Resurrection

Ted cruised slowly through his old neighborhood. Much had changed, but the Carmichael house still stood. He smiled, remembering the Carmichael girls, Cynthia, and Ann. Cynthia was his age, Ann four years younger.

He’d worshipped Cynthia, but he lived in a ramshackle farmhouse across the creek, while they were well-to-do. Her father disapproved of him, and he was shy, so he’d worshipped at a distance.

He drove on, and stopped at a small park at the street end. When he was there last, it was a gravel patch next to a low-lying marsh. Now, the parking lot was graded and paved, the marsh drained, and made into a park.

He stepped out of the car, and strolled the paved path leading to a footbridge across the creek. When he was small, the W.P.A. had built a rustic footbridge of logs, decked with rough planks, and guard rails made of saplings. Today’s bridge was concrete, with iron pipe railings.

Stepping out on the bridge, he leaned on the rail, and a wave of nostalgia washed over him. He stared into the swirling current, as old memories flooded back.

He graduated from high school fifty-three years before, and enlisted in the Army. Through the Army, college, and a successful career in business and politics, he never looked back, but three years ago, and retired, nostalgia drew him back to his fiftieth high school reunion. In the company of his old classmates, he felt as though he’d come home.

Before they traveled to the reunion, his wife underwent some medical tests, and when they returned, a chilling diagnosis awaited them. She had amyotropic lateral sclerosis, A.L.S., “Lou Gehrig’s disease.” It was a death sentence. She lived two more years, then, a year ago, she died.

Ted was depressed, wasted, and ill himself. Worn out from caring for his dying wife, life was empty. Then he was buoyed by a letter of condolence from a classmate he met at the reunion, Angie Forster, a woman he’d known since grade school. Touched by her concern, he called to thank her, and they began to correspond. She cheered him, and gradually drew him out of his depression. As his spirits lifted, he began to eat properly, and to exercise. Slowly, his health returned.

He had been dead, sexually, for some time already, before his wife died. Prostate surgery had made him impotent, so his lack of desire hadn’t bothered him then. Now, with returning health, his libido returned and, with it, frustration over his inability to perform.

His sex life had been straightforward and traditional. He had little sexual experience before marriage, so his significant experience was only with his wife. He had occasionally yearned to experiment beyond the ordinary, but she rejected the notion.

Out of loneliness, he began to explore internet porn. The variety of sexual behaviors people displayed, amazed him. There were things he’d heard about, and some he had never imagined. He found some things gross, and avoided them. Homosexuality was a cold turn-off, though lesbianism didn’t upset him. Indeed, he found some of that beautiful.

Voyeurism was another turn-off. The simulated sex of the performing models, tongues wagging at gaping pussies, mouths opened for limp dicks, cocks waving at pussy entrances, while both models faked smiles, and looked straight into the camera, merely caused him to shake his head.

His thing turned out to be women’s bodies. Still, there wasn’t much there for him. The “barely legal” teenyboppers with their hard, immature bodies, did nothing for him, nor did the slick, hard-eyed, thirty-something, “mature” models with their bored expressions, and oversized, hemispherical, silicone tits. Rarely, did he find a model who was really attractive to him. When he did, they tended to be older women; full-bodied, ripe, with wise eyes; smiling women, comfortable in their skins, not straining to prove anything.

When sexual tension became too great, he could masturbate to orgasm, but his flaccid cock embarrassed him, and the prostate surgery caused his ejaculate to fire into his bladder, instead of spurting out, as it should. Loneliness pressed in on him. Still, he avoided women. He was afraid he’d be expected to do something he was no longer capable of.

His correspondence with Angie was a treasure that eased the loneliness. Their communication became ever more frank and personal, and he was falling in love. This increased his fear. If they became too close, he’d have to meet her, and reveal his lack of manhood.

Then Angie told him the class was having another luncheon. She persuaded him to come, and invited him to stay with her. He couldn’t turn her down.

Today was his third day there, and their personal rapport had blossomed. She was warm and vital, and clearly invited his advances, but his obsession about his impotence held him back.

The longer he stayed, the more the obsession frustrated him, and today, he’d begged off from the pressure, saying he wanted to visit his old neighborhood alone. So here he stood, morose and resentful, staring bleakly into the swirling water.

A few yards upstream from the bridge, lay a small island, perhaps twenty by forty feet, covered with reeds. He had fond memories of the place. The neighborhood boys cleared a place in the center of the island, and built a lean-to hidden from the shore by the thick reeds. It was their secret hideout, a place where they did secret things.

Ted was smiling at the memory, when his reverie shattered. A woman’s voice asked, “You see some big fish down there, or something?” He hadn’t heard her approach. Startled, he looked up. The woman at his elbow was well-dressed and classy, as tall as he, slim and lithe, with an athletic look. He guessed she was near his age. There was something familiar about her gray-green eyes, and her direct gaze.

Embarrassed at what he’d been thinking, he chuckled, and said, “No, I was just looking at that little island. I grew up here, and when I was a kid, we had a lean-to in there, that was our secret hideaway.”

Her eyes twinkled, she grinned, and said, “It wasn’t all that secret. When I was a little girl, I had a hiding place in the bushes on the shore. I’d lay there, still as a mouse, and watch you guys jerk-off. When no one was around, I’d wade over, and rummage through your stuff. You had quite a stash of girlie magazines there. What’s your name, anyway?”

Ted was nonplused. Her bluntness didn’t match her classy appearance, and he was even more embarrassed by the thought of her watching him, but he answered, “Ted Carlson.”

“You lived in the old farmhouse across the creek, didn’t you?” She clapped her hands, and grinned wickedly. “Oh, how I remember you. Most of the guys just grabbed their cocks, and whanged away until they shot a little wad, but you were a real jack-off artist. You’d caress your cock, and stroke it, and for a long time, you’d squirm and moan, and when you finally got down to business, you’d cum, and cum, and cum. I liked to watch you best of all. I’d finger myself while you were at it, and I had my first orgasm watching you masturbate.”

Ted’s embarrassment was so acute, he wanted to sink into the earth, or evaporate into the air, but he could only stand there. Red-faced and stammering, he asked, “Who - Who are you?”

She continued her wicked grin, and direct stare. “Ann Carmichael,” she answered.

That explained his feeling of familiarity. The striking eyes, the direct gaze, and the bold manner were there already when she was a little girl, and he remembered now, he couldn’t handle them then, either.

“You were just a little kid, how did you get involved in all that stuff?”

“You were about fifteen, and I was eleven when I discovered what you guys were doing. I was a horny twelve-year old, when I popped my puck, watching you.”

The woman’s teasing was relentless, but her frankness, and her attitude, were natural extensions of the bold, little girl he remembered. He saw she was enjoying his discomfiture.

His embarrassment began to wane. He chuckled, but his face fell, and he said, ”Well, whatever I showed you then, there’s nothing left of it now.”

She sobered at this admission, and compassion swelled in her. Touching his arm gently, she smiled and said, “Don’t be ashamed or embarrassed, Ted, you weren’t the only one, and I’m just teasing you. But I did get an early education in young men’s sex habits, watching you guys. What I learned, helped me ease my teenage sons through puberty, when I had to raise them without their father, and the curiosity it generated, led me into my career, as well. But tell me, do you still live around here?”

Ted let out his breath. The conversation was returning to normalcy. “No, I live out on the coast. Only been back once before, for my fiftieth class reunion. My wife died last year, and I’ve been corresponding with an old classmate. She invited me to a class luncheon they’re having, and offered to let me stay with her. Today, I’ve been exploring the old neighborhood.”

Ann’s eyes narrowed, and she caught her breath. This was too much of a coincidence.”Your friend isn’t Angie Forster, is she?”

Ted was surprised. “Why yes, how did you know?”

“Angie and I are sisters-in-law. My late husband was her younger brother. We’ve been best friends for forty years. She told me about you, but she never mentioned your name. Oh, Ted, this is wonderful. We have to all get together.”

Ann thought for a few moments, then said, “Ted, I still live in the family home. Why don’t we go up there. I’ll fix us a cup of coffee, or something, and I’ll call Angie. Maybe we can all get together for dinner this evening.”

Ted’s ears were still burning, and he wasn’t sure what he was getting into, but there was no graceful way to refuse, so he agreed. They walked up to his car, and drove the half-block to her house.

In the kitchen, Ann asked, “What would you like?” He said, “Tea, please.” She put the kettle on, and told him, “Keep an eye on this, I’m going to go call Angie.”

There was a phone on the wall and, for a moment, he wondered why she didn’t use that one, but it seemed inconsequential. He could hear her voice in the other room, but couldn’t make out the words.

Ann made sure he was out of earshot, and dialed the phone. “Angie, babe, you’ll never guess who’s in my kitchen drinking tea.”

Crossly, Angie said, “You know I can’t deal with guessing games. C’mon and tell me.”

“Ted Carlson.”

“What?”

“Your Ted Carlson. You never told me his name. He’s the boy in the farmhouse I told you about. I wanted to fuck him when I was twelve years old.”

“Ann, you better slow down, and tell me what this is all about.”

“I went out for a walk, and went down to the footbridge. This guy’s standing there staring at the water with a hangdog expression on his face. I snuck up and surprised him, and he started telling me about the lean-to on the little island. I teased him about what I saw there, years ago, and asked his name. He told me why he was here, so I put two and two together, and found he’s the guy that’s staying with you.”

“Oh, Ann, I wish you hadn’t.”

“Look, babe, you’ve been crying about the thing you’ve got for this guy, and how you can’t get his motor started. It’s not for nothing I spent thirty years nursing for a urology clinic, and counseling people on their sexual problems. I’ve got a pretty good idea of what his problem is, and you and I have put together some pretty good fantasies on things we might do to solve it. It’s now, or never, babe. This plum just dropped into our hands, so don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“I don’t know, Ann, this guy’s awfully innocent for his age. I’m afraid we’ll scare him off, and I’ll be alone again. We’ve both had our problems with rotten bastards, and this guy is one of the good ones. I don’t want to lose him.”

“Angie, I’ve had a lot of professional experience dealing with older men who’ve lost their motivation, and I know what makes them tick. If he runs, you’ll know you didn’t lose anything, but I don’t think there’s a chance in a thousand he will. Even if we can’t get him up, he’ll know there’s more to sex, than sticking his cock in a pussy. Now, are you coming over, or shall I do it by myself?”

Grimly, Angie replied, “If you value your life, you damn well better not start without me.”

“O. K. Bring some steaks, then. We’ll have dinner when we’re done, and if this works, we’ll all need some extra nourishment.”

“I’ll be there, quick as I can.”

Ted was in for a surprise. These women were more than just good friends. Both had been with with abusive men, and their shared experience had driven them close together; so close they had become true confidants, and indeed, lovers, though both were fundamentally heterosexual. And Ann was wise, beyond measure, in dealing with men’s sexual problems.

When Ann returned to the kitchen, the teakettle was whistling, so she made their tea. They reminisced, and made small talk while they waited. Angie had complained about Ted’s coolness toward her after he arrived, and Ann gently pried a little more out of Ted about himself. Now, she was quite certain why he was reluctant.

They heard Angie pull into the driveway. As she came to the back door, Ann opened it, pulled Angie inside, and gave her a lingering passionate kiss, right on the mouth. Angie hadn’t expected this, but quickly surmised it was part of Ann’s plan. She responded, eagerly.

Ted’s eyes flew wide, and his jaw dropped. Ann turned to him, saying harshly, “What are you gaping at, old man? You’re not looking at a couple of old women gone to fat, and feeling sorry for themselves. We’re alive, and vital. We have needs. What are we supposed to do? Half you old guys are dead, and the rest just want another beer, and fall asleep in front of the television.

We can fuck our fingers till the cows come home, but our fingers won’t hug us, our fingers won’t sympathize with our problems, our fingers won’t say, “It’s all right,” when the world is too much for us, and you old guys with your droopy dicks sure as hell won’t do it either. So what is there for us? We find another woman, or suffer in silence, and these two old babes aren’t going to suffer in silence.”

Ted had about as much as he could take of this bold, abrasive woman, and he flared. “ Just a god damn minute. What do you know about droopy-dicked old men, and the things that make them that way. You women think you can flash a bare tit, and a guy’s supposed spring up like a jack-in-the-box. You go to your hands and knees, or lie on your back with your legs spread, and he’s supposed to be up and ready to service you like bull with a cow, but only when, as, and if, you’re ready for it. From age nine, to ninety, that’s all you have to do.

“For a man, it’s a little more complicated. He has to get up for it, not down. And there’s the matter of age, and that wonderful organ called the prostate. Women get old, too. Their bellies get fat, their asses get flabby, their tits go flat and saggy, but still, their role is passive. All they have to do to perform, is get down, and it’s there for them.

“Yeah. I’m in the droopy dick category, all right. I’m seventy years old, and I’ve had prostate surgery. The gun still fires, but it shoots blanks, and the barrel isn’t rigid enough to penetrate anything any more. And you, dear lady, haven’t a clue to the agony and frustration of wanting to make love to someone, of needing to make love to someone who also needs you, and of being unable to do it.”

Ann was clinical now. She asked, “Radical, or TURP?”

“TURP. I had BPH, not cancer.”

The sudden conflict startled Angie, and upset her. She was afraid Ann was going to ruin everything. She didn’t know what was happening, and she bridled. “What in the world are you people talking about?” she asked.

Ann responded, “Angie, the only uniquely different things between the anatomy of men and women, is their reproductive organs. Women have a uterus, ovaries and a vagina. Men don’t. Men have testes, a prostate gland and a penis. Women don’t. All these organs can cause problems, but the prostate is unique. It’s round like a doughnut, and it surrounds the urethra at the root of a man’s penis, right at the mouth of his bladder. It’s subject to cancer, and a condition we call benign prostatic hyperplasia, or BPH. In plain English, that means it swells up, and closes off the urethra, so the man can’t urinate. If nothing is done to correct this, it restricts the urinary flow, which leads to bladder infections, and ultimately fatal kidney failure.

“All men, by the age of fifty, are going to suffer some degree of BPH. Many will need surgery, a few not at all. The most common surgical treatment for it, is trans-urethral resection of the prostate, or TURP. The surgeon goes up through the penis to the swollen prostate with a small instrument, and scrapes, or shaves, or reams out the restriction, depending on the kind of instrument he uses. Trouble is, the urethra is so small, and the affected area so packed with blood vessels and nerves that, more often than not, damage results to two things, the erectile mechanism, and the valve that closes the bladder to eject the semen out through the penis. When that happens, he can’t get a hard-on, and the semen goes into the bladder instead of being ejaculated. That’s what happened to Ted, and that’s why he can’t get it up, and why he says he’s shooting blanks.”

Ted had cooled down, and he was learning something too. “How come you know so much?” he said.

“I was a nurse in a urology clinic, and a sexual counselor, for more than thirty years. I’ve seen more old men’s cocks, than you’ll see in a lifetime visiting men’s locker rooms.

“But let me ask you something. Are you up to playing a little game with a couple of those “passive” old ladies you complain about?”

She tittered. “Poor choice of words there. Let’s put it another way.” She pinned him with her toughest, direct stare. ”Do you think you have guts enough?”

The gauntlet was thrown. He didn’t know what he was getting into, but he was a man. He had to pick it up. Insolent now, he issued a challenge of his own. “You bet. Do you?”

Ann smiled. This was going to be better than she thought. She had deliberately avoided asking, “Are you man enough?” She knew that was the sore point, and the vigor of his response pleased her.

“O.K., buddy-boy,“ she said, “Angie, take our lad upstairs, and show him around the play room, while I get ready. Do that little dance for him that we talked about.”

Angie took his hand, and led him up the stairs to an attic room that ran the length of the house. The sloping walls gave it an intimate air, and there was something seductive about the lighting. The floor was carpeted with heavy plush, a few soft chairs that looked sinfully comfortable, made a conversation grouping at one end, and a king-size canopy bed occupied the center. It was all very feminine, plainly a trysting place, but more like a boudoir than a bordello. Something about it began to arouse him, but then, he spotted a wall covered with the implements of BDSM. He stopped dead.

Good God,

he thought.

What have I gotten myself into?

“That stuff’s scary,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it. Those are Ann’s toys. The fetish turns her on, but she’s not really into hurting people, or being hurt.”

Angie gave a nasty chuckle. “At least, not yet. She is very dominant though, but I guess you already saw that.”

She led him over to the bed, and sat him down. There was a light in her eyes, but he couldn’t tell whether it was love, or lust. Whatever it was, it had him in an agony of anticipation.

“Have you ever had a sexy striptease performed just for you alone?”

“No.”

“Well,” she chuckled, “keep your eyes peeled, you might see something new.”

She moved away a few paces, raised her arms above her head, and turned around in a slow pirouette, swaying ever so slightly. On the second turn, when her back was to him, she dropped her arms and, when she faced him again, her blouse was unbuttoned. She slipped it from her shoulders, and it dropped to the floor. Again, she raised her arms, and the side view, as she turned, gave him a good view of her generous breasts.