The usual applies, anyone engaged in sex is 18 or older, in this case much older.
For those who care this is my first story since the surgery which went better than anticipated and recovery has been steady, however I'm sure my PT gal was top of her class at Physical Therapy Torture 101. I have a relatively high pain threshold but she has brought me to tears twice, each time my thought was *if you weren't a woman I'd drop you*.
The idea for this story came about as I was ready to be discharged from the hospital, I had just finished shaving and dressing when the nurse came in to wheel me out. When I sat she made a comment, "You smell like my grandpa." When I asked if that was good, she replied, "Yes, the smell of Old Spice makes me feel safe and loved." I let my imagination take it from there, the idea about the bib-overall's centers around my memories of an old farmer a mile down the road named Herman Gotham.
This is more a story than an erotic event, sex is involved but is not the center focus. Romance between the two people builds throughout, there is drama as well as heart break and joy, in the end all is well that ends well.
Old Men and Old Spice
What is it about old men and Old Spice, somehow they just seem to go together, I'd seen him at the self-serve check outs numerous times, as a cashier we rotated from day to day between the cash registers and monitoring or helping at the self-serve check-outs. Today he was in my line at the cash register, when he approached I gave him a quizzical look, he smiled at me as he unloaded the cart.
"Too many folks at the self-serve today, those in line have carts heaped full, figured this would be quicker."
And he was right, the manned cash registers were moving at almost twice the speed as the others. He was a pleasant man to look at, always had on a fresh shirt and what my grand dad would have called Sunday jeans or bibs, though his hair was greying it was cut and combed, face shaved, quick with a smile, always a kind word on his tongue and .... the faint smell of Old Spice. It was as though going to the grocery store was a major event in his life, considering I'd never seen him with a woman I assumed he was widowed, there was no wedding band but the indentation of wearing one for decades was still visible if you looked hard.
I was divorced after too many years of a tumultuous existence, as with most young couples it started out in a whiz bang atmosphere, twenty eight years later I found out it was mostly *bang* for his personal assistant, a 29 year old girl with daddy issues. As humans we want to believe the best for those we love,
sadly, it took me far too long to confirm the slime ball was cheating and almost another three years to complete the divorce, the son-of-a-bitch fought me every step of the way. The details aren't pertinent, suffice it to say it was ugly and unnecessary, most of what he did to contest the divorce was out of spite and in the end only cost him more in legal fees. The dip shit thought he could hurt me financially, his lawyer reminded him time and again that we lived in a no-fault state, half of what we accumulated would be mine no matter what he did. Some people never learn.
Moving several hours away I'd gotten a position at a new local grocery store/pharmacy, with my soon to be ex fighting any financial help whatsoever I needed to get away before I killed him, at least the kids were out of the house so it was just me to buy groceries for and cover utilities. Once the divorce was final and I had half of everything I no longer needed the job but kept it anyway, I liked the simplicity of what I did and I'd come to know several people in this small out of the way town. I'd been there just over two years when mister Old Spice began coming into the store weekly. Shortly after having him come through my line a position as a Pharmacy helper was posted in store, I applied and got the position. As he approached the pharmacy I found myself thinking, *finally I'll get to ask his name*, I saw him smile as he caught my eye.
"George, Robert, 2-9-'58, one to pick up."
I was confused, "Is it George or Robert sir?"
Chuckling he responded, "It's both, first name is Robert, last name is George, yes I've heard the saying all my life, never trust a man with two first names. You'll have to take me at my word."
When I saw the scrip was for six tablets of Oxycontin I signaled the pharmacist knowing she would have to speak with him, I took payment, set the bag to the left and attended to the next in line. When the pharmacist asked if he was aware of the risks he nodded, he'd had dental surgery and had been prescribed the pills but wasn't sure he would need them. Once again, clean shaven, hair combed, a fresh pocket tee and Sunday bibs, they appeared as if he hung them in between wearing them, always crisp, I wouldn't have been surprised if he ironed them.
I finally had a name to go along with the man, he wasn't overweight or scrawny looking in the least, his body appeared to be weathered and stout, his hands were heavily calloused, his biceps were hard but not oversized, I figured him to be five eleven, maybe five ten. Not only did I now know his name, I knew his age, sixty-two. I found myself thinking life might not be over after all, now what I needed to know was whether he was widowed or divorced.
At fifty four I could still hold my own with gals at or near my age, my five foot seven frame carried my age well, or so I thought, my 36D bra was full but not overflowing and there was still a firmness to my breasts, they weren't what are now categorized as *perky*, but they didn't look like a baseball in a sock either. Let's be real, three babies having nursed from heavy milk laden breasts will cause some sag and stretch marks, then there's that old devil called *gravity*. It is what it is.
My tummy was still flat but not ripped in any sense of the word, my hips were wider than a woman who hasn't bore children, even with a slight muffin-top I still maintained a thirty four inch waist, a shapely ass and strong legs that were generally clad in stockings of some sort. I love the feel of silk on my legs, the expanded lacy tops of thigh highs hugging my legs or the feel of straps on a garter belt holding my seamed stockings in place, the shimmer of them as light cascades across them, the soft almost silent sound they make when my legs rub against each other.
It was my grandma who gave me my first pair of stockings at the tender age of fifteen, an older pair with a seam up the back, I used her garter belt to hold them up. What a rush for a girl at that age, most of my friends favored pantyhose over stockings, after the kids were born I did the same, then nothing and eventually only wearing pantyhose for funerals or weddings. I know there are women who think seamed nylons are a pain and they are if they aren't fitted and worn properly, I also know they will turn a man's eye on a dime and give you nine cents change.
When I first discovered my asshole ex had been cheating I tried to rekindle what I thought were the original flames of passion with lingerie and sexy undies, it didn't rekindle the flames but it made me realize how much I liked silk stockings, silk undies and delicate lingerie, even if no one else saw them on me, I felt sexy as hell knowing I was dressed like a hooker under my outer wear. Watching Robert walk away I determined I was going to get the low down on him and proceed for there. It's amazing what you can find on the internet for next to nothing, Robert had been widowed fifteen months prior, had milked cows for thirty years and now ran a herd of beef, it was no wonder he looked to be in such good shape .... he was.
It was two weeks later his regular Wednesday shopping trip that I saw him next, they were short checker's that day so I was filling in overseeing the self-serve area, as he walked past me I chirped,
"Good morning Robert, nice to see you again."
He seemed surprised, then smiled, nodded and said "Good day. Not in the Pharmacy any longer?"
I answered, "Still in the Pharmacy, one of the checkers called in sick, I'm filling in."
As I watched him scan and bag his groceries I wrestled with whether I should say something more or leave things as they were, I had nothing to lose so as he tucked the receipt in a bag I stood in front of him.
"I get off at three, would you be free for a coffee and pie, Francine's seems to have the best pie around."
He stared at me long enough to think I'd made a huge mistake before he answered.
