Empowering A Frightened Pussy

Some men do better alone than others. I do better with a healthy female companion who enjoys being active, talking, kissing and touching. However, after "losing" my wife of thirty years to Alzheimer's, three years ago, I found that I was really out of practice as how to approach the "modern woman." I'm healthy, successful and attentive but was not getting anywhere by trying church, "meet and greets," dating sites, bars or hanging out in the produce isles at the super market. I had heard how active our local Senior Center is, so on a lark I looked the center up on the internet and decided to spend most of Thursday there and try their daily lunch offering.

The morning started slow. A few male regulars raided the coffee and donuts and then took over the pool table. Even fewer females straggled in to gossip, exchange magazine articles they had discussed yesterday and casually scan the males for anything new. My pool game was good enough that I had met all the guys but was hogging the table so I took another coffee break, sat on one of the facing couches and scanned through ancient magazines, like I was waiting for the dentist to call me. A petite woman in her mid-fifties sat alone across from me working on some needle point and peering disapprovingly over her half-rimmed glasses at me once in a while. Three times I tried my best charm to strike up a conversation with her and three times she rather coolly let me know she wasn't in the talking mood.

Things started to pop about ten-thirty for the morning tai-chi and limbering class. Even I went in to watch for a while. Who wouldn't? The name of the class was "Tai-chi, Life extending movements." My stern, would-be conversationalists had ninety-percent of my attention. She was thin, very flexible and her movements were fluid and sensual. When she caught me watching, she had a ready disapproving frown just for me.

As the class began to wind down so everyone could clean up for lunch, I returned to the main room and a friendly voice from a heavy set, seventyish woman using a walker greeted me, "Not into exercise this morning?"

"Just visiting today. I didn't even know you had such things."

"My exercise has to be in a swimming pool now. At least you picked Thursday to visit. That's spaghetti day. All the seats will be full today. Lots of empties on Monday - macaroni and cheese day."

"I'm forgetting my manners. I'm Tom Cowell."

"Jodi Swenson. I've been a regular here for ten years. If you need any advice on outings to avoid, trips to take or just want to talk, I'm your girl."

I must have inadvertently glanced through the glass on the doors as the exercise class was breaking up. "Tom, you're tall, seem healthy, fun to talk to and have sexy eyes but that little thing you are eying is named Helen; she hasn't wanted to make any friends in the three years she has been coming in."

"Always on Thursday's I bet."

"I like a man who learns quickly."

"Jodi thanks for talking with me and believing that men my age are still able to learn new things."

She and I laughed and walked early into the nearly vacant dining room together. I excused myself to go clean up.

With clean hands and a full tray, I sought to sit down next to Helen. "Hello Helen. May I join you for lunch? I'm Tom."

A visible dark cloud of anger seemed to surround her and her voice was full of hurt with no place to go. "Found out my first name did you? Sit if you want but you won't like it here. You're married; you look like you are on the make, looking for a one-night-stand or someone who will take care of you and give you a place to hang out."

Enough people heard Helen's biting tirade that many pairs of eyes followed me as I crossed the room to find a safer chair near Jodi. Her eyes questioned mine, so I responded, "You were right; wrong kind of parmesan at the other table."

About that time three guys who had done contracting work at my house a few years ago showed up for lunch and there was a lot of turmoil as people shifted about so we could all sit together and catch up.

By the time lunch was over, a lot more people knew more about me than I usually like disclosed. Just as a parting shot, Jodi asked, "Not going to say "Goodbye," to Helen?"

I thought a moment and pulled the ever present writer's pad from my breast pocket.

"Helen,

"Yes, I still wear my ring and have been married for over thirty years. My wife is totally disabled with Parkinson's and Alzheimer's; she lives at Aker's. I really enjoy talking and don't get out as often as I would like. If I'm on the make, I'm not good at it. It has been six years since I've been with a woman and that was my wife. One-night stands are a turn-off. Even for the most talented sex partners, there is a lot of time left over to be friends and share common interests. Actually, my ego was urging me to talk to you about the Sidney Lund mystery you have with your purse. Luckily, I do not yet need anyone to take care of me at the humble shack I have scrounged for myself on the way here from Portland.

"You were not completely wrong, however. I'm very male, playful, active and I hide a life-long unrequited fetish for a petite, smart, flexible and sensual woman. Next time we meet, I'll remember that a grey-wool suit and long auburn hair in a painfully tight bun should be interpreted as an "Off" switch for both me and my fetish.

Please accept my apology. I truly did not mean to infringe on your private moments or offend."

Susan Tymes is a forty-five year-old energetic beauty and is the director of the Senior Center. There are far more female members than male. The problem would be three times worse if Susan were not there to be the fantasy of dozens of men who attend, shoot pool, eat and dream of being with such a woman. Not long, after Tom left, Helen's curiosity was bursting and she sought out Susan. "Who is this new guy, Tom?"

"I have no idea what his real name is. You are holding one of his books. He is our local, under the radar celebrity. He used to teach classes at the college that were standing room only, until his wife finally needed full time care. I took a non-credit creative writing class from him. It was great fun. He still teaches at the college some. He says that "Lesson #1" is unraveling in his life."

"Lesson #1?"

"You'll find it in the library. It is about making sure you use enough names for your work that you can hide the naughty stories and the failures."

"He lives in town?"

"When you drive into town, have you ever noticed the three-story, gated rock mansion on the hill?"

"That's his?"

"Yes, and he was a success in the electronics business before he got into writing. Ever hear of Burt Winger?"

"The sci-fi writer the kids have video games based on?"

"Yes, that's him, too."

"I guess, I read him wrong and insulted the wrong guy."

"He won't mind. His number is on the bulletin board. He likes to mentor budding writers. I hear he is very demanding and difficult with them."

------------------------

After a week, her curiosity won over her embarrassment and she called, "Tom, this is Helen from the Senior Center. Can I offer you an apology?"

"Where do you have breakfast and how brave are you?"

"I usually eat at home and I'm ok in the bravery department."

"I'll accept your apology, if you have a breakfast, talking date with me tomorrow about nine. You can come here or I'll meet you somewhere. Talk to me and tell me all about your likes, dislikes and your life. Tell people where you'll be or bring a friend to feel safe."

Helen arrived alone at nine the next morning. One of the big carved, double-doors was opened by a maid and Helen was ushered into a bright sunroom that was all set up for breakfast. The house, furnishings and grounds were big and impressive. Everything triggered questions but Tom greeted her warmly, shook her hand, thanked her for coming and seated her facing the windows framing the backyard pool and waterfall. With some humor, he asked, "So why did you decide that I was worthy of living and decide to have breakfast with me?"

"Susan told me you used to teach writing classes. I've been writing for years but not published anything. I thought you might give me some pointers. Susan said your "Lesson #1" was "unraveling in your life." I don't understand that and tried to read the class notes from that lesson but they were not on the shelf."

"I'm glad they were missing, if that's what brought you here. It has been a long time since I had a breakfast date with a lovely woman."

Helen was not used to such directness and open compliments. She blushed and sought to push back.

The maid served champagne and announced that breakfast was about ready. Helen asked, "Do you write the Winger sci-fi stories?"

"And the Lund mystery you were reading. I was hoping to get some feedback from you. For years, I tried to keep a different name for each genre of stories that I write but many people spotted my style and speculated on the internet that Lund, Winger and some others are the same writer."

"So that's what Susan meant about Lesson #1 unraveling in your life."

"Luckily I'm old and secure enough not to worry about losing readers because I offend them."

"Offend them?"

"Sure. If I write some naughty short stories for Internet sites, the bible belters might boycott my mysteries. If I present opinion pieces, I can offend. If people know too much about an author, they frequently claim ownership and feel free to pass a lot of judgments."

By the time the excellent breakfast was ending and the second bottle of champagne was opened, Helen felt she had been through an interrogation. She felt he was easing up when he asked, "Did you bring any of you writing for me?"

She blushed because she had and was now embarrassed at being so presumptive. "I did. It's not very interesting because I have only written about my family so far."

"Most people start there. It is said everyone has one great book in them writing their life's story."

Tom took the hundred pages of folder bound, tattered manuscript and very quickly thumbed through it. "Your story is double spaced. How do you want me to give you my comments? Can I write on your story?"

"You can write on the pages. I have it on the computer."

"If you use standard word processing software, it is often easier that you present your work for editing or comment via email or disc, with some comment about format. What type of feedback do you want from me?"

"I don't understand?"

"I'm not a proof reader. I expect spelling and grammar to be acceptable. I usually comment on story line, character development, readability and make suggestions along those lines."

"That would be wonderful."

"Do you read a lot? What have you read that you enjoyed that is along the lines of your story?"

The interview went on for another hour, with Tom taking notes like crazy. What was her education? Background? Likes? Dislikes? Married? Children? On and on and on. Helen did not see why Tom needed so much information just to give her feedback on her story but she answered and tried to hide her uneasy feelings of disclosing so much.

Abruptly, Tom stood and asked the maid to serve one last coffee in his office; then he turned to Helen, "Would you like to see where I do most of my writing?"

The next hour was a delight for her. Tom's office was a massive, roomy affair with books, papers, computers and pictures everywhere. He seemed to relax noticeably there and became warm, friendly and playful. All too quickly, he said he had a luncheon to attend and gracefully showed her to the door, promising to call her within the week with his comments.

Driving home, she thought it would be nice to get some few useful ideas from a published author. Truthfully, she had not read the Lund mystery yet, but committed to do so by the time he called her.

Two nights later, tired, Helen went to bed early at ten and opened the pages of Tom's mystery. She had been married to a man fifteen years her senior. He had little time for her and sex had been something that pleased him. Seldom had she pleased herself during the last few years. They had one daughter together. He had three children in a previous marriage. Their daughter lived a hundred miles away. They seldom saw each other and had never had fun girl time together. In fact, Helen had never had fun girl time in her life. Her life seemed to be made up of work and solitude. For all these reasons, she was immediately shocked by the opening scene in the book. After twenty pages, her pussy was wet and she resented having to turn pages because that caused her to take her finger off her clit for a few moments. She instantly liked the two young lovers and accepted the stolen, illicit minutes they were stealing from their acceptable, ordered predictable lives. She raced toward climax and was just into it, when both characters were murdered by shots through a widow. Every cell in her body screamed in protest. How dare any story shock her like that.

It took her all night. She could not put the book down. She read the four hundred pages, masturbated four times, was surprised often and cheered twice, once when the hired thug was eliminated and then when the woman who hired him, met her end. Her body was exhausted. It was Thursday. She slept through exercise class and spaghetti day.

Saturday morning early, Helen's telephone rang, "Helen, can you meet me in the McDonald's parking lot about 12:30 so I can return your story with my comments? I'm sorry to have kept it so long and that I'm on the run today."

When she met Tom in the parking lot, he introduced her to a lovely thirty-something blond, "This is Carrie, she keeps me organized at book signings once in a while." Helen was surprised that she was jealous and thought "I could do a better job than Carrie. Tom should ask me to go with him."

All too quickly, Tom and Carrie were gone. Helen was shocked by how much time and effort had Tom put into reading and commenting on her story. In addition to between the lines notes and margin notes he had eight pages of comments and a very complimentary letter about how much he liked her work. "Liked her work?" It looked like it bled to death in red ink. He must have spent days on it. One paragraph offended her and she decided not to talk to him about writing again. Still his words made her think for days:

"Let your characters reveal themselves in dialog. It takes longer but your readers will be more interested in that than just being told. People have many dimensions, let your story tell about anger, fights, love, lust, fear and other emotions that readers all identify with. Doing so will make your characters real and let your readers like or hate them. You are a passionate, caring woman, take off the reins, drop your cold defenses and risk revealing yourself in your writing."

For two weeks, Helen retreated into solitude. Then on a Saturday night, she went to the movies only to return home to discover her house had been broken into. She was too frightened to sleep in her own house, did not have the money to go to a hotel and had not cultivated a friend who she could call for help.

The day after the break-in, Tom heard about it and showed up on Helen's doorstep at nine a.m. When he saw her, he knew she had not slept and understood more about her feelings than she did. "Let's pack you a bag so you can stay at my house a few days. You will be very safe and can rest." She wanted to object but she was too tired to argue, so she let him lead and stayed quiet.

Tom's guest room was massive, warm and comfortable. He showed her how secure the doors and windows were, how to lock them, how to used the intercom and the "panic" button; she had her on TV and telephone; he gave her free run of the kitchen and then left her alone with the words, "I'm usually in my office but you can page me, if you want some company for dinner or to just talk." His words said he cared but she needed time and space.

Lots of people came and went in Tom's household. When he left, he told her where he was going and when he would get back. She rambled when he was gone in the evenings when all the help was gone. She found the porn stories he had written, examined the erotic art that adorned his office walls and wondered about this complex man. Tom sensed that she was not really getting better and started the conversation off in the middle of breakfast after she had been a quiet mouse in his home for about ten days.

"What adventurous things have your done? Maybe things that are even a little dangerous? Things that have empowered you and given you confidence?"

Helen did not understand and could not answer.

"Ever fire a gun?"

"Never. They scare me."

"Well today you are going to. In fact several. We'll make a lot of noise and poke holes in a lot of paper targets. We'll do it all for fun and for you to experience something different."

Her objections did not deter him at all. She didn't see any guns when he nearly pushed her butt into his high SUV. Not far off the Interstate outside the city limits, he turned up a gravel road and it led to a deserted well constructed private firing range in a canyon. The day was windy but in the canyon, the wind was blocked so it was cool, sunny and very, very, isolated and quiet.

When they went to the back of the Escalade, Tom unlocked a floorboard compartment while he talked, "My father was career Army and was a weapons expert. I had fired almost everything by the time I was twelve. Then I got away from firearms for thirty years, until I lived ten yards into California, just across the border with Nevada. A few times I went to gun shows in Reno. People from Nevada could purchase anything at the shows but because I lived in California I couldn't purchase any firearm without a wait time. I go so mad at that, that I got a gun dealer's license. I never used it but it got me into guns again."

There were five or six guns, Helen had no idea what any of them were. "We're going to start you with a .22 caliber pistol. It is a cute pink, "Saturday night special" but first I have to see, if you know how to point."

They set up paper targets at five-yards, ten-yards and twenty-five yard. As they walked away from each, Tom had her point toward the bull's eye on each one. Helen was frightened but Tom's sure, strength pulled her along. He had her handle the tiny .22 short cartridge, load the magazine and then take a break and point at the target while saying "pow" like she had done as a kid. He handed her the unloaded pistol and had her learn to squeeze the trigger. "This tiny pistol will make a "cracking" sound when it is fired and you will not feel very much from it when it shoots." His rules were exacting about when she could touch the gun and how she had to respect it. They went through dry fire drills probably ten times. Her first shot was wild and far off the target. The second shot was no mystery and the third hit the edge of the paper target. Tom bragged on her and reminded her how to steady her aim with both hands, how to stand and how to sight. Her forth shot from five yards, hit the target near the center.

"Helen, you are on your own now. Finish the clip into the target, remove the empty clip, put the pistol down and step back from the firing line."

Never had she been so powerful. Never had she done anything like firing a pistol. Her heart pounded. She fired way too quickly but half the remaining six rounds hit the target. She followed his instructions perfectly. When she stepped back he grabbed her, swung her around and praised her over and over.

"OK, Annie Oakley, let's go change the target and see how you did."

When they returned to the firing line, she had to do everything and tell him what she was doing and what the safety rules were.

"This time when you fire, take time between every shot. Even put your hand down, to rest, if you want. When you are ready, point, aim, hold your breath and squeeze the trigger smoothly." This time, nine out of ten rounds went through the big circle. Again, with the same pistol, but at ten yards. He explained that pistols were generally for close-in protection, like in a house. Ten yards would be a long distance in most in-house situations. At twenty-five yards she only hit the target twice out of ten rounds. Still he was pleased with her. She beamed and was not afraid of the little pistol any more.