Short-short story--
Me and the Old Man
By Luky
I have fallen for an old man. Gray-white, sparse hair and wrinkled folds, drooping skin and sagging balls, eyes yellowed as parchment, his lips have almost disappeared from his face. Nothing more now than deep lines and a thin shade of pink. He isn't rich. He doesn't have genius to pass along to me. He smokes, drinks, snores, walks too slowly, laughs with a crackle of sound harsh as a rasp of sandpaper on brick.
But there it is. I kiss what little lips are still there, I drink, smoke, snore, walk slowly and laugh with him. I caress and coax his cock to some semblance of hardness and I lay down with him every chance I get. Some nights, we share a bottle of Jamisons and he tells me stories of wars, betrayals, loss, death. Or it is Jack Daniels and my stories of rebellion and innocence and sex. Some nights, it is Old Crow and Viagra and very few words.
I tried Viagra once. It made my head feel fuzzy, my vision go blurry around the edges, and I felt a humming deep in my belly and high in my cunt, like a go-cart motor was roaring inside me. I can't say it turned me on. A humming cunt sounds like a good idea, but it isn't as great as you'd think.
Falling for an old man, no one thinks that sounds like a good idea at all--especially if there is no money or genius as part of the deal and sex depends on vitamins, viagra or lots of effort on my part.
My friends think he is a father figure, but I don't need a father or father figure. I especially don't want to fuck a father figure, not as much as I want to fuck the old man. The old man is a father. Don't get me wrong. But he isn't my father or anything like my father, and his kids are in their thirties--older than me--and away from here, living grown up lives with wives, husbands and kids and worlds that don't really include the old man as their father except for the occasional phone call. Would a father figure tell you about the one year in France when he exchanged his wife for a tiny, quiet woman with flaming red hair on her head and between her legs, and how she bit her lip and mewed when she came? Would he tell you about vomiting on his friend's bloody body in a ditch in Asia? Would he refill your whiskey and listen as you told him about Leo and the closet and losing your virginity on a pile of dirty tee shirts? Would he light your cigarette, hold your hand, slide his mouth across your eyelid as you told him about that time you took Ecstasy and fucked two guys in the high school parking lot, then cried when you couldn't remember the smell or taste of feel of either of them?
The old man is a grandfather. Did I mention that? A grandfather and my lover.
I asked a friend once why the old man wanted me, thinking, maybe it was him that needed a kid-figure in his life, though I am 24, tired and overworked, broke, a hard drinker and hard smoker and hard fucker and I'm no kid. But the friend--who has never slept with anyone over thirty--said,"isn't it obvious?" Who wouldn't screw a twenty-four year old? She said I had smooth, white skin, a long thin body, soft long hair, high full breasts and fine tense thighs. Hell, she said. She'd fuck me if she had the chance.
It was not what I wanted to hear. All about her, ultimately, though my body was there. Nothing she said was about the old man and me.
I haven't told my father or mother that I am with an old man. They have both blamed one another for me and "how I've turned out" for years. My need for the old man would turn into an argument between them about who did or didn't do what. Their anger over making promises to one another way back--when they were only 22, by the way, younger than me, now--their anger about promises that went horribly wrong would ride over the argument.
Honestly, I'm not sure what went wrong in their lives. We had a nice two-story house in a nice two-story type neighborhood, and the usual couch-recliner-dinner on the table kind of life. They filled it up with yelling, though. Nobody ever listened to what was said, only to the accusations made. Still, if they talk, their conversation ends in an argument, and almost always now, it is about "how I turned out."
Here's the thing. So I quit college to work at a Kinkos copy center too many hours a week and to scribble notebooks full with ideas, thoughts, descriptions, words. So I became a vegetarian. So I wear jeans all the time and thin tee shirts and no underwear. So I denounced God and the Church and all things responsible and righteous--though that last one was more for the drama of it. My parents weren't big on making it to church if there was golf or yard-work or even brunch uptown to do instead. So, yes, I like the conflict and drama. It doesn't explain the old man, does it? Not if they don't even know about the old man. Drama isn't drama if there's no one in the forest to hear the tree limb fall.
I don't think the old man has anything to do with any of that. I don't "miss" my parents. I never did. They are both there, in their separate homes with their separate lives, agreeing only on the fact that I've messed up. If I want a father, I have one. I have a mother, too. My old man is somehow about fucking and things my father and mother would consider "me gone bad," like I'm some tin foil wrapped piece of chicken left in the refrigerator too long. That's how I've "turned out," according to them. Someone forgot to throw me away.
The old man trembles, sometimes, when he looks at me. He is a grandfather who tells me about losing his brother in a car crash forty years ago. He makes me cry. He pours me whiskey and lights my cigarettes. His lips have almost disappeared, but not quite. Not yet.
This isn't very sexy. I'd like to tell you about him in a way that is sexy, but there isn't a way to talk about fucking an old man that's sexy. It's all old skin, and parts fighting gravity and slack muscles. It's fucking more than making love. It's work sometimes. It's pill induced. It's anything but sexy.
I'm 24. According to my friend, she'd sleep with me if she had the chance, even though she's not gay. I am that hot, that sexual, that wanted. But it's the old man I want. I want to feel his skin, thin and fragile against bone. I want to taste the burn of Jack Daniels deep in his mouth. I want my hand and tongue to ache as I work him hard. I want to hear his belly and cock buzz with blue pill energy. He is mine, the old man.
No wealth. No genius. Just whiskey, fucking and stories. This is not how I've turned out. It is how I've chosen to be.
You can understand that, can't you?
You can understand such simple need.
Me and the Old Man
By Luky
I have fallen for an old man. Gray-white, sparse hair and wrinkled folds, drooping skin and sagging balls, eyes yellowed as parchment, his lips have almost disappeared from his face. Nothing more now than deep lines and a thin shade of pink. He isn't rich. He doesn't have genius to pass along to me. He smokes, drinks, snores, walks too slowly, laughs with a crackle of sound harsh as a rasp of sandpaper on brick.
But there it is. I kiss what little lips are still there, I drink, smoke, snore, walk slowly and laugh with him. I caress and coax his cock to some semblance of hardness and I lay down with him every chance I get. Some nights, we share a bottle of Jamisons and he tells me stories of wars, betrayals, loss, death. Or it is Jack Daniels and my stories of rebellion and innocence and sex. Some nights, it is Old Crow and Viagra and very few words.
I tried Viagra once. It made my head feel fuzzy, my vision go blurry around the edges, and I felt a humming deep in my belly and high in my cunt, like a go-cart motor was roaring inside me. I can't say it turned me on. A humming cunt sounds like a good idea, but it isn't as great as you'd think.
Falling for an old man, no one thinks that sounds like a good idea at all--especially if there is no money or genius as part of the deal and sex depends on vitamins, viagra or lots of effort on my part.
My friends think he is a father figure, but I don't need a father or father figure. I especially don't want to fuck a father figure, not as much as I want to fuck the old man. The old man is a father. Don't get me wrong. But he isn't my father or anything like my father, and his kids are in their thirties--older than me--and away from here, living grown up lives with wives, husbands and kids and worlds that don't really include the old man as their father except for the occasional phone call. Would a father figure tell you about the one year in France when he exchanged his wife for a tiny, quiet woman with flaming red hair on her head and between her legs, and how she bit her lip and mewed when she came? Would he tell you about vomiting on his friend's bloody body in a ditch in Asia? Would he refill your whiskey and listen as you told him about Leo and the closet and losing your virginity on a pile of dirty tee shirts? Would he light your cigarette, hold your hand, slide his mouth across your eyelid as you told him about that time you took Ecstasy and fucked two guys in the high school parking lot, then cried when you couldn't remember the smell or taste of feel of either of them?
The old man is a grandfather. Did I mention that? A grandfather and my lover.
I asked a friend once why the old man wanted me, thinking, maybe it was him that needed a kid-figure in his life, though I am 24, tired and overworked, broke, a hard drinker and hard smoker and hard fucker and I'm no kid. But the friend--who has never slept with anyone over thirty--said,"isn't it obvious?" Who wouldn't screw a twenty-four year old? She said I had smooth, white skin, a long thin body, soft long hair, high full breasts and fine tense thighs. Hell, she said. She'd fuck me if she had the chance.
It was not what I wanted to hear. All about her, ultimately, though my body was there. Nothing she said was about the old man and me.
I haven't told my father or mother that I am with an old man. They have both blamed one another for me and "how I've turned out" for years. My need for the old man would turn into an argument between them about who did or didn't do what. Their anger over making promises to one another way back--when they were only 22, by the way, younger than me, now--their anger about promises that went horribly wrong would ride over the argument.
Honestly, I'm not sure what went wrong in their lives. We had a nice two-story house in a nice two-story type neighborhood, and the usual couch-recliner-dinner on the table kind of life. They filled it up with yelling, though. Nobody ever listened to what was said, only to the accusations made. Still, if they talk, their conversation ends in an argument, and almost always now, it is about "how I turned out."
Here's the thing. So I quit college to work at a Kinkos copy center too many hours a week and to scribble notebooks full with ideas, thoughts, descriptions, words. So I became a vegetarian. So I wear jeans all the time and thin tee shirts and no underwear. So I denounced God and the Church and all things responsible and righteous--though that last one was more for the drama of it. My parents weren't big on making it to church if there was golf or yard-work or even brunch uptown to do instead. So, yes, I like the conflict and drama. It doesn't explain the old man, does it? Not if they don't even know about the old man. Drama isn't drama if there's no one in the forest to hear the tree limb fall.
I don't think the old man has anything to do with any of that. I don't "miss" my parents. I never did. They are both there, in their separate homes with their separate lives, agreeing only on the fact that I've messed up. If I want a father, I have one. I have a mother, too. My old man is somehow about fucking and things my father and mother would consider "me gone bad," like I'm some tin foil wrapped piece of chicken left in the refrigerator too long. That's how I've "turned out," according to them. Someone forgot to throw me away.
The old man trembles, sometimes, when he looks at me. He is a grandfather who tells me about losing his brother in a car crash forty years ago. He makes me cry. He pours me whiskey and lights my cigarettes. His lips have almost disappeared, but not quite. Not yet.
This isn't very sexy. I'd like to tell you about him in a way that is sexy, but there isn't a way to talk about fucking an old man that's sexy. It's all old skin, and parts fighting gravity and slack muscles. It's fucking more than making love. It's work sometimes. It's pill induced. It's anything but sexy.
I'm 24. According to my friend, she'd sleep with me if she had the chance, even though she's not gay. I am that hot, that sexual, that wanted. But it's the old man I want. I want to feel his skin, thin and fragile against bone. I want to taste the burn of Jack Daniels deep in his mouth. I want my hand and tongue to ache as I work him hard. I want to hear his belly and cock buzz with blue pill energy. He is mine, the old man.
No wealth. No genius. Just whiskey, fucking and stories. This is not how I've turned out. It is how I've chosen to be.
You can understand that, can't you?
You can understand such simple need.
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
I think your avatar is "kickin," and I think I like you, I like your style, for sure.
I relate to the need to write, I used to write, like, a lot;..... spent 6 yrs. on a manuscript.
I finally destroyed it after getting a mega-block, and became tired of feeling like a fraud, everytime someone asked about my book.*
*(NEVER<NEVER<NEVER, tell anyone what you are writing, they will murder it, kill your impotess, and leave you totally blocked and shamed.)
He should have tied a pretty ribbon on it.