Like most young guys I was obsessed with sex. I used to walk around with a hard on a lot of the time – well, all of the time really. When I think back to how good looking I was in my twenties I could cry for how I wasted it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d had girlfriends, and then a wife. But if I’d put my mind to it I could have had more pussy than is decent. But I didn’t even try. There’d always be tomorrow, or the day after, when that gorgeous young thing would offer it you on a plate. She never did though. Not then back then, that is. By my early fifties I’d stopped even trying to catch the eye of pretty girls, or even halfway descent older women for that matter. I don’t remember the year women stopped looking back at me, but stopped had. All that weight I’d put on probably didn’t endear me to the fairer sex. What woman wants a man weighing over fourteen stone lying on top of her? But last week I had a shock: a girl looked. Mind you, I’d been staring at her. Not trying to flirt, or anything. I was staring because of how she was dressed. She was done up the way girls used to dress when I was young. It really unnerved me – and made me horny too. I think the fashion for girls in vogue when a male is experiencing his first sexual stirring stays jammed in the back of his mind for the rest of his life, and becomes a template for how a woman should always look. It imprints itself on his brain in the same way animals get imprinted on the first thing they see after hatching, or being born. Not always their mothers either; an old bucket or human, sometimes is what they get. For me it was girls in mini-skirts, knee length boots, ten denier pantyhose, leather biker jackets, and earrings as big as the rings they put through the nose of a bull. This girl was wearing all that stuff. I suppose she was being ironic; retro, they call it. I don’t suppose she ever intend to look the way she did just to freak out old guys, or even to turn on a younger one. She was not to know the effect that particular look would have on someone like me. As soon as I saw those legs alighting from her car, I felt sensations I’d not felt for years. I was at a car boot sale selling all the stuff my ex-wife had left behind, and this girl had the pitch next to mine. I’d arrived at six to be sure of a place. When she saw me staring she actually smiled: not just her mouth but her eyes too. Set me up for the day that did. But I didn’t dare speak to her but couldn’t help look whenever I got the chance. I though about taking a snap with my phone, but decided that would be too sad. Best not to think about what you can’t have. It had been glorious first thing but by ten-o clock big, dark clouds could be seen blowing in from the west, and it was obvious it would rain. I saw her staring up at the sky looking all worried. “It’ll blow over,” I told her. She smiled. “But my stuff will get ruined,” she said. “I have sheeting. You can have some.” I had loads and pulled it over both our tables. While I organised it she picked up one of my Wife’s old records; a T. Rex vinyl; Tank, I think it was. “Cool, she said. “You like T. Rex?” I asked. “Love him.” “What about the early stuff, when he was with Steve Peregrine Took.” “Wasn’t he a hobbit?” I laughed, and just then the heavens opened. “Listen: if you come in my car with me I’ll play you A Beard Of Stars. The best thing they ever did.” “I’d like that,” She said. To cut a long story short, I played her the music, but more important we got talking -- about fashion and stuff. I said I liked the way she was dressed. She was about nineteen and because of her youth it was like time travel. Like taking your first bird up the woods in your first car; exciting, not knowing how far she’d go. While Marc Bolan warbled I asked her about her husband -- I’d seen the ring on her finger. “Your husband must be mad to let you out of his bed and come here.” “He’s lost interest. He’d rather play rugby with his mates on Sundays.” “I never would. Not with a girl like you.” “Aww, how Sweet. I told her she dressed like the girls I went out with back in the day. “I suppose seeing me like this brings back loads of memories?” she said. “You could say that.” “Want to touch?” What: a fat old man like me? You taking the piss.” “You’re not fat, and I don’t mind old . . . in moderation. You’re kind of cute, in a way, for an old guy.” And I remembered I wasn’t fat anymore. The doctor had made me diet when my blood pressure went up to 180 over 60. Six months and I’d lost two stone. But I’d thought my new slim frame had come too late. I was old now and that was that. I’d stopped even fantasising that an encounter could really happen. I now realise, some girls like older men. This one let me place my hand between her knees and gently stroke the inside of the thighs while she opened her legs a little more with each pass of my palm. And when my hands travelled up further, over her fleshy micromesh clad inner thigh, she moaned softly and I felt shivers – literally – travel from my finger tips and all up my arms. She let me stroke her for ages. Really it would have been enough to just touch her like that. But she was kind: soon she had my cock in the palm of her hand while I continued to gently massage her; my fingers now gently feeling the seam that ran tight against her panties, soft and warm, thrilling me more than her hand, if truth be told.. Even though she was skilled, it took a while for me to cum; one of the few boons age brings. If she had let me fuck her she would have seen. I gave her some tissue, and while she cleaned her hands the sun reappeared. People were starting to browse again and we had to go and serve new customers. Strange: I’d not even thought to kiss her. Later, as she drove way she waved to me and blew me a kiss. In my head, the words from the last track on the T. Rex CD sounded in my mind: ‘torch girl of the marshes, her touch is a wisp of the moon.’