George Williams was nearing his sixty-fourth birthday. Genetic luck of the draw had gifted him with a tall body which easily retained its trim and athletic tone, helped along by moderate exercise. He even had managed to keep a (reasonably) full head of hair, albeit gray now instead of the dark brown of his youth. He had never been considered handsome, but a lifetime's experiences leavened by a dry and quirky sense of humor had left him with a face he had been told was "interesting."
He had made his money, lived his life, raised his children, and retired to a modest home in an old, established neighborhood. He had buried his wife of 30 years three years ago, living alone since then. Although he still thought about sex (a lot!), his outlets consisted of Internet surfing, reading the posts on erotic bulletin boards, and an occasional masturbatory episode. So far, the so-called Golden Years amounted to a seemingly endless progression of nearly identical days -- routine, predictable, and boring.
He wasn't expecting the moving van that stopped next door, and watching the stream of furniture and other belongings being unloaded and carried into the house was a pleasant way to spend the morning. At least, that was the rationale he was rehearsing in case the large and very fit young man directing the process should ask. Actually, he was watching the young man's wife.
She was short and a little plump, with nice, soft tits and chunky thighs -- most of which were blatantly exposed by her Daisy Duke shorts and tube top. Her sunny disposition, high energy, and open manner were mesmerizing as she bantered happily with her husband and the movers. It seemed as if she never stopped moving, bouncing from task to task as she reassembled her household from the truck full of belongings.
As the truck emptied and the summer sun raised the temperature from mild to unpleasant, George abandoned his visual vantage point to prepare some iced tea. Cold drinks in the summer heat ought to be worth an introduction, he figured. Besides, the movers looked like they were getting tired and could use a break (another good rationalization).
His appearance at the fence (or maybe the pitcher and glasses on the tray) was met with appreciative smiles by the males and a happy squeal from the bouncy blond. Introductions followed naturally, and Frank and Cathy Jackson turned out to be intelligent, outgoing and friendly people. Frank was in the Army, a captain newly assigned to the nearby base, and Cathy had been his high school sweetheart. They'd been married for six years, had no children, and loved the nomadic military lifestyle. Cathy's interests seemed to be taking random college classes, voracious reading, sightseeing, and Frank (although not necessarily in that order). She happily stated that she had no interest in getting a diploma or being a career woman, she just wanted to learn as much as she could about whatever caught her fancy.
Over the next few weeks, the Jacksons settled in and their daily routing established itself. Frank would leave home about 5:00 AM to participate in his unit's morning physical training, returning about 7:30 to shower, eat breakfast and return to the base for his duties of the day. He usually returned home about 6:30 PM - to a cold beer, a hot supper and a relaxing evening. Cathy kept busy with her various projects, shopping, cleaning, and sunbathing in the back yard.
Although decidedly uninterested in horticulture, George began spending more time in his own back yard. Not only was the scenery very pleasant, but he and Cathy soon got in the habit of chatting over the fence. They shared an appreciation of puns, innuendo, and double-meaning words and phrases. Since they also shared a lively sense of humor, their chats were usually interspersed with moments of shared hilarity. He was unsure which one of them coined the phrase, but between them they referred to their talks as "mental masturbation."
George really liked these daily chats. The repartee and mental challenge of trying to keep up with Cathy's leaps and twists of conversational focus kept him on his toes (so to speak). He found the whole situation incredibly arousing, although there was no hint of any physical extension of their relationship. He told himself that she looked on him as a sort of father figure and that she couldn't possibly have any interest in an old fart like him. Besides, if she found out what he was really thinking as they talked, she'd probably run in panic, or maybe grab a shotgun!
Things changed a bit when Frank got orders for Iraq. The prospect of a year without her husband obviously did not please her. The possibility that he might not return really worried her. She tried to keep up a happy front, but the strain sometimes showed through. Frank spent as much time as possible with her, but his departure date was fast approaching.
The afternoon before he was scheduled to leave, Frank rang George's doorbell and asked if they could talk. Over cold beers in the den, Frank made his pitch.
"We've become pretty good friends since Cathy and I got here," he said, "and I'd like to ask a serious favor."
"What's on your mind?" asked George.
"While I'm gone, Cathy's going to be pretty stressed out. She doesn't want me to go, even though she's trying hard to hide it. She'll need somebody to go to for support, somebody to talk to when she gets the blues. I'd like you to be that someone. You both get along really well, and she won't feel so alone if she knows you're there for her."
"Well, of course!" George replied. "I thought you were going to ask something difficult. I'd do that anyway, simply because she's my friend."
"Thanks!", Frank said. "It'll be a lot easier for me, too, knowing she has someone to take care of her."
The house next door seemed strangely empty the next morning. About 10:00 AM, Cathy returned from the airport looking drained and tired. Remembering his promise, George asked if she'd like to come over for coffee.
"What I really need is a good cry." she said sadly, as she sat down in his kitchen.
"Well, I've got lots of towels and an available shoulder" George remarked, half in jest.
To his surprise, she considered him seriously for a moment and then softly said "I think I'd like that."
The next thing he knew, she was in his arms sobbing bitterly. He held her carefully while the emotional storm raged, offering comfort and shelter while she released the tightly-held bonds of rage and fear she'd been carrying. After some time, the convulsive heaving and shuddering began to pass, and she became quiet.
"Thank you," she said with a watery smile. "You give good shoulder."
He laughed at her quip, hugged her briefly, and asked "Are you ready to sit in your own chair yet?"
"I'd better, I guess," she replied, "but I really like it where I am. Can I get more hugs when I need them?"
"Sure," George said. "I keep a large supply on hand, ready to be doled out to needy blonds."
