Sleazy Fun makes Easy Work of Discipline

By Nicholas Viglietti

Copyright ©2026

Stay alert, out here, and on the short-term run of daily turf that decomposes. Longevity is the exception, so maintain the busy edges of the brain with experiences, myriad and strange.  

Humans are over-emotional expiration dates – too long, or the short end of brief; it's all a ride. Sometimes, it’s the infinitesimal lessons – erudition is critical to heartbeats – gleaned on the livin-grind; especially, new basics: ordinary factors, oddly missed, that improve functionality.  

Grand simplicity and the astonishment that you completely missed. Correct as cocksure, there are some things that just slip our gazes’ attention; it all seems repetitive, and then out of the static haze of our consistent fade, some tiny piece of knowledge appears, like fish swim and finally notice the bait – something new, and one chomp can change the habits that arrive at fate.  

The joint was closin’ up. In front of us were four empty cocktail glasses and bare appetizer plates. The waiter asked if we wanted anything else, and we did, but they didn’t serve it. “Nah. Just the check, bro,” I said.  

He bolted to grab the receipt – we were holdin’ up his night. I didn’t give a shit. All I wanted to do was get nude and horizontal with the black, full-figured, single-mom of a babe-a-cita, across the compact square table and slam satisfaction into the highest octave of her squeals. 

She was in her mid-forties, and had jet-oil black, shoulder length hair – “its-a weave,” she said, it looked good on her head. Her smile was bright and beamed like sunshine beckons you outside. She was thick on the hips, and properly plump in the spots of the body a full-handed grasp appreciates.  

She started to grab her purse. “Don’t worry ‘bout-it chica – I got cha,” and shot a wink, crooked urbane smile. She cut a coy smirk, her brows fluttered, and shimmied her shoulders, which indicated: such a gentleman – keep that up, and you might get your desires.  

At the end of my twenties, I was a regular backbreaker, I murdered hours for money, the hard-way, huckin’ lumber for a paycheck – I did it for too long each day.  My heart operated at a normal thump, it was cracked, but I was gettin’ under to get over – invisible defects, difficult repairs, that only time can ever really heal. The waiter did his thing with my card. 

“So, where do you plan on keepin’ this night goin’ at, huh?” She asked, “been a while since I been outta the house, not workin’ or takin’ care of kids, and just havin’ a good-time.”   

I signed the receipt and spun the rolodex of my mental faculties through every shit-hole dive-bar in town – in America’s Finest City, I knew ‘em all. If ya learn anything, when ya spend your time on the wastrel rip of a hip heavin’ romp; ya learn the crucial aspects to maintain lubrication – a pleasant setting keeps ‘em ready. 

Especially, older poon. Those gals’ are equipped with keen awareness. They expect certain decorative elements to meet a standard – moderately comfortable and elegant displayed in subterfuge. The slightest disagreeable effect can thwart any chance of a midnight bang.  

“Coast-Sider,” I mentioned, and it was near my casa. Inside the booze-cave, designed modern and minimal – it hit the sweet spot between ambient neon and darkness. There would be a few old, white dudes, regular cocktail-crushers, on the run from the mid-life grind.  

They’d be gawkin’ dubiously, open jaws for too long – great, bet I even get a fuckin’ thumbs-up from Marty, those bastards had caught onto my game, and wanted updates – they hated their wives – we stay where we because changes might reveal other parts of us that are ugly.  

That was their fuckin’ problems. I buzzed with amatory impulses, eager to get raw and graphic. In the jiggle of her booty’s sway, out the door, it confidently bounced the assurance that she’d handled worse. 

On the walk, I initiated a suave maneuver, and wrapped her up, around the shoulder. “Don’t worry I’ll keep ya warm, can’t let the prettiest gal in So-Cal, come down with the sniffles,” I said.  

Her smile sprayed radiance that my eyes hunted for. “Ain’t you sometem’ sweet,” she responded, our body’s affixed at the hip, “bet you say dat to all da girls – bein' such a gentleman, ‘nd all.  

She had a sense of humor, and her cackle was magnetic, hitting an erotic tone – there was something we both found hot in the truth.  

“Your incomparable – I been sittin’ at that place for weeks, waitin’ for you to finally show up,” I said, and clipped her with a wink-shot.  

Decisions made, minus discussion, the thrill of a moment and all its passion. No contemplation, all action; we were hurt people that craved the motions that peaked at orgasmic satisfaction. I opened the door – empty. Nice.  

We grabbed drinks, and a cozy booth. Sam, the bartender, met me again, like a pro, for the first time. “Well, I can’t drive home now,” she said, “I haven’t had dis many in a while,” she said, slight buzz. She wasn’t the type to let booze dissolve her control – she wanted to feel the details of the whole experience. 

“I’m not too far, you can sober up there,” I said. She was practically sitting on me. We might as well have been fuckin,’ so close, her legs over mine.   

Out of nowhere, the door flung open, and fuckin’ Marty stumbled in and immediately flopped on his face. He popped up, arms extended like people were concerned for his safety – nobody moved a flinch to care about his wreck.   

His head slashed wildly, fast scans for familiarity. His inhibitions erased, but the cognitive re-call function worked, per-use, and locked like a targeted missile.  

“Duuuuuuddddeeeee....nnnniiiiiiccccceeeeee,” slurred off his bumble. Sam was on it, he physically abated Marty’s verbal spew of ruined parade mouth-shit – he gripped his elbow and swung him to corner stool exile, like a leper on a lonely island.  

Sam deserved that extra twenty. Out the door, she shook her head and cackled that mature woman’s laugh – throaty from the soul, plenty to teach.  

After three blocks, we arrived at my shack near the water. She tossed her jacket and fell on my pleather, love-seat sofa. I got her a drink.  

“Dis reminds me of college – dem were some wild days,” a wide smile, reflectively.  

I sat next to her. We giggled, the close heat pulled us in, our faces leaned lustfully – I went 90, she just had to complete the percent with 10 – I’m a scamp...but a cavalier scamp.  

Our lips smashed together; life-forces set ablaze with the carnality of passion. In the swell of sexual energy, we ripped our clothing off. All she had on were lace-panties, a cotton top, lightly hung over her nipples, and a modish headband. It didn’t bind the hair in a tight scrunch at the back of her head. The hair could flow, skull wide dangle – a functional and sexy appeal.  

She got up and looked around quizzically. “So...uh...where’s yo’ damn bed...where do you sleep?” She asked, confounded.  

I erected – on my feet and at my hips – the bulge of her eyes was dazzled and impressed. “Like what ya see?” I asked and gave her a macho-man strut to the bare wall between two closets.  

“Uh-huh, lot mo’e than I expected,” she said, perplexion about the bed resumed, “a bed would be nice to handle that thang,”  

“Right, here,” smile cracked style, and pulled the handle on the compartment that dropped her panties and the queen-sized bed.  

“Pretty chill, huh. It's a murphy bed – gives the place a spacious feel,” I said. 

Instantly, our lips locked like the universe gets pulled into a vortex – hard tongue bomb. Sensually, we prepped ourselves for action. I stood up, her legs, her ten-toes, painted pretty, pointed upward –V-shaped victory.  

She was wet, my rod plunged deep, she gasped, and forty minutes humped the burst of climatic history. We caught our breath. “Here I was...about to give up, datin’ online,” she said – spoken like the mind of an older generation.  

“Perseverance pays off,” I said and gave her a blast of the wink & crooked smile, combo.  

“I got no complaints,” she remarked, “well, I almost did...wit yo’ sneaky ass...I was ‘bout to say dis man is crazy, I ain’t sleepin’ on no damn floor.”   

“Ima shower off,” she said, “then maybe we can go another round, before I get on up outta here.” 

“Oh yeah,” I said, my tube of man-meat felt chubby. “towels are in the cabinet over the toilet.” 

“Ya know, this place is cleaner, too, than I thought’d it be,” she said.  

She yammered; I could hear her rifle through cabinets like a person knows where a thing should be, but inexplicably not. Her head popped out of the doorway. “Where yo’ washcloths at?” asked her animated lips directly. 

“Washcloth? The hand towels are in there, by the sink” I said – a man at the end of his twenties, unprepared for his thirties, just another lost soul, bro-migo.  

Her eyes swelled in a similar fashion a deer does before impact. Rapidly, she flickered her eyelids like the high beams of a car to alert the oncoming car’s that their’s are off, and troubles ahead. I could see it on her face; my function, relegated to the power in my hips.  

“Handsome, you need a washcloth to scrub the dead skin off; really clean out those hard-to-reach crevices,” she said, “I’ll get some, and give ‘em to ya, the next time we meet up for some fun.”  

She pranced to the shower and steam billowed out the split left open of the door and the jamb. The curve of her glutes was glorious, and I felt firm, moving south. I knew the difference when it came to lust and love, where to drink for fun and where to drink to escape.  

I acquired new basics – how to scrub off the dirty world, its grip on me that wanted me to drown. It’s a cruel and demented world, but there’s tools to rid yourself of the elements that make you decay.  

“Hey, handsome,” she said, and left space to answer, then closed it, just as swiftly, “why don’t you come on in here, and help me get me get the hard-to-reach-areas of my body.” To learn, you must practice, and discipline is a practice that is fun. 

About the Author:

Nicholas Viglietti is a writer from Sacramento, CA. After Katrina ravaged the gulf coast, he rebuilt homes there for 2 years. Up in Mon-tucky, he cut trails in the wilderness. He pedaled from Sac-town to S.D. He’s a seventh-life party-hack, attempting to rip chill lines in the madness. 

Website:  https://www.clipsfromtheclose-out.com/       Insta -- @nico_chillietti   

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