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[This story is fiction, but the characters are based on real people. It is an abridgement from an unfinished novel about politics, power and sex in Texas during the last half of the 20th Century. The novel may never get finished, so I thought I’d share this segment with you.]
If I had not been walking up to my bike at that moment, she would have found someone else. It was almost a random choice, and one of the few times in my life that I got lucky. She didn’t pick me because of my good looks, so I guess I was her choice simply because I looked like I would do what she wanted–and that looked good enough to her.
I had seen Dee at the retirement village a few times before when I visited my aunt who was fixing to move to Dallas to be near her grandchildren. She was easy to notice in her bright pinks and purples. Her hair would sometimes be different shades of pink to match—and always with sparkles. She usually dressed in tight pants and boots. If a woman in her seventies could be sexy, Dee certainly was, but I didn’t see her that way at first. She just seemed to be an eccentric old lady until the moment she intercepted me in the parking lot as I walked out to my bike. “Hey, Ramsey” she shouted.
Surprised that she knew my name, I stopped as she approached. “How about giving an old lady a ride on your hog?”
“This ain’t no hog, lady. It’s a Honda Goldwing. My Harley was stolen, and I’ve been riding this. Besides,” I muttered, ” I’m getting to where I like a little comfort in my rides.”
“Well, it sure is big whatever you call it, and I would like a little spin on something big like that. What do you say?”
“OK. Can you get on?” She said that she might need a little help, so I eased her up onto the passenger seat and dropped the armrest down while the bike was on its stand. I only had one helmet so I strapped it on her, mashing her pink hair around her lightly made up face. My helmet smelled like flowers and I had sparkles in my hair for two or three days after that.
I mounted up and put the machine in motion. It was just a quick whiz up and down Houston’s humid parkway, but she laughed and made squealing noises as she held tightly to my chest. She was talking the whole time, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying–mostly.
When we got back, and I helped her off, she invited me to her condo for a drink. I wasn’t too interested, but I had nothing better to do—and she sweetened her offer by promising to make it worth my while. I was curious about what she meant, but knew that whatever she would offer, it would be something I didn’t have.
She had a complete liquor cabinet in her little condo. “Name yer poison,” she demanded.
“Uh, Jack. Straight up on ice.”
She quickly knocked it out and poured herself a glass of cold vodka that she kept in the ice tray. “I was an alcoholic much of my life, but I cleaned up in 1962. After Kennedy’s assassination I ate right, didn’t drink or smoke for 30 years, but now it doesn’t matter. I drink and smoke all I want.”
We toasted and sipped while she asked about the bike and my aunt. She asked some personal questions about my age (56) and marital status (divorced), where I grew up (East Texas)… that kind of stuff.
When the drinks were finished, I stood up to leave, but then she asked me to hold on a minute. Her tone got kind of serious. She looked me in the eye and said that her life had become very lonely. She needed someone to talk to and do things with besides the other old women in the village.
“There are men here too,” I suggested. She laughed and said that they were all used up. What she needed was a younger man, but she was realistic enough to know that would not happen unless there was a special arrangement. She raised her eyebrows and looked intensely into my eyes to send me a mental message. I’m not too bright, but her meaning was unmistakable. I found it amusing to hear such a come-on from a woman of her age. But because of her age, it occurred to me that I might be reading too much into it, so I asked her what she meant.
“Here’s the deal,” she said bluntly, “You come around once a week on a night of your choosing. I’ll cook you a good dinner. We’ll talk and then I’ll let you fuck me. You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to call me. You don’t have to send me flowers. You don’t have to take me out—unless you want to. I’m not looking for a romantic relationship so there won’t be any hooks or webs to get tangled in. Give me a few of hours of your time, and I’ll feed you and give you a warm place to cum.”
Truthfully, that sounded like a pretty good deal to me. There had been no woman in my life since my divorce years ago. Women were not interested in a skinny, balding man in his fifties with no car and living alone in an efficiency apartment.
She mistook my hesitation to mean that I wouldn’t do it, so she came up close, put her arms around me and looked up at my face. “Let me give you a blow job right now to see bahis firmaları how you like it.”
I hugged her back and muttered some kind of an agreement. Taking my hand she pulled me toward the sofa where she sat down.
“Can’t get on my knees anymore, so just stand there.”
She had my jeans opened and my limp dick out in a matter of seconds. She picked a hair or something off the head and started sucking. She pulled back with her head and stretched it out to its full length with her suction. Her hands, lips and the inside of her mouth combined into a smooth, warm, and wet channel of feel-good. It didn’t take long for it to fill up to a very pleasant hardness.
“I see you’ve done this before,” I joked. She hummed deeply in reply.
Based on what she had just told me, I figured this to be an uncomplicated situation. So I simply fucked her face until I shot my wad. I had jerked off the night before, but it felt like a pretty good load went into her mouth. She continued to fiddle with my dick until it was soft again before she let it fall from her lips. She looked up at me and seemed to be proud of her work. I was feeling sort of rubber legged and sat down next to her.
“Listen,” I said, “Thursday nights will be best for me.”
There were a lot of Thursday nights, and a few other nights besides, but I was careful to not let it become more that she had proposed. However, with each night came some conversation, and over time I realized that Delores might have led an interesting life. I wouldn’t know how interesting until later. With the revelation of her life, came the obligation that I write it down for you to read.
At first she wanted to know about me, but there was not much to tell. I had grown up in a small town in East Texas and dropped out of school to work as a welder. Lived in Houston since I was 20. Married a pretty cute little girl that worked in a refinery office over on the Ship Channel. When someone else offered her a better deal, she took off.
I did some hard time for drugs, and it wasn’t until I got out, that we actually got a divorce. After that my life consisted of nothing more than drinking, smoking pot, working (when work was available) and riding with a bunch of bikers—not organized into a club or anything. Just some single guys with a mixed set of wheels: a few Harleys, BMWs, a Moto Guzzi, a couple of Goldwings—that sort of thing. Since I was a convicted felon, the union wouldn’t allow me to join, so I only got temporary or contract work.
Didn’t take long for me to run out of things to say. That’s when she started telling me about her life. I didn’t know until then that she was 77. I thought she might have been 68 or 69. She looked old, but not that old.
Anyway, this weekly “rendezvous,” (as she called it) went on for a while, and I wasn’t giving it a whole lot of thought. I pretty much went about my low class life with a Thursday night highlight. It didn’t dawn on me how much these few hours each week grew on me. Even though each week I looked forward to Thursday night, I just didn’t think much about it other than there would be a fair meal and some straight sex that was a hell of a lot better than jacking off at home after a can of chili. But then one Thursday night was different.
Oh, she smiled big when I came through the door, but I could see something different in her eyes—like she had been crying or something. Of course, I said nothing then, but now I know that she had received some bad news from her doctor.
She fried a T-bone in butter for me that night. That’s the way I like it. Before I finished eating, she went to the bedroom to get ready for me. She always did that. You know, it was a little odd that she was never completely naked with me. I just thought she didn’t feel right about it or maybe she didn’t feel good about her body anymore. I didn’t care really. I felt her up every which way I wanted and her pussy was ever ready and waiting. She was so juicy that I figured she must have added a little something while preparing for me. After I got my rocks off and my pants back on, she asked if I would stay a little longer, ’cause she had something to ask me.
I had nothing else to do and no work scheduled until Sunday, so I accepted a shot of Jack and settled down on her sofa. Besides I enjoyed talking to her. She had some wild stories, but this time she was deadly serious.
She wanted me to promise two things. One was easy, and one was difficult. She told me that she had known for sometime that she wasn’t going to live forever, and that every day was a bonus, but now that she was getting closer to 80, she knew that she would sooner or later end up dead or in a nursing home unable to care for herself—and that time would soon be upon her.
I wondered what she meant, but she didn’t allow any questions. She went on to say that she wanted me to write down her story. She had no family or friends left, but she thought someone somewhere kaçak iddaa would be interested in the part she played in history.
“History,” I thought. “History? What history is she talking about?” I started to ask, but she just shut me up with a wave of her finger and went on. The second thing she asked was that I put together a wild party for her. And she meant really wild. The kind of party she would have had 50 years ago. I reckoned that I could do that, but was pretty sure that I wouldn’t be able to write anything worth reading. I didn’t even finish a semester at Kilgore Junior College.
I explained that to her, and she said for me to get a tape recorder. I could record her stories and write them later, or pay someone to do it.
Now, at that time, I figured that I could make some audiotapes to please her, but I had no intention of actually writing the tales of this old woman.
As for a party, “Well, anybody can throw a party,” I said.
After she told me what she had in mind for the party, I got to thinking that writing might be easier. She wanted a drunken fuck party. She wanted to be the center of attention of a bunch of men who would all fuck her every which-a-way.
I had almost no friends that would do such a thing to a little old lady—well, maybe Swede, one of my biker buddies. He was kind of perverted.
Asking questions was not part of my deal with old Delores, but I couldn’t just let this request slide by without knowing more, so I just asked, “Why would you want to do something like that?”
She didn’t answer for a moment, then she took a deep shaky breath and said, “You have been a dear boy to give your time coming here to make an old woman feel needed. I don’t think you are too interested in my life or why I am the way I am. Frankly, I am a little surprised that you would even ask.
“However, I gave it some thought, in case you did ask, and I can tell you that it will all make sense to you when you hear the whole story, but the short answer is this: Most of my life, and all of my young life, was spent pleasing men. I never asked for much in return, but it always made me feel good that I could give pleasure to men without much effort. I simply allowed them to do what they wanted with my body. In my mind, this was what I was born to do, and doing it made my life interesting. It gave me a small role in the history of this country. And it allowed me to live in a modest degree of comfort.
“Well, now I am near the end of the trail. I didn’t expect to last this long, but I really won’t last much longer. Right now, I can still walk and dance. I can drink and I can fuck. I have wanted to do this for several years, but I didn’t have you to help me. If I postpone it, you may not be around–Hell, I may not be around then either! Gotta seize the moment, don’t you know.
“This won’t be my first gangbang, but it will surely be my last. When you hear about my younger days, it will be all clear to you. Maybe then you will understand, but for now just help me have a last big fling. OK?”
My perverted biker buddy called himself Swede, but I have no idea of his real name. He was a big guy with a Hell’s Angels tattoo on his arm. He rode with them in California but he didn’t ride with the Houston chapter. He seemed like a good guy to me and the local angels that I knew were a pretty sorry lot.
I didn’t sugar coat anything—just came right out and asked if he would be interested in gangbanging an old lady. He replied that he liked old ladies, and that he had quite a collection of pictures of mature women. When I told him she was over 70, he paused to think about it, but said he was still interested.
He called some guys that he used to ride with who thought partying with the old lady would be a hoot.
We had the party in my little efficiency apartment because I didn’t think anyone but Swede would come. But Swede came roaring up with two other guys on Harleys. They looked pretty bad, dressed in leathers and sleeveless denim “colors” with lots of tattoos. One of them had a hefty woman of about 40 leaning on the sissy bar. The other one wore his thinning hair in a ponytail, had a sparse mustache, and several ear rings in both ears.
When they came in the one with a girlfriend said that his little brother might be coming with some friends. He introduced the woman only as his sweat hog, but she called herself Frankie. They seemed nice enough and smelled clean even though their jeans looked oil soaked.
I introduced the three men and the woman to Dee and told her that others would be coming. She beamed and giggled at the news. Swede bent down to hug her then held her at arms length to say, “My, my, you have kept yourself in pretty good shape. You look about the same age as old Ram here.”
“Oh, how nice of you to say so,” she replied. “I owe it all to staying slim and knowing a good surgeon.” Swede was startled by her frankness, and after a slight pause shook the apartment kaçak bahis with his laughter.
I counted the men already in the room. There were four of us. She looked kind of frail to entertain this many large men, but she was laughing and flirting while pouring tequila into my Las Vegas shot glass collection.
Dee correctly figured that I would only have country music, so she brought a dozen or so CDs—mostly old rock and roll with some jazz. Nothing I would have recognized. It was her kind of music and something she would dance to. While I was showing her how to put them in the CD changer, I asked if she was sure she wanted to go through with this.
“After listening to the stories about your life, I feel really bad about this. I mean you used to be around high society people, and now I’ve got a bunch of low life bikers over here waiting to fuck you. It just don’t seem right to me.”
She looked up at me with a bright smile, “Why, Ram, you are so sweet. Now, don’t you go judging people. The sorriest son of a bitch I ever knew was rich and powerful, and the kindest most loving man was as poor as a church mouse. He worked with his hands just like these young men.”
Then putting her hand in mine, she said, “This is exactly what I wanted. If these boys can get it up for me, I will be using them more than they will be using me. It is important for me, so don’t spoil it by feeling like we’re doing something wrong. Besides, you’re feeling that way because I am an old woman. If I were thirty, you’d be first in line.”
Before I could reply, she pulled my face down for a little peck on the lips, and returned to her task of putting the CDs in the proper order.
I retreated to the apartment’s little balcony where there were two folding chairs, an ice chest full of beer, and a charcoal grill full of hot ribs, boudin sausages, and ears of corn, which needed tending. Before food was served, I saw an old van pull in the parking lot below and two young guys slowly emerge. They checked out the bikes then looked up at the balcony to see where they were going. That made six—well, five, since I decided to not take a turn thinking she wouldn’t be able to handle this many.
They looked like boys to me, but they were probably close to 30. They were construction workers and one looked familiar. I’ve seen him around some job sites.
Dee called out to everyone, “Drink! We’re here to get drunk,” and she passed around a shot glass of tequila and a cold beer chaser for each of us. When she got to me, she asked if more men were coming. I told here that I didn’t think so, and that I would not take a turn since there were so many already.
She smiled up at me. “I’ll have these boys for dinner and you for breakfast.”
She went to the middle of the room and turned in a circle looking at everyone. “OK, everybody. Toss down the tequila, and let’s party!”
The shot glasses all went bottoms up followed by some whoops and gulps of beer. There would be several more rounds to fulfill the prophecy of drunkenness and lewd behavior.
After everyone finished eating, and we had chased another tequila, she turned the room lights off so that only the outdoor balcony light illuminated the single room. She had spent some time talking to the woman that came on the Harley and seemed to be getting cozy with her. The men were grouped together talking about bikes, and the boys were sitting at the table saying nothing.
Round three came and went about the time I was feeling the impact of round one. Dee and the other woman were dancing around the room trying to get the guys to dance with them. Swede got into it, dancing with one then the other. After a while, one of the young dudes danced with the heavy Frankie. All the men were looking at Dee. I reckoned they wondering about her just as I was–for sure.
She was swinging her hips, dancing on her toes, with her arms above her head, motioning to each man to join her. I lingered on the balcony feeling kind of removed and safe from what was going on in my apartment. First of all, I don’t like to dance. Second, I was afraid these guys would reject Dee or humiliate her—or worse, hurt her.
Dee and Frankie sat together on the futon. I didn’t really have a bed, just a big futon where they talked business-like. After a while, they got up and unfolded the futon into its bed shape. Dee went into the bathroom with a little bag, while Frankie went to the table and cleared it off.
I got to thinking about how much juice these five men might produce, and quickly got some sheets out of the closet. Didn’t want to soak the futon with body fluids.
“This is Dee’s special night,” Frankie announced to everyone, “and she is the center of everyone’s attention. Me and her have decided how to git-a-goin’. Bring in those chairs,” she shouted to me, “and put them around the table. We’re gonna play some cards.”
There were six chairs, but I said that since I was the host, only five would play. That was OK with everyone. It took me a couple of minutes to find an old set of cards, which Frankie gave to her boyfriend to deal. She asked if I had poker chips. I didn’t but I had a jar full of pennies, which worked fine.
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