Late evening, day six of her totally unexpected new relationship.
Irene lay alone in her bed, nude, spread-eagled, staring blankly up at the ceiling while catching her breath, her entire body glistening wetly. She was SWEATING -- enough so that she'd have to change the sheets several days early. But not this instant!
She was enjoying the rosiest of inner glows -- rather different from Victorian-era euphemisms for perspiration. She'd just masturbated to her first orgasm in over three decades and was both quite pleased (HOORAY! - her body still worked, and quite well, at age 81) and furious at herself (so many irretrievably-lost years -- DAMN!). Enjoyable? Yes indeed. Plus, almost equaling the orgasm (or was that plural ... to wit, orgasm
S
? What a delightful uncertainty!), the process of orgasm-generation had certainly taken her mind off the pain of her new knees.
Her private play-session had been precipitated by two events, nearly-coincident and strongly interacting - but unrelated.
The first event: early that evening she had stumbled upon and browsed a nearly-forgotten extensive library of personal pornography from her married (and swinging) years, a time that had ended abruptly with the death of her beloved husband some 30 years earlier. His death had ended her sex life entirely: it never recovered.
The second was more a developing process than a single event -- namely, the now-daily presence (literally a 'hands-on' presence, she might add!) of her recent acquaintance, young Professor Robert. Every morning, right here in her house, just the two of them together, for extended periods. Exercising. Alone (!!) ... and him practically her ideal of a man both physically (THAT she'd figured out by eyeball within milliseconds of their initial meeting!) and mentally (she hadn't had so much fun just talking with a man for at least thirty years).
Physicality check, mental acuity, check. Emotional connectivity? Who could say? That might take a good deal more time to determine. From different eras, almost different worlds, they were at least superficially simpatico despite over 50 years age differential. THAT number didn't seem to bother Robert at all, and 'why not?' was a complete mystery to Irene. He treated her with intelligent male/female caring and attention, as if they were closer than mere casual acquaintances but less than courting, certainly less than lovers. Exactly why he was so respectful and so (apparently genuinely) interested in her she simply didn't fathom -- but she was determined to enjoy the miracle, believing firmly in carpe diem, hot irons, birds in the hand, and other such sayings.
Their meeting was dumb luck. A newly-arrived young (barely 30) biology professor at the local U., and still single, he'd just bought his first-ever house, right around the corner from her home of decades. He ran several miles daily: his Saturday-morning ten-mile circuit included her sidewalk, but they hadn't met. That day, Irene was working on her physical therapy out in front of her house, slowly and carefully learning to use her new knees, whilst supported by a cane. According to her surgeon, she should have been using two canes, or even her walker, but she simply couldn't bear the thought -- not in public!
Her physical therapist felt differently, more of a "Use or lose!" mentality which agreed well with Irene's own. They both thought that the level, smooth sidewalk contrasted well with the lumpy, tilted and less-sure footing of the yard -- Irene was to walk gingerly, carefully, alternating on both surfaces, carefully studying what her muscles did when the sloping and uneven turf required continual minuscule -but powerful- adjustments.
She was standing with one foot on each, studying her balance and trying to ignore the pain, when Professor Robert came running around the corner, outbound on his daily trek. He grinned broadly, waved at her, scanned her top to toe exactly once as he neared: she was small, perhaps five two, erect, and much advanced in years.
His view was from her side -- she quite obviously still had a significant bust and her shorts were nicely --intriguingly!- taut across her bottom... which bottom was solider and better-looking than it had any right to be. Intriguing, indeed! Plus, under her tight snow-white coif, her face was remarkably pretty. Lined, clearly elderly, but pretty nonetheless.
As he closed on her he raised a hand in greeting, blurted hurriedly "Hi! I'm a new neighbor. Robert. I'll come back in an hour or so and introduce myself!"
He dodged neatly around her and disappeared down the street, with her gaze positively glued to his legs and butt -- he was running in a tiny Speedo, shoes, sox, and sweatband -- nada mas. And he sported a body morph of which she greatly approved... maybe five nine, perhaps one sixty -- nicely muscled, not a hyper-lean long distance runner. Good stride and rhythm -- and almost no upper body motion. The man knew how to run!
Little visual details popped up: he was clean shaven -- she'd always preferred that. Only the lightest of golden sparkles of hair on arms and legs, no hair at all visible on his naked chest -- and a double plus, none on his back and shoulders -- lovely!
Musculature, face, miscellaneous details all united to make her reflect back several decades. There was nobody else in sight, so for perhaps fifteen seconds she let herself stare openly at his departing bottom, runner-taut, muscles working nicely under the nylon. For the Nth time she was supremely grateful for the cataract surgery and spectacles that had returned her vision to better than 20-20.
While watching, and then again while re-running the imagery, she compared his body's condition with that of her own -- unfair, silly, and also unavoidable. It wasn't in any way discouraging, the comparison... actually, she thought, it was more a parallel evaluation of very age-disparate entities.
Objectively, really trying to put all vanity aside, her nearly-ancient body was holding up ridiculously well: otherwise she'd never have gotten the surgeon to accept her case at all, let alone do the two replacements simultaneously. She was now more than four weeks post-op: she'd been home for the past three and was already more than marginally ambulatory, much to the medical folks' amazement. But then, like most physicians, they seldom saw a genuinely fit person, much less one her age, so their amazement didn't really count.
But fitness DID count! All her life, Irene had been athletic and active: she'd played far too many years of far-too-vigorous competitive tennis -- and she'd done it with just a tiny bit of knock-knee. Hence the matched set of brand-new titanium joints under their long, fresh, deep-pink scars. But however badly it had treated her knees, tennis had kept the rest of her in very good condition. When tennis slipped beyond her reach ten years ago, she replaced it with the gym and intensive yoga. She was justifiably proud of her body, especially now.
Irene had her own very specific vanity points (she knew she oughtn't, but hey, at 81...?). Over a decade beyond her last backhand, yet here she was, without excess avoirdupois, wattles, or saggy-butt problems. She was still narrow-hipped, slender, and ramrod straight in the spine (she'd learnt from her Mom's experiences - since age 35 she'd taken every known and suspected anti-osteoporosis precaution).
She was remarkably strong (so said the grip-meters and charts at the gym and surgeon's office). Long, lean, taut muscles, still full enough to lack classic old-folks' stringiness. "In other words, Irene, you still have some SHAPE!" is what she told herself.
Major vanity point the second -- skin. Over the belly it was wrinkled but tight enough to show her abs: even her surgeon had commented. She had always taken sun protection as seriously as osteoporosis prevention and acted accordingly -- it had paid off. Her skin was still soft and supple everywhere that hadn't been exposed to UV, and even the exposed areas hadn't gone ancient. Parchment-like "age-crepe" certainly -- but on her it was a smooth and uniform effect, with few superficial blemishes. Many gallons of lotions and potions had gone into skin maintenance.
Her hair was yet another point: where all the remaining few of her equally-aged friends had radically thinned and brittle hair forming a semitransparent bluish haze, hers was still thick and dense, although brilliantly white -- thickness courtesy some American Indian genes -- and it was happiest pulled back into a tight short ponytail: despite her age, that "do" worked perfectly.
She was still satisfied with the rest of her body, too. And with the sly inspections and sideways envious looks she got in the ladies' shower room -- serious little ego-trips, those looks! At home, staring into the mirror post-shower, she would heft her gently-swagging boobs -- partly doing the self-exam thing, but mostly just being pleased. Hang lower they might, and sag they must, but they hadn't yet reached the bottom of her ribcage... much less her navel. Plus (a big plus in her mind) her nipples didn't yet face the floor -- and never would, outside of certain yoga poses.
Her booby-babies had once been 36 C, occasionally period-swelled to a genuine D, but she now wore soft bras sized SMLXL: she hadn't bought a "cup-sized" bra for years and had no idea what the girls might register today -- or even if the idea of cup size worked for such a pair as hers. Nonetheless, she told herself accurately, they retained a nice texture and considerable shape, although today they ran much closer to kielbasa specifications than to those set for Indian temple statues or Kama Sutra illustrations. At least, thank whatever gods might be, they certainly hadn't turned into the be-nippled Ubangi-flaps one often saw in NatGeo (not to mention in the ladies' facilities at the gym!). And they retained every bit of their teenage sensitivity to touch and temperature - a sudden waft of cold air could still mightily embarrass her.
On the day she and Professor Robert the Neighbor finally met, Irene had followed her physical therapist's advice and worked her way gingerly down the front stairs, cane in one hand, the other holding a death-grip on the banister. Out into the front yard for balancing practice, which was where she'd been as Robert did his brief fly-by.
She hoped he was serious about stopping during his return -- new neighbors were usually worth getting to know, and besides, he was PRETTY! No, not pretty, genuinely sexy! She found herself wondering for a moment why, after so many celibate years, she had suddenly noticed specifically THAT? An intriguing puzzlement, but fleeting -- Robert blew past, and almost instantly she was back to concentrating on not lurching about, and on not falling. Balance and muscle control were today's prime objectives -- this rehab business was far, far harder than she had expected and the first near-stumble effectively banished thoughts of Robert's bum.
After nearly an hour of slow-motion shuffling, and occasionally actually walking four or five consecutive steps with rhythm and without staggering, she suddenly found herself much more than merely tired - frankly exhausted, almost shaking.
As was her wont, she'd overdone things.
