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“Happy Fucking Birthday to me!” I thought to myself.
If only I knew at that moment just how happy my fifty-second birthday was truly going to be. But as I took my regular afternoon jog through Meyer Park in the northwest suburbs of Houston, Texas; my mind was a swirling mess of self-pity, loneliness and sexual frustration. My husband and I had been divorced for nearly four years, all three of my children were either grown and gone or away visiting their father for the summer and I hadn’t gotten a good piece of ass in what seemed like decades. Actually, I think it really has been decades. And as if all this weren’t enough, Mother Nature seemed to be suffering from a serious case of PMS herself. Even though the sun was shining bright and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky at the moment, the breeze was starting to pick up. As I stepped up my stride and rounded a sharp corner on the asphalt path, I couldn’t help but notice how deserted the park was today. Of course, with a category four hurricane bearing down on the upper Texas coast, why shouldn’t it be this deserted?
Just like the great mass exodus that Hurricane Rita caused in 2005 and the Hurricane Ike evacuations of 2008, millions of the citizens of the Houston-Galveston area were once again flooding the freeways fleeing to wherever they could in all directions. Following standard procedure, mandatory evacuations had been issued for certain areas with voluntary evacuations for others. And despite desperate pleas from local officials to stay put until further notice if you were not in a mandatory zone, not everyone was following those directives; thus the freeways leading out of the area where jammed.
It had been nearly a week since the National Hurricane Center began watching a tropical wave just off the east coast of Africa. Within a few days, that tropical wave had raced in an almost beeline shot across the Atlantic Ocean, quickly becoming a Tropical Depression; then soon after, became Tropical Storm Amanda – the first storm of the 2009 season as she came within a few hundred miles of the Dominican Republic. Then Amanda exploded and went from a small Tropical Storm to a Category Five hurricane in a matter of thirty-six hours. Hurricane Amanda raged ferociously over the Dominican Republic, Haiti and Cuba, causing catastrophic wind and flood damage and tragically killing over four hundred people in those three nations. Amanda weakened once again to a Tropical Storm as she passed over the mountains of Cuba, finally staggering back over the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Amanda quickly regained hurricane strength as she crawled menacingly over the very warm waters of the Gulf and is now packing winds of nearly 140 miles per hour as she is taking dead aim at the upper Texas coast.
Hurricane Amanda is a massive storm! In fact many of the so-called experts are calling her the Perfect Storm or the Storm of the Century. Okay, but just how many Perfect Storms or Storms of the Century can there be? Anymore it seems like every storm that forms is referred to as the Perfect Storm or the Storm of the Century. Doesn’t the news media have anything better to do than to spread panic? Apparently not! But as I said, Hurricane Amanda is enormous; spanning nearly four hundred miles in diameter and is already slamming the Galveston seawall with tremendously powerful waves. Landfall was projected to be at around 12:30am tomorrow morning, June 27th, anywhere from the west end of Galveston Island to Beaumont.
With the very early whisks of Amanda’s mighty winds whipping through my salt and pepper, shoulder blade length hair that I had pulled back into a ponytail, I rounded the final corner of my usual afternoon jog and was now heading for the parking lot. When I stepped off the asphalt path and onto the concrete parking lot, I slowed to a steady walk and threw my hands onto my waist as I began to catch my breath. I wiped the driving sweat off my face and forehead with the hand towel wrapped around my neck as I stepped up to my Lexus and disengaged the alarm. I took a bottle of water off the drivers’ seat and took a few sips as my breathing began to slow. Covering the fine leather of the drivers seat with a beach towel to protect it from my sweat drench running suit, I climbed in and started the engine. Immediately the radio blared forth with yet another news report about the approach of Hurricane Amanda and the mass exodus going on all around me.
Having been raised along the Gulf Coast, hurricanes are nothing new to me. In fact, I was born in the midst of one. My name is Audrey Thompson and I was born in Cameron, Louisiana on June 27, 1957; the very day that Hurricane Audrey made landfall right on top of us. Now even though my parents swore up and down that I was not named after the hurricane, I’ve just never been able to believe them. Especially after my younger sister Carla was born four years later on September 12, 1961; the day after Hurricane Carla struck the Texas coast between Port Lavaca and Port O’Connor. Anyway, I have lived through more than my share of hurricanes. casino oyna I was visiting my grandparents in Biloxi, Mississippi when Hurricane Camille blew through in August of 1969 when I was twelve. I spent my fifteenth birthday helping my aunt and uncle clean up their Florida panhandle home after Hurricane Agnes in 1972. My own wedding was delayed nearly a month because of Hurricane Alicia in 1983, and my youngest daughter was born in Miami just five days after Hurricane Andrew ravaged south Florida in 1992. Try riding out a hurricane like Andrew when you’re nine months pregnant and have two other young children in the house with you.
After my husband and I divorced in June of 2005, I moved to New Orleans to live with my sister Carla for a while with my then fifteen year old daughter Wendy. My son Nick was twenty and was serving in the Navy and my youngest daughter Tiffany was thirteen and had chosen to live with her father. Anyway, Wendy and I hadn’t been there a full two months when Hurricane Katrina struck. Carla’s house was destroyed and we all moved back to Cameron with my parents just in time to welcome Hurricane Rita. By the grace of God, Rita spared my parents home, but motivated me to get off my ass and quit feeling sorry for myself. I went back to school at LSU and finished my bachelor’s and got my masters in architecture. In 2007, I moved back to Houston with a wonderful job opportunity and in less than a year, bought my own house in the far northwest suburbs and was once again facing down another fucking hurricane: Ike!
By the time Ike rolled threw, Wendy had graduated high school and was going to college in Arizona. Nick was still serving his tour of duty in the Navy and Tiffany had had enough of her father and was once again living with me. Tiffany and I rode out Ike together and sustained almost no damage to our home. But now, as Hurricane Amanda is bearing down on the upper Texas coast, seventeen year old Tiffany is up in Chicago for the summer with her father and stepmother, whom she really likes. Nineteen year old Wendy is in Los Angeles with some friends doing Summer Stock Theater and twenty-five year old Nick has been accepted to the Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland. So as Hurricane Amanda was bearing down on the upper Texas coast, I would be riding her out alone.
It took me nearly two and a half hours to drive the eight miles from Meyer Park to my house due to all the evacuation traffic on the roads. By the time I pulled into my driveway just before six, the sky to the northeast was really starting to darken and the wind was really picking up. The trees in my front yard and all around my block were really starting to whip around. I had observed many of my neighbors taping or boarding up their windows as still others were pulling in any miscellaneous items from their yard that could easily become very dangerous flying debris when Amanda’s full fury was finally upon us. I pulled into the garage and unplugged the garage door opener for I knew I would loose power before morning and would have to open the door manually.
As I exited the garage and stepped out onto my back porch, I glanced up at the western sky and the remains of the sunset were absolutely breathtaking; magnificent shades of orange, purple and soft blue. I had already taken in all my patio furniture and all other loose items a few days prior and had hired Wendy’s ex-boyfriend Mark to board up all the windows of my house that faced the northeast. Even though the storm was approaching from the southeast, the location and position of my house combined with the counter clockwise motion of hurricanes would ultimately cause the winds to come out of the northeast.
After ogling at the gorgeous sunset for a few minutes, I went inside and flipped on the TV. As I expected, the news coverage was still going on. I went to the kitchen and checked the answering machine, on which I had messages from all the kids, Carla and my parents, all of whom were checking in on me and wishing me a Happy Birthday. Taking a fresh bottle of water from the fridge, I went upstairs to shower and would call them all back afterward. I undressed, dropped all my sweaty clothes in the hamper, pulled my hair out of its ponytail and then looked at myself in the full length mirror behind the bathroom door. Running my hands slowly up and down my naked body, I couldn’t help but be proud. I jog between five and ten miles a day and workout on my BowFlex every other day and it has paid immaculate dividends.
I’m fifty-two years old and my body is rock hard with a perfect hour glass figure. I’m just a hair over six feet tall, my neck is long and sleek, my shoulders and arms are beautifully filled out and very toned. My breasts are 38 D-cups. (Yes, I’ve had some after-market work.) My stomach is flat, my abs are rippled, my hips and ass are deliciously round and firm, my legs are long, powerful and posses magnificent muscle definition that would make most high school and college cheerleaders green with envy. My hair is full and flowing down to just above my shoulder canlı casino blades and it now has more salt coloring than pepper, but I for some reason, like it that way. It has a mature and sophisticated look to it; not to mention sexy. Based upon some of the glances I get from men of all ages; particularly some of the young beefcakes around the neighborhood, I’m definitely a MILF. My skin is soft, smooth and tan. (Yes, I tan every week) My eyes are a deep shade of olive green; I have high cheeks and a perfect nose. (Okay, I’ve had a little surgery on it too.)
Of course, I haven’t always looked this good. Had I looked this good when my husband and I divorced, he never would have run off with that ditzy flight attendant that is now my children’s stepmother. But, she is a sweetheart and the kids all seem to like her and she likes them. And then again, if he hadn’t run off with her, I never would have found the motivation to whip myself into such good shape.
I took a long shower, fearing it might be the last I’d get for a few days since I was liable to lose water along with power as a result of Amanda’s visit. After I dried my hair, I slipped on a pair of white lace panties and matching bra, spandex pants and a soft white long sleeve blouse that I tied up in a knot just below my breasts and rolled the sleeves up to my elbows. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and went downstairs. Once I had gotten myself into such good shape, I also revamped my wardrobe with sexy underwear and lingerie. Unfortunately it hasn’t really paid off the way I hoped it would. Between my job, getting Wendy and Tiffany situated and off to school or whatever; not to mention still working with my personal fitness trainer, I haven’t really had time to date. I’ve also discovered that it’s not nearly as easy to meet someone as it used to be. I’ve tried all the online dating services, but have had very little success meeting anyone. I’ve been on a few dates, but never one remotely good enough to even consider going to bed with him.
And there was something else! Something that I wasn’t entirely comfortable with but something I definitely could not deny, and it all began when I came face to face with my children’s stepmother for the first time. Being twenty years younger than me, Lori is quite stunning and extremely well built. But there was something else about her that was just so appealing that the longer I was around her, I began to experience something I’d never felt before toward another woman: lust! I’ve heard it said over and over that most every woman at some time in her life fantasizes, or at least thinks about being with another woman sexually. As time went on, I found myself thinking about Lori in ways that I thought only a healthy teenage boy would. There were times I caught myself either in the shower or some other private situation and I’d be touching myself with Lori all over my mind. It wasn’t long before I began to look at all women differently; especially my personal fitness trainer, Suzanne. Suzanne is in her late thirties, incredibly beautiful and built like a sex goddess. Though I know that I’d never have the courage to even broche the subject, I do take the greatest private pleasure in touching her beautiful body during our training sessions every chance I get. But I was still attracted to men too. So I guess either I was just going through a phase of some sort or I was learning that I was bi-sexual. Regardless, I’m still not getting any action on either side and it’s really starting to piss me off!
I went back down to the kitchen and threw a Jenny Craig meal into the oven, then proceeded to return my birthday phone calls. By the time I hung up from the last call, my dinner was ready and I sat on the sofa in front of the TV as I ate, sipping a glass of my favorite merlot. All the local stations were covering Hurricane Amanda continuously, as were CNN and Headline News, so I flipped over to the Discovery Channel and caught the last half hour of Mythbusters just for a little change of pace. Once I finished eating, I put my plate in the dishwasher and decided to run it one final time before I lost power. I moved my last load of laundry from the washer to the dryer, snapped up a new bottle of merlot and went back to the sofa in the living room.
I poured myself another glass of merlot as I flipped back to the local news coverage to check on Miss Amanda. Judging on how hard the field reporter down on the seawall in Galveston was fighting to stay on his feet, Hurricane Amanda was definitely getting close. I lit a fire in the fireplace for I guessed that the power would be giving out before too much longer. I clipped and filed my fingernails and toenails, then polished them with a new crimson colored nail polish. By nine o’clock, my feet were propped up on the coffee table with tiny cotton balls shoved between each of my toes and I was blowing on them as I waved my hands around trying to dry my freshly painted nails.
I awoke suddenly to the sound of the doorbell ringing and glanced up at the clock on the wall above the TV; kaçak casino it was just after ten o’clock. With all the excitement of the news, I guess I had dozed off. I blew quickly on my fingernails, which I found to already be dry and then muted the TV to see if the doorbell would ring again or if I had just dreamed it. I was rather surprised that I still had power in the house. Though it wasn’t raining yet, I could hear the wind blowing fiercely, almost to the point of howling and by now the shrubbery branches were battering up against the window panes. Amanda was definitely getting closer. I was just about to turn the sound of the TV back on when the doorbell rang again.
“Who in the world could that be at a time like this?” I said to myself.
I sprang up and hurried through the living room and into the foyer. Flipping on the front porch lights, I peered through the door frame window and my heart nearly stopped.
“Oh my God!” I gasped. “Danica!”
I unlocked the door quickly and a powerful gust from Amanda practically blew it off the hinges as it opened. Standing in my doorway was eighteen year old Danica Rogers; one of Wendy’s closest friends from high school, if not her best friend. The look on Danica’s face was a combination of great sorrow, utter daze and paralyzing terror. Her long black hair whipping wildly in Amanda’s winds.
“Danica? Sweetheart, are you okay? What are you doing here?” I asked.
I had no sooner spoken when a tree limb in my neighbors yard directly across the street snapped and tumbled to the ground with a bone chilling thud. Then the wind forced it across the yard and it slammed into the side of the car parked in the driveway. Danica spoke not a word, but merely leapt forward and threw her arms around me in an almost crushing embrace. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her back into the house with me. Standing in the foyer, I let go of Danica so I could close the door, but Danica didn’t let go of me. So with one arm, I pulled the front door hard against the wind until I could slip both myself and Danica behind it, then with my back pressed up against it, used both our body weights to force it shut. Once the door shut, I held Danica tightly with one arm while I reached behind me and locked the door with the other. By the time I had both arms around Danica again, she was sobbing uncontrollably with her face buried directly between my breasts and still holding me in a vice grip. The best way to describe Danica Rogers is to say that she is that she is the long lost identical twin sister of the Indianapolis 500 driver Danica Patrick. I mean, they look so much alike it is spooky! They’re the same height, the same weight, the same athletic, sexy build, the same hair color and hair length, the same eyes, same nose, facial features, bust size and darling figure. Hell, even their voices sound the same. The only true difference is that Danica Patrick is eight years older and a lot more of a bitch!
After gently rocking Danica in my arms, she finally began to calm down and I cupped her face in my hands and tilted it up toward me. She was shaking from fright like a leaf.
“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked as I gently stroked her beautiful hair.
Danica proceeded to explain, in a very shaky voice, that her parents were on vacation in Europe and that she was home all alone. Danica and her parents had moved to Houston when Danica was just nine years old and up until Hurricane Ike, Houston hadn’t seen a direct hit from a major hurricane since 1983. Danica went on to say that she’d never been through a hurricane and that she’d never been more terrified in her life. She had been glued to the TV set for the last several days watching the news coverage and it had panicked her to within an inch of her sanity.
“Oh Honey.” I said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Hey, you made it through Ike, didn’t you?”
I had no sooner finished speaking when it dawned on me that even though Danica was a year younger than Wendy in age, she had been in the same school grade as Wendy, and the two of them had both been accepted to Arizona State and were already out there when Hurricane Ike had struck. So Amanda was going to be poor Danica’s first hurricane after all. As a seasoned veteran of riding out hurricanes, my heart filled with pity as this hurricane greenhorn stared desperately up at me.
“Can I stay here with you, Mrs. Thompson?” Danica asked almost pitifully.
“Of course you can. In fact I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I said as I smiled.
Danica gave a faint hint of her usually big and gorgeous smile and I walked her into the living room. We sat on the couch and I immediately flipped the channel back to the Discovery Channel and an episode of “Dirty Jobs” had just started. I offered to brew some tea and Danica asked if she could have a glass of wine instead. Actually, she wondered if I had anything stronger. I went to the bar and brought back a bottle of Johnny Walker Black and a couple of shot glasses. Even after three shots of scotch, Danica was still trembling with fear, so I took her in my arms and snuggled her. Danica rested her head on my chest just above my breasts as she wrapped her arms tightly around my torso and I ran my fingers through her soft and silky black hair.
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