Here I am, shuffling along the corridor like some toy with a flat battery. I don’t want to shuffle, but Matron insists I lean on this stupid trolley; she thinks I’m too unsteady on my pins to go it alone. Cow. I loathe her with all my heart.
Just another morning at Cedar Hall Retirement Home, or as the residents affectionately call it, God’s Waiting Room. It’s not a bad life, with three men and twelve women in residence and an easy daily rhythm of life. I am bound for the lounge, our social hub, to enjoy a bit of company with the old dears. Ah, here it is, hard-a-starboard, and in I go.
Is she here? I look around and spot her straight away, my best friend, Wendy, her silver hair catching the sunlight, sitting in her usual place by the window, staring vacantly out at nothing in particular. She is the prettiest lady in the home, no contest. Her face, still elegant in its softness, is framed by a neat bob, and her ample bosoms haven’t gone unnoticed. I may be old, but I’m not dead.
I pause to one side and quietly offer my usual greeting, “Good morning, Wendy. Do you mind if I join you?”
She looks up at me and smiles. “Hello, George, please do.”
I settle into the armchair opposite and nod towards her outfit.
“Nice dress, Wendy.”
Off-white, with a scatter of blue flowers, it looks just right on her. And the neckline dips enough to show her décolletage off to perfection.
Between us, the little table holds a china teapot and two cups. I smile, asking her, “Shall I pour?”
The pot feels heavy in my hand and shakes a bit as I pour the tea into the two cups. Next, I add a dash of milk to both and slide one gently across to Wendy’s side. Silence ensues as we lift and take a sip of the hot, amber liquid. Time slows, just for a moment.
Most mornings our chats drift into the past, old television programmes, often decades old, featuring actors, comics, and presenters long deceased. Wendy usually leads the way. Sometimes I think she has spent her whole life in front of a telly. Or perhaps talking about departed family and friends is just too painful.
Wendy puts her cup down, a soft clink as it nestles in her saucer, then looks at me thoughtfully before starting to speak. “George, did you ever watch Life on Mars on the BBC? I think it was on about twenty years ago.”
An odd one today, I think, before replying, “No, though I’ve heard of it. What was it about?”
“Well, there was this policeman in Manchester, and something happened, an accident, I think, and he ended up back in time. About thirty years.”
“That sounds a bit like Goodnight Sweetheart; he went back to the war and two-timed his wife. Oh, then what, Wendy?”
“He was still a copper, but before the Manchester forces were reorganised. I think it was set in Salford in 1973.”
And with those few words, my mind flies back in time to the docks as they were, the smell of cargo and the filthy black water of the canal.
“I was in Salford Dock in 1973; it was a grotty place then. Did you know Salford was the inspiration for Coronation Street?”
Her eyebrows rise, just a fraction, before she speaks. “Of course, George, everyone knows that.”
“Well, you don’t know about my little adventure in Salford.”
“I went ashore for a walk on a nice warm summer evening, and on the way back I popped into the pub just outside the dock gate. I was hot, sweaty, and parched. All I wanted was a nice pint.”
I pause, take another sip of tea, and then continue.
“It was packed with dockers, rough and tough labourers. The only empty seat was in one corner where two young women were sitting. So after buying my pint at the bar, I wandered over and asked if they minded me joining them.”
She looked at me pityingly. “Why do so many of your stories involve attractive women?”
“Not this time, Wendy. They were street tarts, plain as day – and looked the part.”
Another lift of her eyebrows signifies her disbelief. It is quite endearing, despite the obvious negative connotation towards my character.
“Well, Wendy, I was there,” I say, leaning back, “and they were quite the sight. Identical twins, dressed to match – the same skirts, tops, and peroxide hair. I looked at them over my glass as I downed my beer, and then a devilish idea struck me.”
I pause and wait to see if she responds, but she doesn’t bite, so I press on.
“They were giving me the once-over, too, and I took a risk. Anywhere else, I would have been beaten up and chucked out, but there, I was the outsider. That seemed to be a protective shield.”
“I asked them if they were on the game.”
Wendy’s eyes narrow, half amused, half alarmed. “Oh, Lord, George, what did they do?”
“They giggled and nodded. Then I asked their names, which were Bluebell and Cowbell. Obviously not their real ones, but good enough for the moment.”
She lets out a soft snort, somewhere between incredulity and amusement.
“I chatted to them for a few minutes, but it was a struggle as we had so little in common. After a while, Bluebell asked me if I fancied going with them.”
“My response? I asked, ‘How much?’”
Wendy’s jaw dropped. Her teacup hovered mid-air, forgotten. She seemed to be struggling to get words out, but eventually stuttered, “Did you?”
“Well, their price list wasn’t budget-friendly. Fifty quid for a short time, twenty for a blow job. I didn’t have enough on me for more than the bee-jay, so I agreed to that, handed over the cash, and we all left together.”
“Outside, they led me into a nearby alleyway, a metre wide, no lights, just the glow from the pub windows. I leaned against a brick wall; they went down on their knees and got to work.”
“It was very pleasant, the two of them taking turns, one licking, one sucking.”
Her teacup, still poised mid-air, shakes rapidly. “Oh, George, how could you?”
“Quite easily. I was young and randy. It was my first threesome, quite memorable just for that.”
I sense an opportunity and quietly say, “I reckon you could do a mean bee-jay, Wendy.”
She blushes beautifully and mumbles her reply, “It has been a long time, George. I might have lost the knack.”
Wendy lowers her cup to its saucer with quiet finality, then rises and offers me her hand. “Come along, George, we have business to attend to.”
Mystified, I take hold and let her guide me up until I am able to steady myself against the handle of my walking frame. She leads us into the corridor, then turns away from my room. I shuffle along behind, admiring the confident sway of her hips.
At her door, she pauses, then opens it, and speaks. Her voice seems firmer, more commanding, than inviting. “Come in, George.”
Her room mirrors mine; only the family photographs differ. On her bedside cabinet, an ornate silver frame holds a wedding picture. Even over many decades, Wendy is instantly recognisable, a ravishing beauty in white.
She turns to face me, pointing to the nearby wall, “Wait there.”
I shuffle to one side, watching as she approaches the little cabinet and gently turns the wedding photo to face the wall. Something shifts, and I realise this is no ordinary social visit.
I watch Wendy turn again and move to the foot of her bed, facing me. Then, she kneels, lifting her gaze to meet mine. Her eyes are steady, unflinching.
“George,” she says softly, “I want this with you; care for me while I care for you.”
She shuffles forward on her knees, arms outstretched, until her hands grasp the sides of my trousers. Then she lowers her face and buries it in the rough cloth.
Behind her, sunlight streams through the window, outlining her head in a diffuse glow. I reach to unbuckle my belt, then run down the zipper while wriggling my hips. Wendy’s face lifts for a moment, then as my trousers slip down, she pushes into my briefs, her nose pressing against my hardening shaft, her actions urgent and unrestrained.
My hand desperately searches for the walking frame, latching on to keep my balance, my knuckles white from the force of my grip. Memories of my dear, departed wife flood back; it has been thirteen years since our final intimate encounter. Desire surges through my loins, and I understand how much I need this moment with Wendy.
I feel my briefs being pulled down, the final barrier, her fingers wrapped under the band. The sudden exposure sends a shiver down my spine, and then there is nothing other than the feel of her lips on me as she takes me in. The sensation of her soft touch sends a jolt through my body, a reminder of the life stirring within me, yearning to be restored.
My free hand rests on her head, fingers playing with her soft hair. I hear myself moaning and pleading, “Oh, God, yes, please, that’s so good,” as Wendy's gentle ministrations coax feelings I thought had long ago been buried with my wife.
My legs wobble, and I feel my heart race as I stumble slightly, but Wendy is there, one hand in the small of my back, while the other holds my member as she helps me to steady myself.
"You're okay, safe with me," she whispers, and in that moment, I believe her implicitly. The world outside her room, with its pain and loss, fades away, and all that remains is the promise of what is to come.
I feel the softness of her lips; the warmth and wetness send waves of pleasure through my body. My hand in her hair tightens, guiding her movements as she takes me deeper into her mouth, and her tongue explores with a hunger driven by her needs.
I let out a low groan, my eyes shut tight as I lean back against the cool wall, my grip on the walking frame keeping me upright. The sensation is overwhelming, feelings that I had almost forgotten existed, and I revel in it, the years of solitude peeling away, one tender touch at a time. Wendy's head bobs in a gentle rhythm, her movements growing more confident with every passing second.
Shut away behind my closed eyes, I feel dizzy, lost in something special, beyond reason. I whisper, “Wendy, I can’t believe this is happening.” I look down at her as I say the words and see her eyes meet mine briefly. A spark of tenderness passes between us before she returns to her task.
Her free hand strokes my thigh, and her nails lightly scrape my sensitive skin. I gasp, the sensation almost too much to bear as she takes me in deeper still.
“You are so beautiful,” I murmur, listening to the soft sounds she makes as she pleasures me. Wendy’s eyes flick up to meet mine again, and she seems to be seeking more from me.
“Yes, keep going, please.”
She picks up the pace, her hand and mouth working together. I feel my body is building towards something, a crescendo that I have not known for an eternity.
I groan, “Oh, Wendy, please.”
The dizziness I felt earlier comes back stronger; I struggle to keep my balance, and everything spins as my world narrows to her touch and the warmth of her mouth. I feel my legs begin to buckle and my breaths come in pants as she takes me to the edge.
I hear my final, desperate groans as I release into her mouth, and my longing spills out in a hot rush. My body jerks in spasm, my knees start to buckle, and I twist to grasp the frame with two hands. I feel I am about to fall when Wendy’s hands push against my thighs, pressing and holding me against the wall.
I stand there, panting, my chest heaving as I struggle to regain some composure. Wendy is still; the only sound is my ragged breathing. I look down at her, meeting her upturned gaze, and I see tears glistening in her eyes.
She opens her mouth, and I see the pool of my creamy seed held in her lower jaw. Then she closes her lips and swallows. She smiles softly and exposes the now-empty space.
Wendy wipes her lips with the back of her hand, still smiling, and asks, “Are you okay?” Her voice was quiet and concerned.
I nod, unable to form words just yet, my throat tight with emotion. I lift my hand to gently stroke her cheek.
Finally, I manage to croak out, "More than okay."
I feel a warmth spread through my entire body. "That was..." I trail off, at a loss for a word to describe the intensity of the experience.
Wendy stands, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving mine. She takes my hand, her touch warm and comforting, and leads me to the bed, her strength supporting my faltering steps.
I sit down heavily, and she sits next to me, her hand resting on my thigh, and I lay mine over it. "I know it's been a long time," she says softly. "But I've been waiting for you, for this."
Her hand slides up to cup my cheek, her thumb wiping away a stray tear that has escaped the corner of my eye.
I lean into her touch, feeling the weight of the years lift as she leans in to kiss me, her lips gentle and reassuring. My arms wrap around her, pulling her closer, and the kiss deepens as we give in to passion. Her breasts press against my chest, her breath hot and eager as our tongues dance together.
Slowly, we sink back onto the bed to lie side-by-side, kissing deeply, until sleep takes us, bodies locked together in a close embrace.
