Author’s Note:
I am male, and absolutely heterosexual. When I was in college my landlady, a wonderfully delightful, and outrageously bawdy, 73-year-old cougar with whom I spent four wonderful years, would tell me stories of her misspent 40s and 50s before she retired, bought her big old house, and started renting rooms to college students. Since, even in my 20s and fresh out of the Air Force I needed at least some recovery time we did plenty of pillow talking. Her story was so outrageous, and yet so perfect, and told with such conviction that I think I believe it, mostly anyway. I’ve wanted to write her story for years and here it is. I tried at first to write from the point of view of one of the fraternity men, but I’m strictly a first person writer and, well, it’s her story after all. I think I caught the feel of her. I sure hope so because I remember that old cougar mighty fondly.
So you know, this is a love story. Oh, there’s plenty of sex, some pretty kinky, but above all it’s a love story. I hope you enjoy reading about Becky and the guys as much as I enjoyed hearing about them.
Prologue
I woke slowly and moaned
The hangover this morning was particularly gruesome.
When I stretched and yawned I felt a peculiar soreness in my mouth and when I touched my lip I could feel it was swollen.
“Oh shit,” I sort of moaned as I rolled off of the bed with absolutely no idea where I was.
I stumbled into the bathroom, obviously in a motel room, and winced when I sat to pee.
“Jesus,” I said softly, as I looked at the hag in the mirror as I washed my hands.
My upper lip was puffy, the classic fat lip, and my right eye was black and swollen almost shut.
I turned and twisted, moaning softly as I did, to look over my shoulder and see what the pain when I sat was, and I moaned again as I saw what could only be four cigarette burns right where I sit.
I lit a Salem and sat, cradling my head, remembering bits and pieces.
A bar alongside Highway 95 a few miles off of Interstate-40 in, of all places, Bullhead City, Arizona.
Already half drunk, slamming back a couple of boilermakers purchased by a trucker-type in a down filled vest and wearing a “Mack” ball cap.
Another friend of his joining us and then checking into the no-tel motel across the street.
Trying to resist when the one guy, with an enormous cock, wanted my asshole and the punches that earned me.
Whimpering as he took me anally, wondering if something was tearing.
Crying out as they laughed, stubbing out cigarettes on my ass.
Throwing up and passing out.
Yep, another night on the road for Becky.
I stood, groaning, and looked at myself in the mirror again.
“Okay toots,” [Author’s note: this was the first time I ever heard the word “toots” actually spoken] I said, each word driving a separate nail into my already sore skull, “this shit has got to stop.”
You see, I hadn’t taken divorce well. I guess the woman in her 40s who gets traded in on a little blonde ball of fluff never does.
So I told my divorce lawyer that I wasn’t interested in being nice or amicable or any other bullshit. I wanted EVERYTHING he could squeeze out of my ex.
The divorce settlement was quite satisfactory to the wronged woman.
I got the house, he got the mortgage.
He kept a few personal possessions and anything else of his that was still in the house I called the Teen Challenge guys and had them haul away. I imagine the kids enjoyed his xBox and game collection and Goodwill liked his wardrobe. I didn’t ask.
I also got exactly 33.3 percent of the profits from his practice. I had wanted 50 percent but my lawyer persuaded me to settle for a third. My part of the compromise was that my accountant handled the books so the ex couldn’t hide anything.
When all was said and done I got monthly checks for about $5,000 (and remember, this was 1967 dollars) so I was, as they say, “fixed.” One time when the check didn’t arrive on the first of the month I turned him over to a collection agency.
When I signed the last set of papers I had loaded a small suitcase in the trunk of my Mustang convertible and set out.
To this day I’m not sure what I thought I was trying to prove or to whom I was trying to prove it. I don’t suppose it matters really.
For the next three years I traveled and fucked and sucked my way border to border and coast to coast. A different man every night. Often more than one. Sometimes names weren’t even exchanged.
And then I woke up in Bullhead City and said “enough.”
I came home, checked myself into rehab not because I thought I was an alcoholic but because I just needed a quiet place to dry out.
And then I went looking for a job.
Chapter One
“You understand,” he said, steepling his fingers in that way that all academics seem to develop over time, “that this is a live-in position. Are you sure you can, well, ‘handle’ a fraternity house full of young men.”
I managed not to roll my eyes.
“Dean Rogers,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I am 47 years old. I raised a son and regularly had a houseful of boys, including pubescent and post-pubescent boys. Yes sir, I can handle them.”
He leaned his head back a little, literally looking down his nose at me and again I felt the anger starting to rise.
“Why are you interested in this position Becky,” and his use of the diminutive form of my name grated a little more. “You have an impressive resume. I would think that this job would be, well, ‘beneath’ you.”
I laughed softly at that.
“Dean Rogers,” I said, making sure to not use his first name, “I included everything on that resume. You know that I did a six week rehab after basically living in a vodka bottle for almost three years following my divorce. The divorce settlement was, well, let’s say, satisfactory to the wronged woman,” and here I allowed a little smile to cross my face. “I don’t need the money to be honest, but I like being on campus. I’ll be taking some classes. And, frankly, I think I might be able to do some frat rats some good.”
He actually smiled at that, the first honest smile I had seen.
“Fair enough. It’s just, well, how do I put this without setting myself up for a sexual harassment action? It’s just that most of the applicants are not, well, not as attractive as you are,” he finally managed to get out.
And it was my turn to smile.
“Dean Rogers,” I said, deliberately looking him in the eye, “I know that I clean up pretty good. But that doesn’t mean I’m a pushover. I also have a black belt in two disciplines and I can keep as many rounds inside of the 9 ring with a.45 as you care to watch.”
That last took him aback and I thought for a second I had overplayed my hand.
I carefully held his gaze while he let that digest. And finally, slowly, a grin spread across his face.
“All right then,” he said, standing, “I’m sure the fraternity will enjoy its new house mother.”
I stood too and he extended his hand.
“Welcome aboard Becky,” he said giving me a surprisingly firm handshake, “this is either going to turn out to be one of my better decisions or one of the absolute worst, but time will tell. Come along, let’s get you signed up.”
And with that he led me out of his office and down to the Human Resources office. I was mildly surprised that he simply led me and didn’t try any of that hand-to-the-small-of-the-back stuff that men seem to think is okay with a woman who has been divorced.
I spent the next two hours reviewing and signing papers. Before I left Academic Hall I was equipped with a folder full of paper, a map, and my staff identification card. I was now the official House Mother for ABC Fraternity (forgive me if I don’t give out the real Greek letters, but, well, you’ll see why).