Gary Thomas heard the knock and ignored it.
The night before had been an epic drunk at a friend's house. He had no idea what time or how he made it back to his apartment across the college town. All he knew, or could vaguely remember, was that he hit on any woman within reach that night and failing miserably, somehow made it to his shitty little one-bedroom hovel on the third floor, falling asleep on the couch where he now was ignoring the knocking that would not stop.
It would knock, stop, he'd drift back to sleep, and it would knock again. Gary was getting very aggravated.
"Fuck me, seriously?" he groaned, blinking as fully awake as his crushing hangover would allow and swinging up to sit, head throbbing, mouth bone dry, kicking aside beer cans and pizza cartons that had been there forever as he stood. "Christ, it's four in the fucking..."
He looked at his watch. And then outside. Where it was starting to get light. Or dark. He couldn't be sure. It was winter and who the fuck knew? Then he saw cars streaming by his apartment house on a very busy street that wouldn't be in the wee hours.
"Fuck," he growled, rubbing his eyes. "Damn, I slept a long time..."
He mumbled profanely at the insistent knocking, walking toward the door in the same jeans and sweatshirt he had on last night, the one bearing the name of his college where the 20-year-old was a junior.
He opened the door. There stood a short older women looking at him with a "well?" look on her face.
"Uh...hi?" he said gruffly, scratching a hand through his bushy dark hair. "Can I help you?"
She laughed and brushed by him, a not terribly unattractive older woman but decidedly out of his usual fuck-anything-that-moves age range. She plunked her bag on his kitchen counter. Or tried to. It was full of boxes and dishes and assorted other detritus of the young and sloppy. She held onto it, looking around and sighing.
"God, what a dump," she said. "You young men are such pigs."
"Yeah...thanks," he grumbled moving his hands in little circles to signal his uncertainty. "And you...are...?"
She smiled, shaking her head, saying "Don't remember me, do you? That's OK, didn't think you would."
"No, sorry...did...was it...last night?" he asked, trying to recall her, and that rather pretty, smiling face looking at him.
He reached past her for a clean glass and not finding one tucking his head under the kitchen faucet, bumping his unshaven face into another pile of dirty dishes and turning on the tap for a quick drink to drench the cotton infesting his mouth.
"Yes, last night," she said, leaning on the counter, crossing her arms.
He looked sidelong at her as he drank. It registered. She was...his name escaped him, but she was the woman who owned the house at which he got blindingly shitfaced the night before. The grandmother, he foggily recalled, of the girl hosting the party.
It also registered that as his hangover cleared up just a bit, she was rather good looking. She wore a red tight-fitting fleecy overcoat that hugged her slightly thick torso and accentuated the size of her big boobs. Big boobs. He remembered now, he remembered her big boobs from the night before, when as host of the party for her granddaughter and her college friends, they were more on display.
She'd had on a pair of tight black slacks and a low-cut top, his mind recalled and also recalling how delicious her old tits looked to him in his drunken stupor. Sober now, he looked at them tucked behind her snug overcoat and realized they looked pretty good now, too.
"Oh, right!" he said brightly, standing to shake a finger at her in recognition. "You're the lady, grandmother...the house, last night, Betsy's party, right..."
"Right, right, Betsy, my granddaughter, right," she smiled, nodding, eyeing him with bemusement.
He looked harder at her, in that jacket, and tight jeans stuffed into stylish short boots. He liked what he saw, perhaps owing to always being horny when he woke up no matter what time of day that might be. Or from not connecting with any pussy at all the night before.
She was looking better, as his hangover lifted slight, with her short, spiky brownish gray hair, chiseled facial features and squinty eyes, dark and bright. She moved to walk about the kitchen, checking things out, and as she did he stared at her ass packed into those tight jeans. For a woman her age, whatever that was, at least old enough to be a granny, that ass was spectacular, he thought, a bit large and wide at the sides, but shapely and seemingly firm.
"That's a start, you remember me and where you were," she said, walking up to him, a shortish woman of five-four or so, much shorter than Gary's six-two. "But beyond that..."
"Beyond that?" he asked, head cocked.
She smiled and shook her head again. He noticed the slight wattle of her neck as she did, long cords of flesh. He never liked that part of older women, but now at this moment, it looked enticing.
"You hit on me, Gary...well, hell, you hit on every woman at the party, including my granddaughter, I might add, but toward the end of the night, you cornered me in my pantry,"
she said plainly by way of explanation, not complaint.
"I...I did?" he asked, mind racing to recollect that portion of the evening and coming up blank.
"You don't remember, but that's OK," she sighed, peeling off her jacket, revealing a snug sweater, cut fairly low, revealing thick, freckle-covered cleavage. "I knew you were pretty drunk."
She looked for a clean place to lay her coat, finding none, and draping it over a bunch of his clothes piled on a kitchen chair instead.
"Do you mind?" she asked.
"No, no, not at all, make yourself at...well..."
"At home?" she laughed. "At pigsty, more likely."
"Yeah, well, my cleaning people are in Nice on holiday," he said dryly.
