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?”
