Her: Every morning is glorious. Every morning I wake with love in my heart for Samuel. He went on his way. His departure reminds me that throughout the day I will pine for his return, when he takes me to our special room.
I finished three loads of laundry and vacuumed. Very quickly, the sun warmed the April morning. Ottawa weather is schizophrenic, particularly winter and spring months. Winter brings out my randy behaviour as temperatures drop as low as minus forty Celsius, only to crawl up to plus twelve the next morning, making me want to tear off my clothes and run naked in the streets.
With the April sun, I felt inspired to wash the kitchen and living room windows, leaving them open to freshen-up the house with circulating air. I blasted music as I turned the grey soot into squeaky-clean pride. My house is happiest when it is most orderly, everything in its place. I feel as though I can take on the world.
The grocery store on Rideau Street is a freak-show, attracting the local colour of Ottawa, students, civil servants, private industry professionals and the homeless. Cell phones populate the aisles with mindless banter. I have to close off my ears and mind. I can't cope listening to one-sided conversations. I consider it rude to engage in a call while someone is nearby.
Just before leaving, the telephone snagged me.
“Oh child, I'm in a poor state… dreamt last night my late husband wore a bright yellow pullover and high, black rubber boots, skittin' and grinnin' like a proper fool. When I asked what he was doing alive, he laughed and told me ‘that's one hell of a way to greet a man’. My Lord, you can imagine I woke up with a start, my heart pounding and my loins as wet as the rain.”
“That's too funny, Auntie. I have weird dreams, too. It must run in our family. Did he say anything else?”
“Child, dream conversations are no different than watching cartoons in a different language… you can make out the images but the language only confuses.”
“Listen, Auntie, I went online with Air Canada this morning and they're having a seat sale. Samuel and I can visit Newfoundland before the busy summer hits. Would that be copasetic with your schedule?”
“Don't use big words, child, they hurt my head. I have no copasetics to speak of, just a day of cooking and cleaning, and a fresh loaf 'bout to pop out.”
Aunt Aileen's tomato soup cake was pervasive, decadent and fragrant and only a connoisseur, like me, would smear butter on a steaming piece worthy of soaking in unadulterated animal fats. I could devour half a loaf in one day. Auntie baked her loaf with an entire can of tomato soup. The loaf would rise high and split in center. When fresh out of the oven, the split loaf made me think of my body and how I wanted a man to eat my loins with enthusiasm.
“Sweetie, I'm going to give you a dingle before end-day Friday,” I assured.
“A fine idea, child. It's been too long. I look forward to feeding carnivores. I'll get you two to help me unclog the tub. The drain is loaded with Finnegan's hair.”
“How is that wolf-hound?”
“Boning every bitch in sight. Lord knows why God gave them penises, I swear to the Holy Virgin Mary. A penis pollutes a male's thinking, the poor buggers. The vet suggested having him spayed or neutered, I can never remember which is which but I haven't the heart to cut out his balls… the mutt wouldn't know what to do.”
True to form, Aunt Aileen put a smile on my face. Pets for her were fur people, deserving of all the rights bestowed upon humans.
I carry groceries. The walk home is fifteen minutes. I can't rationalize hiring a car. While able, my muscles will be exercised. I laugh at anyone pulling suitcases on wheels, like mental idiots, lacking in common sense to use God-given strength before it ebbs away in later years.
There he was, in my favourite department, fruits and veggies. He didn't notice me at first; his back turned, picking cherries. I wheeled my cart next to his and intentionally bumped him. He still didn't look. I leaned into the cherries, extending my arm, lowering my bosom, bright and freshly covered in canary yellow, to coordinate with the bursting April sun. He finally saw me.
“I know you… Magdalene the magnificent,” he said with a smile of recognition.
“You didn't forget me?” I asked.
“Impossible…you're unforgettable,” he beamed. His hand was wrist-deep in cherries, bringing toward my lips one bursting, juicy looking cherry.
“You owe me one… you recall?” I pointed out.
He inserted the offering between my lips.
I balanced the plump fruit on the end of my tongue, like a protruding nipple, demonstrating my dexterity by flicking the tip of my tongue up and down without dropping the cherry, until my teeth crushed its outer shell.
He grinned. “You've awakened him with that gesture,” said Walt.
My middle finger passed over his crotch, from bottom to top.
“It usually takes me twenty minutes to buy groceries. Perhaps afterward you can drop in for a visit. Would that interest you?”
Every cherry in his hand fell.
“I'll take that as a yes and mind helping me carry my groceries home?” He shook his head no, bending over to pick up cherries. I looked at him, a full head of hair at sixty-five. My lust recalled his gargantuan cock and I pursed my lips.
“I'd be delighted to help. I know where you live,” he chuckled. I had to deliver on my word to Walt, my retired, wonderfully, well-hung letter carrier. Men are not the only creatures on this planet who place stock in keeping one's word.
The traffic lights at the corner of King Edward and Rideau streets are a menace, with OC Transpo buses and transport rigs careening sharply around the corner, forcing pedestrians to back off from the curb. Walt was protective, placing his body in front of the traffic and me. A chivalrous man makes me moist. He easily managed the bulk of groceries. Hauling a carrier's bag for forty years had properly conditioned his arms and shoulders.
The small incline running north on Rideau gradually built up to Friel Street, from which we turned onto Besserer. Rideau Street is the demarcation point between the relative safety of Sandy Hill and the St. Patrick area directly opposite. One need only walk one block north of Rideau Street to venture into gang members selling crack and chemical weed behind the senior's residence.
“I know the area well,” he said, gesturing with his chin, tilting his head toward the district. “I've delivered mail there for years. A 60-year old man was mugged last winter, punched in the face and forced to undergo eye surgery. He was dressed too well or in the wrong place and time, the unlucky guy.”
“We live in a land of vultures, you know,” I remarked.
“Vultures, pigeons and crows,” qualified Walt.
We talked casually. It felt strange to walk alongside him in the open, rather than our first, wild encounter on the kitchen table. We arrived at 369 Besserer Street and I placed the groceries on the counter, turning around into his arms.
He planted a warm, slow, wet kiss on my lips and I slipped him my tongue. “That taste, that smell, those hips. If I was your husband….”
I finished his sentence. “You would have to treat me as a free-spirited swallow who would eventually fly home to you.”
Walt squeezed my breast; his right hand held my nipple firmly. “I couldn't share you. I'd probably kill for you,” he said.
I kissed him. “Killing is a very twisted act of defiance and a lot more difficult to deal with the consequences than one imagines. Sharing, however, is easy, providing you let go of possessiveness.”
His huge cock induced me to wetness.
He pulled off my top and reached behind, unclasping the girls; both dropping into his waiting mouth, as his lips and tongue encircled one nipple. He suckled and I ran my fingers through his hair.
“What about your husband?” he asked, stopping.
“Don't worry, Walt. I never keep anything from Samuel.”
He stepped back. “He knows?”
I grabbed his wrist, pulling his body back into mine. “He's even watched us.” My fingers held his zipper, inching it down, as I looked into his bluest of blue eyes.
“I don't want to delve into that statement,” said Walt.
“What about your wife?” I asked in return.
He picked me up by my bum and planted me on top of the table.
“We haven't had sex in years. When she entered menopause she lost all interest.”
“I'm sorry to hear that, Walt… lust goes into hiding sometimes.”
The weight of his monstrous cock in my palm was comforting. I thought about my long-standing fantasy, wondering what havoc would be wreaked if men walked outside in broad daylight with cock and balls on display. Realistically, of course, the police holding cells would be full of perverts.
“If this blue tabletop could talk, what stories it would tell,” I said.
“Lord Almighty you're a stunning woman.”
Him: I have thrived on this planet earth plenty long, observing the technological advancements of humankind with indifference. Then I became a systems administrator. The U.S. military and the University of Berkeley in Southern California invented the Internet in the 1970s as a means of maintaining secret lines of communication for the military. That is my sore point: I've grown discouraged with Internet evolution, becoming the primary distributor of child pornography. Computers have successfully corrupted society; negatively impacting the right to privacy and information exchange, while spawning terrorism in spy-ware virus form, disabling individuals and corporations for sheer fun. And thanks to computers, we have filled the world with heaps of non-biodegradable plastic, enough to cover the planet several times over. I am only one in the cog of technological progress, who never expected to hate what he loved doing. I was smart to branch out with an organic business as a back-up plan and glad that Magdalene had begun to re-plant our crop.
My assistant transferred line one.
“Sammy, it hangs with gusto, I trust,” she said.
“The wolf is always anxious to run. I know why you're calling, Teen.” I keyed in my password, logging onto the government network.
“I started earlier than expected,” she said.
“You're currently ovulating?”
“Exactly on the nose, Sammy.”
“How long?”
“Usually about one week before my cycle begins… the pageantry of womanhood is full of surprises… sometimes you begin early,” she replied.
I felt a twinge. I should have been born in the 1600s. I would have settled in India with the Mughals, conquering and collecting females like porcelain, maintaining a corral in the Red Fort in New Delhi. I would have made an excellent Shah, ruling with compassion and when necessary, ruthlessness, in a period of time when art and literature thrived, when men lived like kings.
“OK, Teen. I’ll drop by tomorrow or as soon as I can. Magdalene and I are swamped with re-starting our business. I'll ring you when I'm ready. Is the morning or evening better for you?”
“Any time, any place, Sammy. I'm all excited… it's the first time I'll get to sample that spectacular wand of yours.”
She meant every word. I had never wanted to give myself to Tina, preferring to keep our relationship on a business level, a relationship that evolved out of sexual hunger with me visiting her erotica house with great regularity. Not once had I ever allowed myself to be taken in by her or seduced by her beauty. But never is a stupid word and if the circumstances turn, all best laid intentions flush down the toilet.
“I could disappoint you, Teen.”
“I'll take my chances, Sammy.”
Her: I was feather-light, resting on the table. Walt lifted my legs and positioned his hands under my knees, opening me apart. He looked into the hole of my desire, running his tongue across my lips. He kissed, venturing his tongue into my pussy lips, licking and swirling, while his fabulous cock bobbed below.
“I'm the one who owes, Walt, not the other way around.”
He said nothing. I can tell a man who knows his business. When a man takes the time to bring a woman to orgasm first, whether by clitoral stimulation with finger or tongue, he recognizes her bodily fluids flow smoothly and profusely for an easy entry.
I came immediately. It must have been the build-up during our walk. He lifted me down from the table and gingerly placed my bottom on the chair, turning the seat toward him. It was my turn. I began by stroking, running my hand up and down his cock, while I held the tip of his head closer to my mouth, flicking my tongue back and forth, across his penile opening. It drove him crazy. My fingers barely closed around his girth; my mouth only able to absorb four inches. I had to employ a dual effort, simultaneous sucking and hand rubbing. I had wondered if a large cock would remain hard under sucking pressure. Virility is a mental game. After ten minutes, I cranked up the volume, slipping my left index finger into his rectum, deeply, probing for his prostate gland, rubbing, until he climaxed, exploding in my face. I laughed as I wiped, saying “…the protein is good for the complexion.”
Walt's face blushed, wearing a child-like smile.