But, be warned! These Short Takes contain what podcasts coyly refer to as “explicit language.” Do not read them if you blush easily. Definitely do not read them on a crowded bus, in a theater before the curtain goes up, or, for that matter, anywhere in public. Unless you want strangers reading over your shoulder – and forming an opinion of you that you might not want them to have. And, come to think of it, do not read more than one or two at a time. One will set your heart racing, two will stir your loins, and, after three or four, it will be a long time before your partner and your vibrator can recover from what you will do to them.

As we said, you’ve been warned. Now … enjoy!

From the suite, Mounds, photographs by Merry Song

He was always nursing small scratches in those days, on his chest, his arms, his back. I would grab him, nails digging hard, holding tight as my body shook and spasmed outside of time. I was somewhere otherworldly, lifted like a ghost, only to open my eyes and find I had ended up on the kitchen table without any idea how I got there. Those were the days she was with me, my desire, living in my muscles, my blood, in the threads that connected to my heart, longing to be transported, arriving with ease.

I could feel the weight of her while walking down a city street or cleaning my bathroom. But mostly, when I’d spent an evening over dinner and wine, with maybe a candle on the table. That weight would push downward, a press of warmth and moisture, propelling me to his place, or mine, for release.

That’s before my body turned wooden, when it went grey and muddy inside. When I searched for that flame and could not find it. I was no longer her and she was no longer me. Desire had disappeared.

One night, I saw the women on the flatscreen being wooed in front of millions by the 72-year-old golden one, fit and toned, his hair the color of hot sand. They kissed long and hard with full lips and focus, their eyes glistening with longing. They spoke of heat, touch, and yearning. They were ready, expectant. They were my age, and I believed them.

That night, in the spare room, away from the spouse’s snoring, I found my hand rummaging through my nightstand of pandemic mistakes – things I had pronounced useless once they arrived. An ice blue thong, a flimsy lace bralette, funny-smelling foot oil, and a six-inch hard white column with a round orange top, like a sorbet ice cream cone.

I had hit Buy Now without thinking, sparked by an article in an online magazine for women younger than I, an impulse born of loneliness, boredom, nostalgia. It was made of silicone, sleeker and smoother than the ones in the windows of Times Square adult toy stores in the ‘70s that made me feel cheap just to look at them. It was stylish and modern. Suitable for TikTok and Self-Care Sundays.

I lay down, spread my legs— careful not to aggravate my tight hips—and fumbled under the covers for the On button. The ice cream cone buzzed softly, like the bees near the porch flowers. I moved the bright orange ball up and down gently at first, and then with purpose, careening, spiraling, and ending in a place of brutal, nearly painful, joy. I cried and rolled to one side, astonished.

Catching my breath, I looked up at the ceiling and silently welcomed her back.

I missed you, desire, and all the fun we had together. Next time, let’s invite my best friend. You remember him. He’s the one snoring in the room down the hall.

Scheherazade was imprisoned in a room for 1001 nights. Days, she rehearsed her next tale. She wasn’t afraid of death but of failure. If she failed, the sultan would kill more women. Then the sultan visited her while the sun was new in the sky, and there was no pressure to entertain. They got to know each other. They talked about foods they loved. They played games like Strip Poker.

One afternoon, Scheherazade created new rules. “Each of us gets to ask a question of the loser. If the other doesn’t answer or does not give a satisfactory answer, an article of clothing comes off.”

“No double questions.” The sultan knew her mind was as sharp as his sword. “Put on all the clothes you wish. I will remain like this.” He wore his underwear, his capris, his top, a vest, and sandals. His sword hugged his thigh as if it were his lover.

Scheherazade layered herself: two pairs of panties, a camisole, two slips, a multicolored skirt, and a silk shirt. “Answers have to be specific,” she primly said. “You cannot generalize by saying `Because I like it.’”

“I know what it means.”

For over a year, Scheherazade had saved other women because she could tell stories that the sultan liked, but she was not the ruler. She took off her socks and won the first deal. “What is your real name?”

“Your sultan.”

“What your mother calls you.”

“My boy. Then she kisses me on the cheek like this.” On Scheherazade’s cheek he tasted salt and desire. Perhaps his. He laid his sword at her feet. “Safe keeping.”

Scheherazade had three queens. The Sultan had a straight. “My turn,” he laughed. “Do you like to masturbate?”

Her finger touched the sword’s blade. She shuffled the cards once. Twice. She built bridges and watched them fall. “Yes.”

“I do it, but it’s lonely. I’d rather be with a woman.”

She thought of the women whose deaths he ordered. Her three fives beat his two tens.

He took off his vest and answered a simple question. He preferred dates to figs. Then he beat her. Once. Twice. Three times. Scheherazade discarded her skirt. She confessed how she started masturbating when she was twelve. She liked to drag a finger over her breasts. She stared at her naked self in the mirror. “I don’t know what my rear looks like,” she admitted.

He lost the next round.

“If I don’t entertain you enough, will you kill me?” she asked.

Quietly, he stripped down to his underwear. “Please come here.” He would not make demands. Everything depended upon freedom. The new thought struck him.

Before her sat a man she was yet to understand. “My sisters say you can have a meal on my ass. Nothing will slide off.”

“Only a fool cares about your ass. It’s your stories that matter.” Gently, he slid off her clothes.

That night he began his tale. “Scheherazade, my name is Shahryar.”

From the suite, Mounds, photographs by Merry Song

Naked, glistening with suntan oil, guests at Sunrise Nudist Resort soak up rays of sunshine, romping free and unabashed as if in the garden before the snake. As these sun worshipers enjoy tennis, swimming, barbecues, and dances, they showcase God’s children experiencing life in many various body types.

Carefree as jay birds, they display round bellies, saggy bellies, tanned skin, scarred skin, chest hair, pubic hair, rings on clits, tattoos on tits.

Middle-aged Maggie smiles confidently after her mastectomy. Dick, an elderly bald man, struts by wearing knee supports, his dangles free from any support. And as CeCe, a perky young brunette with breasts down to her waist, arrives at the pool, Jack confides, “I make it a rule never to date a girl with boobs bigger than my head.”

Then the bubble of noise pops as silence settles over the guests cavorting in the pool. A whispered rumor circulates as small groups cluster, murmur, wonder.

A heartbeat later, two resort guards stride nakedly past the sign touting the club’s rules, marching stoically toward the offender. An unlikely criminal, Evelyn’s sitting atop an apple-red beach towel spread over a pool chair, auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, reading a whodunit through Ray-Ban sunglasses.

But she’s unceremoniously cast out. All eyes stay riveted on her. Not a single sound or even a splash occurs as her bare butt-cheeks are escorted away. Not because she hadn’t shaved her privates, although no secrets there—not the issue. Not because of forbidden or drunken behavior—only 7up had touched her lips.

But because she had violated rule #1 at Sunrise Nudist Resort, prominently posted on the sign guarding the pool: “No clothing in pool area.”

Rebel Evelyn had draped over her sunburned shoulders, to protect them from more sun—
a blouse.

There were unspoken rules for the secluded Italian beach where my friend and I gathered one lazy, summer afternoon. The left and right were, respectively, for gay and straight nude sunbathers; the middle, or center, for the shy or undecided. Reserved by nature, and still stinging with humiliation from my recent divorce, I steered us to the middle.

Once settled, I noticed two men in swimsuits seated together on beach towels. One, especially, greeted our arrival with acute interest. Now he stood up, removed his bathing suit, and began vigorously swinging his arms in a circular motion. He then walked slowly past us, meeting our gaze with frank appraisal.

He entered the water and waded a short distance from shore.  He stopped, stood in profile and hand on hip, gazed imperiously into the distance.

I pictured his balls, bobbing gently on the water’s surface.

“What’s he doing?” my friend asked.

I shrugged.

“Exhibitionist,” she said.

“It’s hot,” I said.  “I want to go in the water.”

“Me, too,” she said.

“I’m not going near him,” I said.

“Me neither,” she said.

We walked into the water together, gingerly cutting a wide arc to the rear of the rear of our naked Napoleon.

At sundown we dressed and, with other exiting sunbathers, began climbing the steep path back to the parking lot. I heard a sound and turned to find our now-clothed swashbuckler and his companion walking a short distance behind us. My friend walked ahead, draped in an ankle-length, makeshift sarong. But I was wearing a short black dress; if I did not hurry, the men soon would have a clear view of my panties.

I continued to walk – slowly – up the hillside.

for Shu

From the suite, Mounds, photographs by Merry Song

I’m not in love with a personal trainer or yoga master, as the rom-com cliché would have it, but with my chiropractor. I see him twice a week for hip pain and always dress carefully, with perfectly applied makeup.

Forty-ish, tall and slim, he has black hair, Mediterranean dark skin, and mesmerizing eyes. He gives me home exercises and, to show him I’m a good student and get well, I do them religiously. But my real motive is to get strong enough to wrap my legs around him.

I lie face up on the treatment table waiting for the acupuncture needles to dissolve the inflammation. I loosen my belt buckle and slacks and (modestly) lower a side of my panties. He presses the needles into my skin and turns up the electromagnetic dial. At home, breathing hard, I tear the needles out of his hand, grab it, and shift it further down to the center.

He has me roll over on my side, fastens an ankle weight to my affected leg and, for strength and mobility, directs me to raise and lower it. “Roll over more,” he commands, but sometimes I can’t. So he tucks an arm around my waist and pushes me further. At home, breathing hard, I draw him down toward me, sliding his hand inside my shirt.

He demonstrates squats and does a deep one, knees wide apart. At home, breathing hard, I stare at his crotch and see a huge bulge. I lunge for it and unzip his fly to give it the freedom it deserves before I taste it.

He gets a set of square steps and, for building up my legs and regaining balance, has me stand in front of him. He then demonstrates, stepping up and down, one foot at a time. Holding his arms in front of me, he explains, “if you need steadying.” At home, breathing hard, I grab his well-developed forearms. I seize his shirt front, pulling him toward me. He twines both arms around me. I kiss him hard, mouth open, tongue active.

He adds another step for more challenge and extends his arms again. I take hold of both forearms and manage a wobbling step-up. Then he lowers one arm. “I’m here. My reflexes are quick. Used to be a wrestler, so I can grapple you.” At home, I say, “Grapple me any time.” I draw him down to the floor, and he kisses me hard, mouth open, tongue very active.

Okay, he’s younger, a lot. So what? Many older women have had successful younger-man relationships: Joan Collins, Tina Turner, Mary Tyler Moore, Kris Jenner, my mother’s frizzy-haired friend.

Finally, after months, my hip pain vanishes, and my leg has strengthened. At the last session, he shakes my hand. I give his an extra squeeze and look long into his eyes. I haven’t been bold enough to ask him out for lunch or even coffee. Maybe I’ll twist my other hip and have to return.

She’s lazy this morning. Loose clothes, just enough cover until the lawn crew leaves. Then she can go out into the morning to turn earth and plant the fern in the shade bed.

At sixty-one, her body is soft. Her belly held children, is mounded, cushiony. Large breasts drift south, rosy nipples that harden and drive a mind to distraction, shapely legs. She is at a place of no apology, without shame. She has not showered, blonde fuzz on her legs, thigh healing from the ravages of a swarm of angry ants in the garden. Outside, lawn equipment buzzes. She hears the knock at the door, a thrill moves up her back.

He is fifty-one with a thirty-five-year-old physique, dark eyes, olive skin. She opens the door, bringing him in. Locking it, she moves into his arms.

His mouth seeks hers; she responds, delicious. Pausing just inside the bedroom, he lays his sunglasses on the dresser. Moving together, she sighs as their mouths join, tongues entwined.

In a brief movement she sheds shorts and panties, he drops his trousers. Laying her hands on his thighs, she skims under his shirt, caressing the warm silk of his abdomen and chest. She pulls up her tank top, breasts loose. Hands sliding under their heavy cushion, his mouth catches her nipple, in a luxurious long draw, seeking as much of her as he can hold.

She explores brown skin, spreading her fingers wide, satin with hard muscle beneath.

He is hard; he groans when her hand folds around him, she sinks down. His hands drift to her shoulders. Reaching into her own warmth, softly rubbing herself, she smooths her wetness onto the head of his aroused member, she pulls him into her mouth. Sucking, rolling her tongue around the head; she hears him moan. Her hands hold his hips, fingers pressing into his backside. He moves with her rhythm, penis smooth, exquisite in her mouth.

He murmurs “I want to come inside you.”

Moving to the edge of the bed, she opens her legs. His hand finds her wetness; his heat throbbing against her, he enters, thrusting hard.

Sensation builds in her. Stroking slowly, he watches wet, pink folds wrapping his penis, plunging in and out. She gasps his name, he grasps her legs, lifting them high on his shoulders.

Pumping into her, he cries out. Gently lowering her, he remains within a moment more. Her hand brushes his groin as he pulls out; she feels stubble.

Catching her breath, she holds his shirt while he washes; he pulls it on, kisses her once more. He goes out the door, she locks it. Pulling on undies, gardening panties with a hole in them, she looks in the mirror. Her body trembles, she’ll remain stirred for a while.

For two years they have continued, sharing lusty gifts that explode and leave them breathless. He returns when he can. They open their mouths wide to drink in the other. The taste is so very good.

All Nadine could see of the Mediterranean from the balcony of their new hotel room in Santorini was a sliver of blue.

“Steven, don’t unpack. They gave us a partial view.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll call the front desk.”

It was their last night in Greece and she was beyond tired. But it wasn’t the traveling. It was that her husband of 47 years had turned into a sex machine.

It had started at a statue in a museum in Athens. The goddess Aphrodite glowed as the satyr Pan grabbed her thigh and the cherub Eros hovered over them. And when her husband stepped back to take a photo he slipped, fell, and hit his head on the marble floor.

“I’m OK,” Steven said when he came to. “I just need to rest.”

When Steven lay on the bed at the hotel, she lay down next to him and said, “It’s not safe to sleep if you have a concussion.”

“Who says I want to sleep?” He turned and rubbed his marble hard penis against her and slid his hands between her thighs.

That night at the restaurant, he reached under the tablecloth, pushed his knees into hers and stroked her vulva.

“Steven!”

“Just keep looking at the Acropolis,” he said as she came.

When the waiter arrived with the food, he smiled and said, “Can we get this to go, please. My wife needs to get back in bed.”

While everyone else at Delphi looked at the mouth of the cave, he grabbed her ass. They made love three times that day. At home, three times a year had been more like it – for them and everyone else in her book group. They had all been married forever, except for one woman who was divorced. They felt sorry for her, until her high school sweetheart found her on Facebook and she was too busy having sex to finish the book every month. Now they sent each other snarky texts like “Next book Lady Chatterley’s Lover?”

The next morning after Steven surprised her in the shower, Nadine said, “So, you’re like a different person . . . down there . . . I mean, here.”

“Don’t know. I just feel. . .  alive.”

. . .

After two weeks of nonstop sex, Nadine felt alive too. As she leaned against the balcony railing looking at their sliver of the Mediterranean, she heard Steven yelling.

“We paid for a full view. We’re moving. Send the bellman.”

There he is, she thought. The guy who pops Prevacid and eats corporate attorneys for breakfast.

Steven came up behind her and lifted her skirt.

“We can’t mess up the bed!”

“Who needs a bed?” He pulled down her panties.

“What if the bellman opens the door?”

“He’ll think we’re having vacation sex. I want to make sure my love goddess gets everything she’s entitled to, Nadine,” he said and entered her like a satyr.

“Mm-hmm,” she said. And melted like warm saganaki.

From the suite, Mounds, photographs by Merry Song

Twelve kids in costumes had made the rounds of the Park Service compound that evening. Neil’s wife loved Halloween and had gone all out, as usual. Three carved pumpkins glowed on their doorstep, a plastic skeleton hung by the front door, and she was dressed in a French maid’s costume, with fishnet stockings, a perky little hat, and a very short skirt.

Now, having blown out the candles in the pumpkins, and with their sugar-crazed kids finally in bed, she was watching Neil as he sat on the couch, getting ready to make his nightly rounds of the lodge and cabins. She was pouting because Neil didn’t want to go to the party in the bar and didn’t want her to go without him.

“There’s going to be all kinds of disgusting things going on up there,” he told her.

“Lots of drugs, lots of drinking. And I like your costume, but it isn’t really appropriate to wear in public. Especially since you are representing the Park Service, sort of.”

“Oh pooh,” she answered. “Just because you’re thinking dirty thoughts doesn’t mean everyone is.” She picked up her pink feather duster and shook it.

“I’m not thinking dirty thoughts,” said Neil.

His wife strode over to the couch and leered down at him, causing him to drop his shoe. “Au contraire, Pierre,” she declared, tossing her head. ”I think I see something dirty; something absolutely filthy dirty right here in front of me.” She flicked the feather duster at his crotch. “Good thing there’s a maid in the house.”

Holding the duster in her teeth, she leaned over and unzipped Neil’s pants. His penis sprang out of his white briefs like a jack in the box. “Oh, this is terrible,” she murmured, moving the duster lightly up and down his shaft.

Neil closed his eyes and laid his head back against the couch cushions.

“I’m going to have to do something about this huge, enormous, filthy mess,” declared his wife.

She waited till Neil opened his eyes again, then slowly unrolled her stockings, twirled them around in the air a few times, and draped them around his neck. “Us French girls, we never wear underwear. So, luckily for you, we are always ready for great big emergencies like this.”

Neil slid his hands up her thighs as she climbed onto the couch, straddling him, and bit by excruciating bit, lowered herself onto him, until he was in as far as he could go. She stopped, her body tensed, then leaned forward and breathed into his ear, “I’m going to give you a deep, deep scrubbing with some very special cleaning fluid. And I don’t want you to move until I’m done.”

From the suite, Mounds, photographs by Merry Song

Paula leaned against the back of Will’s door, her eyes adjusting to the dark. She smiled when she heard his breathing, deep and even. He was already asleep. No need to be nervous that night. Propriety would have dictated that she take herself out the door, up the hall, and into her own room. But she wouldn’t have been there at all, if being proper was her main motivation in life.

She unzipped her ski pants, slipped them to the floor, and left them in a pile. Pulling her sweater over her head, she tiptoed to the bed, lifted the covers and slid in beside Will, still in socks and long johns. Paula snuggled against him, and without waking, he shifted and wrapped his right arm around her shoulders. She nestled her head onto his chest and listened to his heartbeat.

Hours later, Paula whispered, “Will, you’re snoring. Roll over.”

Nothing.

She put the pillow over her head, but it seemed even louder. The bed vibrated with his snorts. Surely that couldn’t be good for a person.
She reached over and rubbed his arm.

“Will,” she said, not whispering this time, hoping to rouse him enough so he’d roll over. She squeezed his hand, trying to wake him tenderly. Later, she would find the spot on his right ribcage where a well-aimed elbow would get him turned over and quiet; but that was their first night together, and she hadn’t figured it out. Besides, she did like caressing him. Paula leaned in and kissed Will’s shoulder. She ran her hand along his arm, feeling the definition in his muscles, the strength of his forearm, the smoothness of the skin on the inside of his wrist, and its contrast to the rough skin of his hand. She kissed his neck and nipped his earlobe. And then his other hand covered hers and pushed it down. And she wasn’t rubbing his arm anymore.

In a sleepy dance, he pulled her long johns top over her head. She slid her hand into his boxers. And somehow they were off and so were her bottoms. She felt him swell in her hand. She swung her leg over, glided on top of him, and guided him inside her. He moaned. She sighed. She held still, letting her internal muscles relax around him. As the tension eased, they found their rhythm. They rocked together in the dark, in the warm tangle of the blankets. And after a while, when they were done, he whispered, “Thank you” in her ear. Then they fell back to sleep, as if they’d made love in a dream.

Will wasn’t much of a romantic, but he always said “thank you” in a husky whisper whenever they made love. Always. That was romantic enough for Paula.

But they would forever remember that first night with laughter.

“Rub my arm?” he would ask.

She would answer, “It was your arm.”

And then he’d wink, and they would laugh.

I used to think that vibrators were the answer to the question, what is the perfect lover? Humans are too messy, complicated, and unpredictable. Frankly, another human lover seems like too much work at seventy, yet I have needs and the virtual reality sex of science fiction hasn’t yet been invented. Where’s that orgasmatron from the 1970s Woody Allen movie when you need it? The vibrator seems to be the best solution.

Alas, years of personal research reveal that vibrators are not that different from human lovers. When they are shiny new, they give you powerful, fast, and reliable orgasms. You call them by endearing pet names. You think they will be that faithful and steady lover that you have been seeking, one who does exactly what you want when you want it. The lover with no demands, no conditions, no need to process the daily misunderstandings and annoyances. They don’t get headaches or hurt feelings, and they are always in the mood and leave you alone when you’re not. They don’t notice the signs of aging: the sagging body, the age spots, the wrinkles, the tendency to lose focus and attention at critical moments. They are the love you think will last forever, never disappointing, always patient. Your solo-mate.

They are the one thing in your life that has the sole purpose of giving you pleasure, needing nothing from you in return but a new battery or a recharge now and then. They are a secret pleasure. You hope you don’t die suddenly and leave behind a box of sex toys for your unsuspecting relatives to find.

But inevitably, one day the magic is gone, the buzz diminishes, the novelty wears off. The sex feels routine and dull, and you get discouraged by its inability to meet your needs immediately. It makes too much noise or feels wrong. Sameness and familiarity become the enemies of desire. You know that there has got to be something better out there. You shove the vibrator in a drawer to gather dust, or toss it in a box under the bed and go on the search for novelty. The hunt for “the one” is exciting. Unlike the old days when you had to enter an “adult” store and buy one from a real person who you knew was judging you, or order something from the back pages of a magazine that turned out to sound like a lawn mower when you turned it on, now you can search anonymously online. You scan profiles, read reviews, and compare qualities, trying to find the one that does something the last one couldn’t do. You hope that this is the one that will satisfy your longings happily ever after. But getting that new vibrator puts you into another cycle of sex toy serial monogamy, the never-ending search for the perfect lover.

From the suite, Mounds, photographs by Merry Song

See, the thing about ketchup is, it gives a gal an appetite. Take me, for instance. I’m hot to trot for the sauce of pommes d’amour. That’s French, baby. Love Apples. You got that right.
Tomatoes.

I don’t just eat them. I paint with them. My body, my boobs, my butt. Look, I’m an artist. When I paint myself with ketchup I become one hot artistic love apple, an 83-year-old love apple. Hottest Heirloom you’ll ever taste.

If you tried it, you’d know how ketchup makes you dance wearing nothing but sauce. You swirl and twirl. Like you’re a Jackson Pollock dream. It’s an art form I call “Ketchup Lust.”

One spring night last year I ketchuped myself to March madness splendor, scarlet and ripe. I sashayed outside to shimmy in the Carolina twilight.

Then a flash storm hit. I was unprepared. I was unpainted. Whitewashed by rain.
“There’s a better way, apple cheeks.”

I looked across the street. A stout little fellow in turquoise Bermuda shorts waved to me from his open front door. He shouted over the storm. “Me, I’m crazy about green pickle relish.”

The guy picked up a cane and maneuvered down his porch steps to stand under a street light. He turned around slowly, displaying jade-colored shoulders. Looked like a wrinkled Monet water lily, saggy and soggy, but, still, a Monet that smiled.

“I’m Dill.” He laughed. “I’m vintage pickle, be 91 next week. Just moved in here.” He bowed. Despite the rain his skin stayed emerald bright.

“How—?” I eyed his nicely rounded paunch.

“Ever thought about getting tattoos? Waterproof. Gherkin green works for me.”

Well, I do like a man with spice on his spine. And elsewhere, if you get my drift.

So I made a decision. Right then and there.

“Thanks for the tip, Dill. How about you come over to my place and I’ll show you my etchings?” Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. And you’re right. There’s a reason they call me Fireball.

Now, a year later, the two of us are still making hot sauce with love apples and plenty of relish. But tattoos? Not for me. This dish is sticking with the real stuff, of which my Dill has become a well-trained connoisseur. I do enjoy a man who knows how to handle his pickle.

The heat is unbearable as I wait for the bus. I feel the sweat trickling between my breasts and begin envisioning fingers tracing them when the sound of the bus startles me.  Flushed from more than the heat, I board, pay my fare, say my customary hello to the driver and realize I hear my voice still speaking. “So, do you have plans for the weekend or are you working?”  “No not working.” His voice is sexy.  I turn to find my seat. The jostle of the bus pulling into traffic causes me to fall on his shoulder. He doesn’t respond but electricity crackles.

There is one seat left in the back in the middle of the last row. I glance up and he is staring at me. He knows that I see him. My clothes are clinging slightly from perspiration. I reach under my dress revealing more thigh than necessary and adjust my panties. I smooth my dress and adjust my breasts enough for him to see.

People enter and exit. I miss my stop and startle when the engine stops. I look up and he is walking toward me.

He roughly pulls me to my feet and kisses me like a man dying of thirst, stopping long enough to look in my eyes, then kisses me again. I seize his tongue and suck and caress the thickness. He pulls me closer, and I feel thickness pressing my flimsy dress. I want to rip his shirt from his body but restrain myself. He whispers, “Do what you feel.”  I hear moans escaping my lips. His voice is husky with desire. I pop every button from his shirt. He reaches up and rips my panties easily, his fingers searching for what is now a mound of moisture. He sucks one and spreads the rest over my mouth and kisses me. My hand finds the bulge pushing his pants to capacity. He moans, “Release me.” I fumble with the zipper. The juice flowing from the entrance is too much to resist. I squirm until he releases his grip. I slowly lick the juice and feel his body tremble. I pull him in my mouth. His hand grips the back of my head and pushes. The strain is too much, and I gag. He pulls out and slides down to his knees. He caresses me before parting my lips and gliding his tongue over my clitoris. I gasp and grab his head and force his face deeper. He kisses, licks, and sucks until I am a waterfall of juices. He continues until I explode and fall forward. With the smoothness of an animal he stands, lifting me to his waist. Our eyes fix as he penetrates. I forget everything but him, thrust after thrust, pounding relentlessly. We cry out in release. I sit down knowing the ride home will never be the same.

From the suite, Mounds, photographs by Merry Song

So, I’m strolling on the High Street, minding me own, when this bloke appears, sudden like, and keeps time with me, pace in pace, and he’s grinning at me like I’m the most cunning éclair in the bakery window.

“Eh, whazzup,” sez I, caught off me guard which is ordinarily a bit like Old Bailey, if you catch me drift.

“Well,” sez he, zip leather jacket and face like an angel, “See, I’m sauntering behind you for a time, just la-di-dahing, observing the wild life in the shops, and I find m’self becoming entranced by the hitch of your hips and the snappy red boots you’ve got on.”

He’d gobsmacked me! And here’s me feeling like an apple long past its sell by date, quietly turning all colors and wrinkled in the fridge.

“Well,” sez I, “ain’t you the honey-tongued swell.”

“Indeed,” sez he, “and I got more of those sweets on the back of me tongue, just waiting for the right moment to tumble them out. Fancy a pint?”

Swept away was I, and next thing you know, we’re lapping up hops in the Hope and Anchor, him gazing at me like I was the aforesaid éclair and him likely to take a healthy bite in another tick.

Flattered girl me, so one thing and another, we goes up to me flat all jolly, and both of us have a proper leg over, beast with two backs and all.

Jim, he says his name is, when we get to the post-snuzzle, a car mechanic from the next village. He stretches his lush torso like me mother’s old cat, and moans with the pleasure of being alive.

“Must go,” sez he, lifting off, his round backside rippling with jaunty muscles as he reaches for trousers and shirt. Looking at me, he has a halo of golden hair, and could be the age of the son I forgot to have.

“Gotta go, m’ love,” sez he. “Meet me in the ale house later? I’m off work at 6.”

“And, why would I not?” sez I, rolling over to watch him. “Don’t forget your keys on the bureau.”

He grins a big one, comes over to plant me a last juicy one and off he goes, into the surprising afternoon.

Stories We Have Shared

An Anthology

This book is a sample of some of our work: fiction, and non-fiction, stories and poems, written and shared in our longtime Eastside Seattle area writing group that meets on Tuesday mornings. You will find stories of bugs and children and fish and whales and people who walk in and out of paintings: fantastic characters and ordinary people trying to find their way and remembering their families and family history. Our main purpose in publishing this anthology is to honor our writing instructor/guru Doris Northstrom celebrating her 90th year of life and 35th year of leading/encouraging writers to become better at their craft. It’s also an opportunity to showcase our talents and to encourage older people to write. The average age of our group members is 75+. If we can do it, others surely can. We are a diverse group, and that enhances our ability to learn from and support one other. Our shared stories of birth, marriage, health and grief, stir our souls and encourage us to write. We began as classmates; we have become a close-knit family, brought together because we write. “Not sure who these people are other than great writers. Really enjoyable read.” — Amazon reviewer Available from Amazon

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