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I’d attend fashion shows in various parts of the country. I didn’t really think about men or sex. I was focused on the success of my stores.

I’m not sure what triggered it in my brain, but on a flight to Montreal, I decided I wanted to be with a man.

Montreal goes all out for their winter carnival. I’m 5’ 10” tall, and the snow was up to my 36CCs. Montreal made it a fun week, although the fashion show was only three days.

I was just waiting in line to check-in for the fashion shows and my hotel when I struck up a conversation with the guy behind me. Simon Dunfee was from Vancouver, British Columbia and represented a bunch of high end stores in western Canada and the Northwest part of the United States. He was tall, good-looking, perhaps sixty-years-old and what sucked me in was his accent. He was born in Ireland. I was sucked in by that accent.

Later I sucked. Anyhow, when I checked-in, I turned to him, “Simon, why don’t we continue this conversation in the bar? Give me an hour to get settled.”

I dressed like I was trying to get a man in bed, which I was. I have to say, when I walked into the bar, I turned heads. I was fifty-one. I knew all those men were looking at me. “Nanci, you look stunning. Every man here would be honored to escort you to the shows.”

“Thank you, Simon. I have my eyes set on only one man.” I took his hand and squeezed it.

There was an introductory cocktail party. We skipped it. While the other buyers were having cocktails; I was having Simon’s cock.

He was almost perfect. Once, we had our clothes off, he confessed while he was kissing, licking, sucking on my tits, which if I do say so myself were still firm. “Nanci, at my age, some things don’t work the way they used to. I hope I can please you.”

His mouth left my tits; he kissed my stomach, my belly button and then lower. I spread my legs as wide as possible for him.

Remember, I’d only decided on the flight here that I wanted a man, and after checking in, didn’t have much time to do any grooming, and frankly hadn’t done anything down there since Herman got sick.

“Oh Nanci, you have the most beautiful . . . ummm, I don’t want to offend you . . .”

“Simon, my gynecologist uses the word vagina; but my deceased husband called it my lovely pussy. I won’t be offended.”

“A lovely pussy it is. My wife likes it when I started by rubbing my face in her . . .”

“Bush, Simon.” I didn’t notice that he said his wife likes it. He didn’t say his ex-wife or deceased wife liked it. He said his wife likes it.

“Yes, well.” Then he started. He didn’t just rub his face in my wild, wooly bush. He mumbled. “Nanci, you have the most wonderful fragrance; your taste is exquisite. A man could get addicted to your lovely pussy.” He said this with that wonderful Irish accent. He went on and on, and I could feel his tongue teasing my inner labia and my pussy hole.

“Simon, I just know that you know what Nanci’s pussy needs.”

“I do, but I’m having such fun. Your pussy is mesmerizing. I’ve never . . .”

I pushed his head down and held it there. He started on my clitoris. Oh my, Simon knew what he was doing or it had been so long that it just seemed to me that he knew what he was doing. Over the next few days, he proved that he had the most talented tongue.

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