“What about we make an early night of it, Sid?” asked Freda, without much hope.
Sid looked briefly away from the television set and cocking one eye suspiciously asked, “What for, I’m not tired?”
“No, well, I just thought it’d be nice,” warbled Freda in what she hoped was a sultry manner, but hope had died even before it was properly born.
Sid had two standard answers to her requests, the one he’d just used, “I’m not tired,” or alternatively, “I’m too tired.”
“Na,” said Sid, slurping from his glass of ale and returning his gaze to the television set, “I’m watching the replay of the game.”
Making one last, but she knew vain endeavour, Freda tried wheedling. “Come on Sid, we haven’t done it for a long time.”
“My God, you’re not on about that again, are you? It’s disgusting at your age. What are you, a sex maniac?”
That speared Freda to the heart. “Sex maniac!” she exploded, “it’s two years since we did it and even then you didn’t make me come.”
Sid, secretly filled with guilt about his low level sexual performance, and knowing he couldn’t, as he put it, “get it up any more,” decided that attack was the best form of defence; “Why the bloody hell don’t you get someone else to fuck you and stop bothering me.”
In saying this he felt secure in the fact that Freda was fifty five years old and therefore, in his view, beyond getting a lover. “In any case,” he thought, “she’s always gone on about faithfulness to the marriage vows, so she’d never try it.”
As if to confirm his views Freda wailed, “How could you say such a thing to me, Sid, me that’s always been faithful?” She burst into tears.
“Aw, for God’s sake turn off the waterworks, Freda, I want to hear the commentary.”
“Eooow,” cried Freda, “I wish I could turn off the waterworks, every bloody tap in the house is dripping.”
“All right, all right,” yelled Sid, “when I’ve got time I’ll change the bloody washers, now let me watch this in peace.”
“You’re always saying, ‘When I’ve got time’,” retaliated Freda, starting her own offensive, “You’ve got nothing but time, and all you do is sit in front of that bloody thing or go to the pub, you bloody impotent sod.”
Hit on his raw spot Sid rose and yelled “One more word out of you, and I’ll…”
“You’ll what?”
Sid sat down again, recalling past physical confrontations with Freda in which he’d come off the worst. For all that Freda was really a tender soul, she was also a lusty woman, and this was precisely what had attracted Sid in his young and potent days. “I like ‘em big and buxom,” he used to tell anyone who’d listen.
It was his misfortune that over the forty years of their marriage as he diminished physically, Freda seemed to grow more vigorous, especially in the desires of the flesh department. This no doubt was in part because he had a sedentary job before he retired, and spent his leisure time in front of the television set. On the other hand, Freda maintained rude health through her vigorous house working and gardening, in which activities Sid never participated.
So it was that he had a fifty five year old wife who was still burning for his bedtime attentions, and he the possessor of an ever drooping manhood.
Unwilling to demean herself further before her incapable husband Freda, resigning to the realities of life, departed the room and made her way to the marital bed chamber. “Sod him,” she thought, as she relieved herself with the dildo, now her constant bedtime solace.
Some time later as she lay wakeful in the connubial bed she felt Sid drop in beside her, and after considerable snorting and grunting go to sleep to snore the night away.
In the deep watches of the night Freda considered Sid’s words, “Why don’t you bloody well get someone else to fuck you.” She realised that Sid only flung down the challenge because he thought it safe to do so, but she began to weigh her options.
“Is it possible for a fifty five year old woman to get herself a lover?” she wondered. Perhaps the only sort of men she could expect to be interested would be men of her own age, but even if she did attract such a man would he not, after the first flush of passion had died, also suffer from that dread disease, Penis Wilt.
She decided that what she needed was a hot young lover. “If I was rich,” she meditated, “I could buy myself a young paramour to make dalliance with,” but alas, Freda was not rich.
She began to consider her female assets. Thanks to her hairdresser her hair was still nut brown and only a couple of days ago she’d had her roots touched up. The years had put a few creases in her face; two grooves ran from her nose to the corners of her mouth; two more lines were etched between her eyebrows; her neck sagged a little, but she had no double chin; being of solid build she was not scrawny, and her breasts, large and firm in youth, had now surrendered to gravity and child bearing and hung somewhat low, although the brown nipples were still ripe.
Her hand wandered down to her belly and felt the folds that pregnancies had endowed her with, then reaching lower she slipped a finger into her vagina thinking, “What a pity it is that people don’t realise that this is still as active as it ever was.” Sure enough, even at that moment, it was crying out for the right to perform that pleasurable function for which nature had so cunningly designed it.
Her legs, certainly marked on the thighs with the residue of child bearing, nevertheless retained some of the excellence that had once been theirs in younger days.
She sighed and wondered how many other women of her age were lying in their beds yearning for a fulfilment that seemed beyond their reach. “If only I had a Fairy God Mother who would grant me a wish.”
Freda wondered what she would wish for. To be forty years younger? For Sid to be restored to potency? To be granted a fiery young lover who would ravish her to death? But there was no Fairy God Mother, so all Freda’s hankering seemed in vain.
Now perchance there is a “Divinity that shapes our ends,” and having shaped them may be open to persuasion to change His/Her/Its mind. In past ages, people had worshipped the gods of Fortune, Luck and Chance in the hope that these gods would favour them, and does not every gambler putting his or her coin into the poker machine in this age of scientific rationalism, unknowingly still worship at the feet of these gods?
The wheel of fortune spins, and be it chance or divine intervention; it sometimes stops at some point favourable to our hopes and desires. Thus did Chance stride across Freda’s path.
It happened next day that Sid departed, as was his custom, to the local hostelry to quaff some foaming ale, and converse with other intellectuals of his own ilk, while Freda, ever the horticulturist, was working in her front garden.
