide and only about eighteen inches high. Beyond that was a wall that I imagined separated the space from a kitchen area. Straight in front of us was a large arched doorway that I thought must lead to the bedroom and bathroom areas.

Liz dropped her keys into a small basket on a console table against the wall on our left beneath some wall hooks that served to hang hats and coats. She kicked off her shoes and when she turned to me I took advantage of the opportunity, leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. At first she seemed surprised but as the kiss lingered she leaned into me and kissed me back. It wasn't a bodice ripper romance novel kiss. It was a respectful kiss with some promise included. When we separated, she took a quick breath and said, "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back," as she crossed the room and went through the archway into the darkened hallway beyond.

I kicked off my shoes as well and little Lucas and I walked into the area on my left. There was a switch on the wall next to the stone. Curiosity won and I flipped the switch. The gas fireplace came on lighting from left to right along its twelve-foot length. I sat on the sofa and soaked up the ambiance of the fire while waiting for Liz.

Liz returned in less than five minutes. She noticed my focus on the fireplace and by some unseen and unheard process the room lights dimmed as she walked over to me. She was barefoot and wearing a brightly patterned robe of silk or satin tightly wrapped around her body and held closed by a wide red sash knotted on her left side.

"How about a nightcap?" she asked. When I nodded my approval she started around the wall. I got up and followed her into what was indeed the kitchen. Not just a kitchen. An Architectural Digest demonstration kitchen. The room was dominated by a large island with an eight-foot wide wall flush, double-doored refrigerator on the far wall and a double oven in a neighboring wall. The entire space was filled with cabinets and additional kitchen appliances, some with glass doors showing crystal glassware sparkling with interior lights.

"I've got a fine, eight-year old Cabernet," she offered.

"That's perfect," I responded.

She retrieved a dark bottle from a nearby wine cooler and two large balloon glasses from a cabinet over it. She poured a considerable volume of dark red liquid into each glass and led me back into the darkened room. She settled on the sofa in front of the fireplace and I sat gingerly next to her. We saluted each other with our glasses, clinked them gently and sipped the heavenly wine.

Liz reached out and placed her glass on a small table in front of the sofa. She took my glass from my hand and placed it next to hers. She shifted her body in my direction, leaned in, took my face in her hands and began to kiss me. This second kiss was different. It began to deliver on the promise. Open mouthed and very passionate. We held the kiss, exchanging breath with each other until almost dizzy from lack of oxygen. When we separated, I looked at her. She looked at me. I reached out, pulled her onto my lap and kissed her again. I let my hands wander over her satin clad body while we kissed, lingering with my fingertips lightly moving back and forth over her erect nipples.