[This story is fiction, but the characters are based on real people. It is an abridgement from an unfinished novel about politics, power and sex in Texas during the last half of the 20th Century. The novel may never get finished, so I thought I'd share this segment with you.]
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If I had not been walking up to my bike at that moment, she would have found someone else. It was almost a random choice, and one of the few times in my life that I got lucky. She didn't pick me because of my good looks, so I guess I was her choice simply because I looked like I would do what she wanted--and that looked good enough to her.
I had seen Dee at the retirement village a few times before when I visited my aunt who was fixing to move to Dallas to be near her grandchildren. She was easy to notice in her bright pinks and purples. Her hair would sometimes be different shades of pink to match—and always with sparkles. She usually dressed in tight pants and boots. If a woman in her seventies could be sexy, Dee certainly was, but I didn't see her that way at first. She just seemed to be an eccentric old lady until the moment she intercepted me in the parking lot as I walked out to my bike. "Hey, Ramsey" she shouted.
Surprised that she knew my name, I stopped as she approached. "How about giving an old lady a ride on your hog?"
"This ain't no hog, lady. It's a Honda Goldwing. My Harley was stolen, and I've been riding this. Besides," I muttered, " I'm getting to where I like a little comfort in my rides."
"Well, it sure is big whatever you call it, and I would like a little spin on something big like that. What do you say?"
"OK. Can you get on?" She said that she might need a little help, so I eased her up onto the passenger seat and dropped the armrest down while the bike was on its stand. I only had one helmet so I strapped it on her, mashing her pink hair around her lightly made up face. My helmet smelled like flowers and I had sparkles in my hair for two or three days after that.
I mounted up and put the machine in motion. It was just a quick whiz up and down Houston's humid parkway, but she laughed and made squealing noises as she held tightly to my chest. She was talking the whole time, but I couldn't make out what she was saying--mostly.
When we got back, and I helped her off, she invited me to her condo for a drink. I wasn't too interested, but I had nothing better to do—and she sweetened her offer by promising to make it worth my while. I was curious about what she meant, but knew that whatever she would offer, it would be something I didn't have.
She had a complete liquor cabinet in her little condo. "Name yer poison," she demanded.
"Uh, Jack. Straight up on ice."
She quickly knocked it out and poured herself a glass of cold vodka that she kept in the ice tray. "I was an alcoholic much of my life, but I cleaned up in 1962. After Kennedy's assassination I ate right, didn't drink or smoke for 30 years, but now it doesn't matter. I drink and smoke all I want."
We toasted and sipped while she asked about the bike and my aunt. She asked some personal questions about my age (56) and marital status (divorced), where I grew up (East Texas)... that kind of stuff.
When the drinks were finished, I stood up to leave, but then she asked me to hold on a minute. Her tone got kind of serious. She looked me in the eye and said that her life had become very lonely. She needed someone to talk to and do things with besides the other old women in the village.
"There are men here too," I suggested. She laughed and said that they were all used up. What she needed was a younger man, but she was realistic enough to know that would not happen unless there was a special arrangement. She raised her eyebrows and looked intensely into my eyes to send me a mental message. I'm not too bright, but her meaning was unmistakable. I found it amusing to hear such a come-on from a woman of her age. But because of her age, it occurred to me that I might be reading too much into it, so I asked her what she meant.
"Here's the deal," she said bluntly, "You come around once a week on a night of your choosing. I'll cook you a good dinner. We'll talk and then I'll let you fuck me. You don't have to perform. You don't have to call me. You don't have to send me flowers. You don't have to take me out—unless you want to. I'm not looking for a romantic relationship so there won't be any hooks or webs to get tangled in. Give me a few of hours of your time, and I'll feed you and give you a warm place to cum."
Truthfully, that sounded like a pretty good deal to me. There had been no woman in my life since my divorce years ago. Women were not interested in a skinny, balding man in his fifties with no car and living alone in an efficiency apartment.
She mistook my hesitation to mean that I wouldn't do it, so she came up close, put her arms around me and looked up at my face. "Let me give you a blow job right now to see how you like it."
I hugged her back and muttered some kind of an agreement. Taking my hand she pulled me toward the sofa where she sat down.
"Can't get on my knees anymore, so just stand there."
She had my jeans opened and my limp dick out in a matter of seconds. She picked a hair or something off the head and started sucking. She pulled back with her head and stretched it out to its full length with her suction. Her hands, lips and the inside of her mouth combined into a smooth, warm, and wet channel of feel-good. It didn't take long for it to fill up to a very pleasant hardness.
"I see you've done this before," I joked. She hummed deeply in reply.
Based on what she had just told me, I figured this to be an uncomplicated situation. So I simply fucked her face until I shot my wad. I had jerked off the night before, but it felt like a pretty good load went into her mouth. She continued to fiddle with my dick until it was soft again before she let it fall from her lips. She looked up at me and seemed to be proud of her work. I was feeling sort of rubber legged and sat down next to her.
"Listen," I said, "Thursday nights will be best for me."
