A woman alone and lonely confronts her inner demons with an assist from her old friend Jack.
***
When that bottle is gone, thought Joan Arnold as she stood by the side of the bed in the guest room of her home, I'll not buy another. This time, she vowed, I mean it.
It was all because of that - actually - it wasn't because of the bottle of Jack Daniels that she bought. It was because of the half empty bottle that she had found tucked away in the back of the cupboard, left there by her husband, now 3 years passed, and although she had known it was there, she had never touched it.
One night she was bored - more bored than usual - and decided to take a little sip of it. It wasn't like she hadn't even had alcohol before, because back in the day she used to go out with her husband and drink them up just like he did, but that was long ago.
Drinking alone? That sounded like something a drunk would do, and when she couldn't get the bottle opened at first she realized that she just should have thrown it away, but she didn't. After pouring warm water around the cap for a while she had managed to get it opened.
Her first drink in probably four years made her throat burn and her head spin, Joan recalled, and she had gone to bed right after it. The next night, not so much, and she soon found that it was easier to fall asleep after a drink.
This though - this was wrong. Standing by the side of the bed that your grandson is sleeping in, so sweet and innocent looking, looking down at him, is one thing. A grandmotherly thing. Looking at him with your nightgown pulled up to your waist while your hand is between your legs, playing with yourself is quite another thing.
You're 62 years old, Joan Arnold, she scolded herself. Not some teenager with raging hormones, like Timmy there in bed. She had just come in to pull the sheet over her visiting grandson, noticing when she passed the open guest room door that the lad was partially uncovered, but instead she stood there and looked at him.
Timmy had changed so much recently, Joan mused at she looked at the son of her daughter, sprawled across the bed. The sheet was down to his waist, and while Joan assumed that he was wearing something below the sheet, he had no shirt on.
Timmy was a slender lad, and laying there with his arms akimbo Joan could see his rib cage clearly even in the faint moonlight. Glancing up, she saw something new, a wisp of light brown hair under his arm.
"Gee Grandma," Joan recalled Timmy saying not long ago. "I wish I had hair under my arms like you and Dad do."
That day was so embarrassing, Joan recalled, because she was usually impeccably groomed, but after Herb had passed it didn't seem to matter any more. Now look at you, Timmy, Joan thought. All grown up.
Joan shook her head after she thought more about it. That conversation took place years and years ago, although the way time flew by she would have sworn it was last month. Timmy was a boy back then, and now he's a man, at least chronologically. Physically, at about 5'7" and 125 pounds he still looked like the boy who wanted to lick the spoon she used to stir the cookie batter.
Enough Joan, she thought to herself. Go back to the kitchen, have a nightcap and go to bed, and for heavens sake get your hand out from your sex.
But it feels so good, she reasoned as her eyes went down from Timmy's scrawny chest, past his rib cage to his belly button. Below the little indentation - was that hair? It was. A thin golden trail that led lower to...
Don't do it, she scolded herself as she reached over and took the edge of the sheet in her hand. Pull the sheet up, not down.
Just a peek, she reasoned. Curiosity killed the cat, but she wasn't going to do anything but take a peek, and so she gently lifted the fabric and lowered it.
The thin row of brown hairs became thicker and then became a bush, and below that was his manhood. Didn't look that much different that he had 18 years ago when she would help bathe him. A little larger and more wrinkled, and the testicles that hung down between his legs certainly had changed, but Timmy was nothing like his grandfather down there.
Oh my, Joan thought as she set the sheet down at Timmy's knees, her eyes still fixed on her grandson's privates. His penis was getting bigger, and fast. Joan looked up at Timmy, but his eyes were closed and his breathing steady.
Down below, the tiny tube was now anything but tiny, and within a minute his penis was erect and arched back onto his tummy, the vein riddled underside of his organ looking like the roots of a tree.
Joan's breath was chattering as her fingers rubbed her clitoris. Her mouth was dry, and she would give anything for a drink, but that would mean leaving Timmy's side and tearing her eyes away from his magnificent organ.
Had he experienced girls touching it? Did any of them put it in their mouths? Was he even interested in girls? Who knows these days, Joan mused? Was he a virgin? Had he put that penis, which had to be more than 6" long and seemed to be throbbing as it arched back to his tummy, inside a girl? Was it good for him, and her?
Just then, Joan looked up at Timmy's angelic face, with the cute dimples and the big brown eyes. Eyes that were wide open and looking right at her. His grandmother, standing by his bedside with her hand working feverishly inside of her.
"Omigod," Joan gasped. "Timmy - I'm sorry. I..."
"I'm not," Timmy answered softly, neither moving or making any effort to hide himself. "I wanted you to see me. Wanted you do see how much I've grown. Do you like what you see?"
"Yes," Joan heard herself say, and when Timmy said that it wasn't fair that she could see him but he couldn't see much of her, she lifted the nightgown over her head.
"Nice," Timmy was saying, and although she felt she looked every one of her 62 years her grandson's words sent a tingle down her spine, and when he told her to put her hand back between her legs and use the other one to play with her breasts, she did as he asked.
