I adore the smell of Ron’s head when he takes off his hat after a walk in the park. Something about the way the wool heats his temples and warms his scalp under his feathery white hair makes a fragrance that is all him. Smoother than cornsilk, the texture changed completely when he went gray; thinned, softened. He’s my love. And just as sharp as the day we met, only far wiser.
It boils down to luck, doesn’t it? Carla and her wife weren’t so lucky. Alzheimer’s. Jimmy and Agnes are battling arthritis and Parkinson’s respectively. Ha. Respectively not respectfully. Parkinson’s can go fuck itself. When I talk that way Ron tells me my New York is showing. Then he calls me You Sexy Thing, and we laugh every time.
He rubs my feet after our walks. Tells me I should wear more comfortable shoes, but I like my boots. Calf-hugging leather keeps me young. “Nothing can keep you young,” he says, “And that’s a good thing.”
Our nephew is a comedian. In his act he says old people look like trolls. I want to say, Dear, we’re sitting right here with our two drink minimum. We can hear you. But the fact is, we do kind of look trollish. We’re far nicer and much smarter than the best of trolls but our bodies are deteriorating. This is undeniable.
I still orgasm, though. More than Ronny. Sometimes he’s just as happy reading the paper. It’s fine. I’ve got my toys and my imagination. We’ve talked about finding me a lover or two, but I need intellectual chemistry with a person to enjoy sex, and that’s hard to come by. Ronny and I have it in spades, ever since I saw him kicking that soda machine the year Jack Kennedy was shot. Oh we had great sex the day Kennedy died. Tragedies are good for the libido.
This post was written for Wicked Wednesday, a site where writers share erotic stories (fiction and non) every week. The fun is hosted by the brilliant and gorgeous Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes, whose endeavors you can support at Patreon.
Read more fab Wicked Wednesday “Growing Older” entries here!