UnBooks:An 82 Year Old Woman Wants My Body!
This is a book I wrote on the advice of my Psychotherapist who told me it would aid my recovery. Reader, it did not. I still wake up at night, screaming. Through this work, I wish to help anyone else unfortunate enough to be faced with such a predicament.
Chapter One - Ready, Willing & Mabel
Back in September 2008, one of my closest friends decided to come to the aid of her widowed Auntie Mabel, a lovely old dear who was about to observe her 82nd birthday, but was emotionally fragile because the 2nd anniversary of her husband Gilbert’s passing was also approaching. An idea was struck that what Auntie Mabel needed was a right good cheering up! Peculiarly, and for reasons I never ventured to discover, my name was proposed and seconded for the task in lightning fashion with a rapidity usually reserved for a wartime Kangaroo court.
I suddenly found myself voted in as the unopposed Member of Parliament for the Cheering Up The Widowed Octogenarian constituency. Outwardly I wholeheartedly welcomed the opportunity to assist the cause (My inward feelings manifested themselves in the form of several bouts of irate wall-punching and a bizarre kind of primal screaming).
Despite the fact that I was earning a lucrative living as a prostitute, I set my stall out early, insisting with an unshakeable avouchment that on no account would the sexual act (in any of its often delightful arrangements) be allowed to infringe mine and Mabel’s relationship. I outlined this intent to my friend.“How dare you assume that every woman wants to sleep with you!”
~ retorted my friend, conveniently forgotting our ardent romance of 2004
I reiterated that I would gladly take Mabel to the cinema, (she loves those Talkies!) accompany her to a slap-up lunch at an expensive London grill, then on to a little pub I know in a leafy part of the city, something like that. But there was absolutely no way on Earth, that the Geoff feather duster would be knocking away Mabel's cobwebs!
I expected to feel self-conscious when we met up. Would people stare at us in the restaurant and assume that we were Harold and Maude for the 21st Century? The age gap between Mabel and myself, which was wider than Kerry Katona’s backside, was not the only aspect of this episode that troubled me. We shared nothing in common and what our conversations would consist of was a subject that baffled my brain for the entire tube journey. What would we use as a frame of reference that would enable us to engage on a verbal level? I knew nothing about the austerity years of the 1950s or having sex with two dozen American GIs who visited during the World War 2, invariably subjects on which Mabel could write a thesis. And what would she know about modern entities such as ipods or dvd recorders or The Beatles. But how ever the day might ultimately pan out – success or failure - I was strictly adamant, in my own mind at least, that the day would end without any sexual connection between the me and the woman old enough to be my dead Grandmother.
Apart from being alive, Mabel's other disturbing habit was her smoking. I despise it and have always maintained that a woman with a fag end in her hands was an almighty turn-off. Mind you, on this 'date' my sexual urges would have remained the same if Mabel was puffing away on a chimney stack.
Chapter Two - Two Ages
Prohibiting the possibility of sexual congress with a woman was very much a watershed moment for me. I had, after all, dedicated my life from the age of 13 to 20 to attempting to elicit as many bodily fluid swapping endeavours with the gentler sex as my penis could cope with. Needless to say that had the situation of making love to an 82 year old woman arisen in my teenage years, I would have snapped up the opportunity, eventually crumbling the poor woman's ribcage to dust with the potent, grinding thrust of unquenchable desire. It just shows how much I have grown in the intervening years.
But for all my fears, it transpired that I need not have worried: Mabel and I had a lovely day. We went to see the new Indiana Jones film in London's Leicester Square, then on to an Aberdeen Angus steakhouse. Mabel never let on, but I could sense she was impressed by my sheer class. (I knew which fork to use for the steak and everything.)
We took in a gentle stroll along The Thames Embankment and fed scraps of bread to a few errant ducks who had strayed from the flock. We enjoyed a leisurely cab ride through London, as the Autumn sun sank slowing behind the capital's architecture, back to her sheltered accommodation where she invited me in for a milky coffee.
After a few moments silence, she said,
|“||Why don't you wait for me in the bedroom?||”|
I would have spat out my beverage in shock if I hadn't been too busy trembling like a virgin.
Chapter Three - Up Against It
"It's alright, dear, it’s on the same floor." she added, obviously surmising that the presence of stairs would be my sole reason for instigating a sexual embargo. She hobbled closer, her elderly tongue glissading forth from its toothless maw as if the brain had just uttered a promise of ice cream or a first class stamp. Concealing my distress, I politely declined Mabel’s advances with as much solemnity as I could muster.
I had assumed that my Farmer's-Dog-in-the-Range-Rover-headlights expression and ‘No means no’ body language would be enough to assuage her wrinkly lust. But not for the first time in this horrifying episode, would I be proved to be so disastrously wrong.
I could not believe my eyes ... for Mabel began undressing - in a manner which might have appeared seductive in 1936, but in 2008 it looked as though the poor girl was entering the primary stages of a stroke.
“I haven't had a sexual encounter since our 50th wedding anniversary”
~ A typical 'jump-on-me-now, Big Boy' come-on line that would have been music to the hearing aid of any 104 year old man, if ever I heard one!
Mabel shuffled gently towards me, tongue prepared, much like a bewildered tortoise bearing down upon a strangely expectant leaf of lettuce.
"Go on ..." she winked at me, presenting a small jar. "Rub this ointment on me back, dear."
Even as I write this, reliving the key moments, I still feel queasy as I call to mind the stark unwanted image of 82 year old Mabel straddling her scrawny, varicose-veined legs across mine. It was apparent that it took great physical effort to achieve this. She had mentioned to me during the trailers before Indiana Jones that she was suffering from rhumatoid arthritis, but so had my Nan, and now I couldn’t help but picture Nan in my mind doing the exact same activity as Mabel was doing now.
It wasn't the straddling that haunted me, I could handle the straddling. What repulsed me more during the whole grisy assignation was the unmistakable sound of an opening fly, followed by the icy sensation of arthriticky fingers caressing manhood. The only way I would be able stand to attention was if Auntie Mabel had pulled off her mask to reveal Jessica Alba holding my once mighty limpage.
Mabel did her utmost to convince me that sleeping with her would make the world a better place. She mentioned she was lonely, she needed the comfort of a caring lover, all the usual excuses that women in their 80s (and lads in their teens) trot out as their reasons for wanting a good seeing to. Oh, and she was willing to pay me £800.
Of course, I am a nice person, so I relented. After all, how could I refuse coming to the assistance of a lonely woman who required the comfort of a caring lover?
Quickly weighing up all the options, I afforded Mabel's financial offer the measured consideration it deserved. There had been a spate of rogue roofers in the area, and I would rather the money end up in my pocket than theirs - after all I would have provided a far better value-for-money service than just pretending to replace a loose roof tile.
Mabel allowed me four minutes to re-evaluate and overhaul my entire belief system while she soaked her dentures.
Dear Reader, I am almost too traumatised to tell you now my decision, but let me say that I made the worst one of my life.
Chapter Four - Gilbert is alive, but his manhood has crossed to the other side
Dear Reader, if ever a woman informs you that she is a widow, allow me to present to you an infallible method for discovering whether or not she is spinning you a line: That is, if her husband suddenly walks in while you are standing arse-naked in his bedroom, giving your penis a pre-intercourse pep talk, then you know she's been bullshitting you.
This old man walked in. Walked in! Tottered in, more like. (The poor guy could not have been younger than 90) He regarded me coolly as I stood silently before him, my slowly rising penis making me resemble a human tripod.
Without a word of admonishment or acknowledgement, the old boy began undressing. He unplugged his colostomy bag, before hitching it up on his zimmer frame. Mabel, or "Mrs Widow" as I shall henceforth refer to her, then walked in from the bathroom, herself without a stitch on! My eyes were transfixed with a eerie mixture of awe and horror as though I had just stared into the gaze of Medusa. "Mrs Widow" possessed a body that can only be described as a Madame Tussaud's exhibit which someone had left too close to the radiator.
I snorted at her, "You told me your husband was dead!"
"I can't remember what I told you," was her defence, bolstered by the incontrovertible "I've got Alzheimers!" excuse. Damn! She's got me there!
She then asked if I would partake in a three way with her husband as they had not had one since VE Day. She promised that she would increase my original fee of £800 to £850. I consoled myself with the plan that I could always put the extra £50 towards the cost of the psychological counselling that a threesome with a combined age of nearly 200 would undoubtedly require.
With good fortune, and perhaps you already realise given the title of this chapter, the old man's involvement in the carnal triumvirate was nil.
We tried every trick in the book to arouse his aged penis from it's (I'm guessing here) 25 year slumber: We blew air on it, flicked boiling kettle water over it; we showed the old man a picture of Greta Garbo in her 1930s pomp. "Mrs Widow" even tried talking dirty to him:
|“||I'm going to put on my flannellette nightie and run my fingers through your hairpiece||”|
Despite all our efforts, there was no way the Old Feller's old feller was going to emerge from its hibernation.
Then, I made what could prove to be a fatal error. I gazed across to notice the couple's LPs stacked adjacent to the 50-year old 'Stereogram'. At the top of the record pile was an album by The Andrews Sisters. For some reason ... I know not why, I started humming the only Andrews Sisters song that vaguely lurked in the darkest cranny of my mind: Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy (of Company B). As I mumbled the tune, Gilbert's tadger started to move. "Keep going, keep going!" muttered the old man. I wasn't certain if he was addressing his penis or my singing. Just my luck that he should be an ardent fan of the Andrews! As the ancient appendage rose ominiously to its full angle of 35 degrees, I felt a foreboding course through my veins. It seemed the threesome was on track ... Then:
Joy of joys! By lucky chance, the fire alarm intervened! The three of us dressed and repaired to the assembly point on the grassy area a safe distance away from the accomodation with a collection of undeads where the headcount was taken.
I took the opportunity to slip away from Mabel and Gilbert, vowing never to return. I later discovered that the fire alarm was the result of an errant cigarette belonging to a Mrs Henderson of flat seven. The poor love fell asleep shortly after lighting up and perished in the ensuing blaze.
But out of something bad comes something good. Looking back, amidst the nightmares that still penetrate my hours of slumber, I realise that the fire had been, for me, a sign from God for me, and come to think of it, for Mrs Henderson too.
Who said smoking was a bad thing?