An Understanding Couple Ch 01

Any writer hates to admit he fucked up. Well, I fucked up. This replaces "The Understanding Couple Ch. 01" because I had fucked up on ending italics at one point and for paragraphs, readers were left to wonder if the main character was still "thinking." So here's the fixed version.

Well, Gentle Reader, here's one of those that was there when I woke up. The story was complete and I just needed to write it down. I love it when that happens. So let's see how our couple does as they explore a new lifestyle. Something tells me it's going to fit them very well.

Chapter One

"Okay, you cougar you," I said, putting the finishing touches on her eye makeup, the oversized points at the corners of her eyes giving her an exotic look, "you look entirely fuckable."

She smiled.

And she did. I love making her up, getting her ready for her assignations. Her face was slightly over made up, giving her, not a streetwalker but certainly a high-priced callgirl look. At 42, Lucy certainly qualifies as a cougar. Hell, if she wasn't so afraid of winding up in jail she'd probably be a pedophile, but she's very careful, actually insisting on seeing a driver's license, to make sure her paramours are legal.

I was the opposite.

I'm a

gerontophile

. For me, Lucy is much sexier at 42 than she was at 18 when we got married, our son already three months along, and her wedding dress a bit tight as her baby bump was starting to show. We spent our 20s being adults, raising our son, our only since she had complications (a placental abruption if you need the details) and we left the hospital after a week with our son and her sporting a combination Caesarian Section/Hysterectomy scar low on her belly.

Once Freddie, our son, was off to the Navy we could, well, explore what it would have been like to not be parents in our 20s. I was reasonably successful, the Deputy Director of an economic development organization in a medium-sized city. Lucy was a freelance artist who had regular work with a half dozen different website developers. We weren't rich, but we didn't have to count the change either.

This is how we started into this new phase of our lives.

We had been doing our imitations of 20-somethings for almost a year before we had our long sit down one night over beer and pot and discussed our different needs. What had started as casual flirting had developed into, well, more than casual flirting and I hadn't been surprised when she said, when we got home from a night at the local comedy club (The Laugh House) followed by a few drinks and some dancing at a Club we frequented enough that the bartender knew us by name, "We need to talk."

I guess my face showed the rush of adrenalin at that phrase. Like a bazillion men before me, my first thought, almost a genetic reaction to the phrase, was, "Oh fuck, she's breaking up with me."

Evidently, she understood my look and laughed, kissed me, and said, "No, it's not a bad talk."

I got a beer, mixed her a screwdriver, and we sat at the kitchen table almost like we were going to prepare tax documents.

"I would really like to fuck Johnny," she said.

As conversation starters go, that was a flop. I sat, staring at her.

She giggled.

"David," she said and she was doing that eye flicking thing as she focused first on my right eye and then the left, a sure tell she was being serious, "I love you. You know that. I'm not suggesting we split up or anything.

I breathed a theatrical sigh of relief and started to reply but she talked over me.

"But Honey, we're getting predictable. I love what we do in bed, but I don't love knowing what you'll do, what order you'll do it in, how long it will last, or what you'll want back," she said.

I had nothing to say to that so, for a wonder, I said nothing.

"Annddd," she said, grinning now, that grin I recognized that meant she was going to pop something on me, "I've looked at your history and I know what you like to look at on the web."

I felt a little rush deep in my belly at that. I hadn't really thought about clearing my history or anything like that and the sudden image of her clicking onto one of the websites I visited regularly with old women featured made me, for one of the very few times in our marriage, drop my eyes, embarrassed.

"Oh, stop it," she said, a giggle in her voice, "do you even know that there's a word for what you are?"

I met her eyes again.

"For what I am?" I asked.

She smiled and covered my hand with hers.

"You, my dear," she said, smiling, "are a gerontophile."

"A what?" I asked. Yeah, I know, not my wittiest riposte ever.

"You are a

gerontophile

. You like old women," she said.

I met her eyes.

"Lucy," I said, "I've told you over and over how much prettier you are now than you were when we got married."

"No," she said, holding up her hand, "and thank you, but that's not what I mean and you know it. You like to look at truly old women."

I hated the blush I felt spreading across my face.

She laughed.

"Honey, it's okay," she said, patting my hand, "I'm the opposite. I'm a cougar and, if it wasn't for the legality I'd probably be a pedophile. Hell, I fantasize sometimes about how pretty a boy would be before puberty and pubic hair and descended balls and all of those other things that make a boy a man. And that brings us to Johnny."

I knew who she was talking about, of course. Her flirtation with this boy, and I use the term "boy" advisedly, had been going on for a month. I suspected, although I never bothered to snoop, that if I looked at her phone logs I'd find plenty of conversations between them. He was a regular at one of the places we frequented and had confided in her that he had a fake ID that got him served but he also had a draft card, well, a "selective service" card certifying that he was 18. He was a blonde surfer type who would have fit right in on one of those old

Beach Boy

videos. Hell, I don't think he would have been noticed in a 7th-grade English class.

"Go on," I said, interested now that the initial shock and passed and, more to the point, that I knew she wasn't telling me to get lost.

"Johnny and I would like to double date with you and his great-grandmother," she said, holding my eyes, doing that eye-flicking thing again.

She grinned, that sort of predatory grin that said, as I had read in the book

The Games People Play

, required reading in one of my classes, maybe

Human Growth and Development

that were required as part of my Education curriculum, "Gotcha now you sonofabitch."

"She's 82," she said, the grin almost feral now, "and she's got something Johnny calls full-blown 'sexual disinhibition.' He says he practically has to fight her off."

She paused, letting that sink in, before she said, "How hard are you right now, David."

I released the breath I hadn't realized I was holding and said, "Okay, you got me. How would it work?"

She giggled.

"Friday, about six-thirty, you go over to Johnny's house, pick up Hazel, that's his great-grandmother's name. He'll do the introductions and then he'll come get me for a night of dinner, dancing, and wild monkey sex in our bed," she said, grinning.

"Six-thirty?" I asked.

"Yes, the dance at the Senior Citizen Center starts at seven and is over at nine," she said.

Well, I won't bore you with the rest of the conversation. And I won't bother you with the details of how my mind and emotions were whipsawed over the rest of the week. I'll just say I would swing from excitement to anger to thrilled to frightened in no particular order and with no "triggers" that I could find.

Oh, and the sex with Lucy was terrific all week. She offered her mouth on Tuesday night, something I usually had to ask for, and then accepted my ejaculation on her face and hair, something she NEVER did. Wednesday, after dinner and a couple of

Big Bang Theory

reruns she asked me to take her anally. And she didn't just "ask," she "demanded." I think it was her language ("stick your cock up my ass") as much as the request itself that made me realize we were definitely in a new phase of our relationship. Thursday she wouldn't allow me to take off my pants as I gave her the oral sex she demanded. I was so hard I ached as I drank her release, the salty womanhoney of her orgasm. When I moved to push my shorts down she grabbed my hand and said, very softly, holding my eyes, "No, David. I want Hazel to get everything she wants."

Which brought us to Friday.

I eased out of work a little early, one of the perks about the "deputy" job is that I can pick and choose projects and have minimal administrative bullshit to deal with. So I just tidied up my desk, shut down my computer, and said, "See you Monday" to Becca, the secretary, as I headed out.

I stopped and got a haircut, figuring my blind date deserved the best me I could present.

When I got home it was obvious Lucy had similar thoughts. Her perfect hair and makeup spoke more clearly than words about her day at the spa.

I guess she saw the way I looked at her because she came to me, stopping in that way she has, her toes about two inches from mine, close enough that her breasts touched me, looked up, laid her palms on my cheeks, and said, "Second thoughts?"

I had to think about it before I answered her.

"Not exactly 'second thoughts,' but, well, maybe a bit of concern," I said.

"We can call it off," she said, holding my eyes.

Again, I had to think about it before I answered her.

"No," I said, "I love you and I trust you and I want to give you what you want."

She grinned.

"What

YOU

want too," she said.

"Yes," I said, kissing her, "What I want too."

With that bit of awkwardness over we had a beer, watched the five o'clock news, and then started getting ready for our respective dates.

"So," I said, "What should I wear for my first date with an octogenarian?"

She grinned and started rummaging through my drawers and closet.

What she laid out kind of surprised me. There was my pale purple, call it lavender and I won't argue with you, pirate shirt with its loose fit and kind of puffy sleeves, a pair of light brown slacks in a soft material, bright socks, my brown, well, what they call

oxblood

I think, loafers and, to my surprise, a silky thong that I had worn exactly three times when we were planning an interesting play night.

I showered, she declined my request to have her wash my back, saying, "I am NOT going to fuck up a hundred dollars worth of makeover," shaved, and dressed.

When I checked myself in the mirror I thought,

"You can't pass for a teenager but you could probably get by claiming 30-something."

I chuckled, flexed, chuckled again, and headed down to Lucy.

"Mmmmmmmmm," she said, looking me up and down, "I think I may call this off and keep you."

I laughed and said, "You ain't losing me, just trying something new."

"And what should a 42-year-old cougar wear for her first date with her barely-out-of-puberty paramour?" she asked.

It was my turn.

I went through her closet and drawers and laid out her outfit.

"Oh my," she said, walking into the bedroom and seeing what I laid out.

She smiled as she pulled on the flesh-colored lacy garter belt and then the hose, a light suntan color just giving her legs a bit of color, mostly worn for the look of the seam up the back of her leg. Matching panties, so sheer that you could see the tiny mole on her

mons veneris

, and bra, another sheer garment, completed her underwear. She stepped into the black skirt, ending above her knees, and pulled on the bright red silk blouse with its spaghetti straps, showing off a generous but not overtly sexy, expanse of cleavage. Lucy is a legitimate C cup. The material of the bra and blouse had her nipples hard and she did a shimmy with her fingers tugging on the bra until her nipples pointed straight ahead.

I helped her with the shoes, her "clubwear" shoes, what I still thought of as "fuck me" shoes. I tightened the ankle straps so the damn things wouldn't fall off and make her break an ankle, helped her stand, and stood back to admire my work.

"Christ, you look TERRIFIC," I said.

"You too," she said, kissing me lightly, aware of her fancy makeover, "Now get going."

So I got going.

I selected the Impala, one of the very last of Chevrolet's full-size breeds. I figured it would be easier on 82-year-old joints than the Yukon or the lovingly restored Fiat 124 that was my daily driver.

On the way, I stopped at a convenience store and bought one of those silly little eight-dollar bouquets, sold by a tiny, amazingly pretty, plump little Mexican girl under the watchful eye of a man who might have ridden with Pancho Villa, a father or uncle I assumed.

Dr. Google's map program's blue line with the arrow of my car, well, my phone, guiding me, led me to the proper address. Anyway, I assumed it was the proper address.

At the door, I was surprised although I don't know why, when Johnny answered the door.

He grinned, opened the door wide, and did the slight-bow/sweeping-arm gesture inviting me in.

"Grammi," he called out, "your date's here."

As Hazel slowly descended the stairs, being careful I noted with a hand firmly on the rail, I understood the reason artists like Hendrick Bloemaert or Shelly Wilkerson chose old women as their subjects. I understood Robert Heinlein's character Jubal Harshaw's fascination with Rodin's

La Belle qui fut heaulmière

.

Hazel wasn't beautiful. Hell, she wasn't even pretty in any classical sense of that word that I understood.

But she was "interesting."

She was overly made up, almost to the point of being a garish caricature. Her hair, that wonderfully silvery grey hair that only very lucky women are blessed with, was done up in an elaborate beehive hairdo that would have looked perfectly in place in a group of Phyllis Schlafly supporters at a "No on ERA" rally. Her dress looked a little odd with its plunging neckline and skirt that ended well above the knees, and short sleeves showing off terribly skinny arms.

As she made the final two steps, Johnny went to take her hand and lead her to me.

"Hazel Underwood," he intoned in the formula of introduction he had doubtless learned from her, "David Morgan. David Morgan, Hazel Underwood. Hazel, Dave. Dave, Grammi Hazel."

I laughed, met her eyes, and said, "Should I call you Grammi Hazel then?"

She smiled and said, "If you wish," in a voice that suggested a life of whisky and cigarettes.

"Okay," Johnny said, "I'm outta here." He kissed Hazel lightly on the cheek, smiled at me, and left.

I stood, looking at her, and interested that she met my look with one of her own.

She was, well, "interesting" is the only word that fits. Her face was a long oval with big eyes, a big nose, and a generous mouth. That inventory doesn't really tell the story, though.

Under her eyes were very big bags, deeply wrinkled, and the overdone bright blue eyeshadow seemed to emphasize the bags. Her nose and, when I got closer I could see her ears, were oversized on her face and I remembered something I had learned in a long ago

Human Anatomy and Physiology

class, that the nose and ears, made of cartilage as they are rather than bone, keep growing throughout one's life. I later learned that wasn't true, but Hazel's face sure suggested it should be as gravity, as it always did, won its neverending battle to drag her parts to earth.

Deep creases and dramatic jowls framed her generous mouth and equally dramatic wattles swung under her chin. When she smiled her teeth were too white and I wondered if it was bleach or dentures.

I was so fascinated with her appearance that I almost forgot the little bouquet I was holding behind my back. When I remembered and whipped it out she giggled. Her giggle carried the same whisky and cigarette overtones as her voice.

"Well, thank you, Handsome," she said, taking the flowers and walking away, presumably to the kitchen to find a vase or something.

I watched her walk away and, again, I was struck by how interesting she was. She had a distinct dowager's hump, making me think of things like osteoporosis. Her gait was, not awkward, but a bit off and I wondered about arthritis or even a hip or knee replacement. I did chuckle when it hit me that she was probably putting a little extra swing in her slightly oversized ass. The size of her ass somehow emphasized how skinny her legs and arms were.

It hit me that it was going to be interesting to see her naked.

Sure enough, she came back with the flowers in a vase, something that made me think of the phrase "Ming China" but I assumed was a replica.

She was smiling, an interesting smile that displayed the laugh lines around her eyes, as she put the vase on the table.

She came to me, smiling, and said, "I think that little bouquet just got you laid tonight."

I laughed and said, "Think?"

"Well," she said, "you might turn out to be an asshole," she took my arm in that two-handed grip some women use to demonstrate their claim on a man, "but it's looking very good."

I laughed and said, "I'll try to be good."

She flashed a grin so full of naughtiness I had to chuckle.

"Not too good, I hope," she said, "Now take me dancin', handsome."

I held her hand as she got seated in the Impala and for the first time wished it had a bench seat. I thought she probably would have enjoyed scooting next to me like we were teenagers on a date.

The Senior Citizen Center was exactly what you would expect. It was a big multi-purpose building. I was kind of surprised at the mixture of vehicles in the lot. Oh, there were plenty of fairly new SUVs and minivans, but there was also a fairly healthy mixture of what I thought must be "mid-life crisis cars." I parked next to a 1964 GTO, the first and best of that breed I thought, that looked like it had just rolled off the showroom floor.

As I walked Hazel into the building, her hands clamped onto my arms, I passed a bright red Mazda Miata and one of the new, mid-engine Corvettes.

"Jesus," I said, admiring the Corvette, "you run with a fast crowd."

She giggled and said, "Come on, Handsome, I can't wait to show you off."

I crooked my arm in that old-fashioned way you've seen in a dozen old movies and she laid her hand on it, very formally.

The building, it turned out, was one of those "convertible" buildings. About every 16 feet, channels in the ceiling guided moveable walls, well, partitions really, so the building could be one very big room with only the bathrooms, what appeared to be a kitchen, and a couple of offices permanently established. For the dance, there was a small room, almost an airlock in case the weather was extreme, immediately inside the front entrance door and then an open double door into the main room.

We had no coats to shed so we walked immediately to the "portal" to the dance.

I stopped her there. We were framed in the entry.

"Kiss me," I said.

She smiled, reached up, laid her palms on my cheeks, and pulled me down for a kiss. I thought it was a pretty good movie kiss. We held it for a few seconds, enough to be noticed, not enough to be obnoxious.

"Oh yeah," she whispered before releasing me, "You're definitely getting laid tonight."

I laughed, laid my hand on her hip, and we made our entrance.

She led me to a table, well, actually two long tables pushed together end to end making kind of a border for the dance floor. At the table, she did a whirlwind of introductions that left me remembering two names of the dozen women and three men seated. I thought Hazel was probably the oldest woman in this group although Sherry ("It's Sheree, emphasis on the eee," she said) with a young man who I doubted had a driver's license, let alone a draft card stood out, as did the deliciously fat and amazingly beautiful Margo who I guessed had a fresh Medicare card. The rest were a blur.