“If I ask nicely and with no disrespect intended, will you agree to not wear panties when we meet for lunch tomorrow?”

Jason and I are nearing a week of intense email correspondence on a senior hookup site. We exchange non-graphic photos and glean details of each other’s erotic tastes. We discuss his history of relationships with partners who were—shall we say—something less than women of their word.

Jason, a high end art dealer, is wide-shouldered with iron-gray hair and the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. A curling of dark chest hair springs from the open collar of his shirt. His look arouses me. I imagine myself in bed with him, beneath him, in fact, with my legs wrapped around his midsection, and his cock rock-hard and rammed to the hilt inside me.

We’re in the process of arranging a time and place for an initial meeting when the question is posed.

“There’s no right or wrong answer,” he continues, as if anticipating my surprise. “Please understand, I want us to meet whether you wear panties or not. But since you’ve described yourself as a daring Hungarian escort woman with an active sexual history, I’m curious to know how daring you might actually be.”

No Panties? I muse, and reading the email, I can’t help but smile. Seriously? I’m pushing seventy and a grandmother for godssake. Jason admits to sixty, but these men are always older than they say. Does he really think I’ll show up on a first date wearing stockings, a garter belt, and nothing more than my bare pussy beneath my skirt?

The image raises the heat level between my thighs. I smile, reflecting on years ago, while in a cast up to my groin, after severely breaking my ankle in a skiing accident, I gave in to an impulse and flashed a bus driver from my wheelchair, while being pushed down a street by a lover, on San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf. I was wearing a long skirt with no panties beneath it. My skirt was flipped up and back down in a moment—but that driver almost lost control of his bus. The moment of flashing was powerful for me. The thrill of my daring act made me soar.

Even now, years later, my pussy lips tingle and swell at the memory.

“Should you agree,” Jason continues, “I’ll want to caress it as well.”

“The no panties idea is oddly appealing,” I respond. “So, for our initial meeting tomorrow, I’ll be wearing a red satin top, a garter belt and stockings, and a black patterned knee-length skirt—beneath which my pussy will be bare. I don’t know if I’ll let you caress it or not, but I promise you it will be, at least momentarily, on view.”

“I haven’t been so excited about meeting a woman in years,” Jason replies.

I’m excited too! Bare pussy; like a wanton slut! The words resonate in my mind. I smile, flushed with excitement.

The next day as our lunch date approaches, I take great pains with my makeup, and don each item of clothing with care—a flimsy black bra and red top—taking delight in the silky feel of the garments against my skin. Easing my nylons up over the length of my legs is a simple matter. Fastening my rear garters is less so, requiring considerable twisting and turning, but since I live alone, I have no choice but to prevail. I imagine how I might appear to one of my women friends.

Wow! I can hear them say, Who would have thought the old girl still has it in her! Checking my wall mirror, I decide my stocking seams are straight before pausing to admire the sight of my pussy. I stroke my silvery pubic curls lightly, sending pulsing jolts of sensation straight to my clit. I slip into my heels and pull back my shoulders, so that my less than firm breasts protrude up and forward to the max.

I step into my skirt, zip it, shift my weight to one hip and strike a foxy pose. Not bad for a senior sex goddess, I decide, surveying my image—at least in kind light.

I step outside. The cool damp weather concerns me. I’d hoped for sunlight so Jason and I can sit comfortably out on the patio, since I imagined it might be easier to flash my bare pussy outside.

I’ll manage it somehow, I think, with determination. I am, after all, a woman of my word.

“I can’t wait to meet you, and look forward to the viewing more than words can say,” Jason writes in his final email last evening. “Seeing your delicious pussy bared in public will drive me wild.”

Drive me wild, I recall his words as I get into my car. I hope it’s in the cards for us. It’s been a while since I’ve felt body heat for a man.

My heart leaps around in my chest as I park in the restaurant lot and step from my car. I inhale deeply and exhale slowly to steady myself. Then on my exhale, I march, head high, shoulders squared, hips swinging, straight toward the front door. A wide-shouldered man in a well-cut gray jacket stands in the entry-way near the reservations counter. He flashes me an engaging smile as I enter the building, obviously delighted by my appearance.

And in that moment, I see that by pure chance, Jason stands alone at the reservations desk in the entryway and out of the host’s field of vision. Seizing my opportunity—and without breaking stride—I lift the hem of my skirt to my waist and flash my bare pussy as I approach him. Jason’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open in unabashed admiration as he realizes that he’s finally met up with a woman of her word.

Aurore aims to publish voices that help reframe what eroticism and desire look like for a wide variety of people. Think: the kind of sex education you wish you got. We want stories with fully developed characters, palpable emotion, and graphic descriptions. Stories should be empowering and feminist, or explore and reflect on situations that were less than. We encourage writers to reimagine scenarios and rewrite endings so they come out on top. Writing real erotica is a healing exercise.

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