Chapter One

Mary Grace woke to consciousness of intense feelings of sexual desire: stirrings that had become all too familiar in recent years. Moisture soaked her cotton panties. She knew that if she failed to satisfy this demanding hunger, she would be restless for the remainder of the day. Comfortable ease with the idea of masturbating had not come easily to this seventy-year-old woman, but at this juncture, the need for relief outweighed any lingering feelings of guilt. The memory of her mother shaking her finger as she restated the rule that girls should never, ever. play with themselves still occasionally rose to smite her. Mary Grace had begun hearing that decree long before she even understood what her mother meant. This morning, however, the ache proved stronger than anything she had learned as a child.

The wetness dribbling down her legs and soaking into her warm bed felt good on this cold winter morning. Stretching out on her back, she let her mind wander. The aroma of her arousal drifted up from under the covers.

Can a man love a woman's smell? Will I ever find one who'll love my body and satisfy all my naughty desires?

Her hands swept gently over her responsive breasts. Through her flannel nightgown she could feel her own caress. Her sensitive nipples firmed. I love how they swell and harden, she thought as her fingers circled each. Would a man find my breasts exciting? Would he like me to play with his nipples? What domen like? There's so much I need to learn - so much I want to do. I want to give a man pleasure, but how do I play with his - his balls? I'd be afraid that I'd hurt him.

An image of a firm cock and balls formed in her mind, or at least as well as she could remember what a man's sexual endowment looked like. The only information about male parts her husband had ever shared was that testicles are touchy, and the cock's head is more sensitive than its shaft. However, most of their sex had been in the dark, so she had never really had much opportunity to look closely at his equipment or to do much touching. Ralph's hard-ons just seemed to pop up on their own and then he'd want to fuck.

Now she pictured a cock: one big and hard with a reddened rim around the head. An article in a woman's magazine she had read at the beauty shop while waiting for a haircut had mentioned a man's special spot. She tried to picture it. On the underside of the head, she recalled. In her mind she traced the edge of the head's rim and recalled seeing that indentation: the little piece of skin trailing down from it to the skin of the shaft - the spot the article said sensual women should lick.

Could I do that? What was it called - ah, the butterfly flick. Side to side across it, fast and light. Do women really like licking a cock? Hmm, I think I'd probably like that lick on my clit, but do men really enjoy doing that oral stuff to a woman? Ralph surely didn't. I really need a man to teach me all that I must have missed!

Reaching down, she pulled her nightgown up so that she could slide a hand under her plain white panties. Amazing what this old body can do, she mused. A chill ran up her spine. Her juices flowed as she lightly rubbed her swollen clit.

Where were these feelings hiding for so many years? I love this sensation. Ralph never really rubbed my clitoris. He never seemed to like touching me down there at all. All he wanted to do was stick it in and come. I want a man who'll make love to my whole body, not just fuck me for his own pleasure.

She knew that she wanted her clit to be tenderly caressed, not only with a man's finger but with his tongue as well. Once more the aging woman grew aware of the aroma she had come to appreciate. Ralph never liked my smell. She rubbed a bit harder as if to rub away a history of bad sex with her husband: the only man with whom she had ever made love. As her excitement grew, her pelvis automatically rotated up, instinctively offering more accessibility for her erotic self-exploration.

Fingers slid between wet lips. "Oh!" That single soft sound involuntarily escaped her lips. Two fingers then slipped into her well-lubricated vagina. I want a man in here, she thought as she experienced her warm interior. All those years I didn't like sex and now I want to be fucked. Even thinking the F-word created a tinge of guilt, but the feelings of her fingers moving inside chased the old negative thoughts from her head.

I'd buy a dildo, but don't know where to find one. I really want something real and warm and hard in me - a cock with a man attached - and I don't know where to find him either.

Her wet fingers emerged, only to slide up between her tender pussy lips, and return again to her firm little clit. She rubbed over it with all her fingers, a bit harder and a bit faster, first in a circle and then faster, side to side. She imagined that she felt the touch of a man. Her eyes closed, her back arched, and her legs tensed. Feeling her toes fan out, she held her breath. Mary Grace wanted to cry out when her orgasm hit, but she held back the sounds as her body convulsed in utter ecstasy.

As the intensity of her climax slowly faded, and as her body began to relax, her mind again wandered. I want to come with a man. I want him to come with me, to come in me. This feeling is too good not to be shared, and a dildo can't kiss me when it's all over. I need to find a lover. But how? Where?

This new day was Thursday, the day Mary Grace would routinely go to the Mayfield Senior Citizens Center to play bridge with her friends. A few older men would be there, but they didn't seem the least bit interested in becoming intimate with any of the women. One man who had caught Mary Grace's attention was the recreational director of the Center. However, Mr. Randolf was married. Still, he was younger than the seniors and she couldn't help but admire his body. He'd often change into a tee shirt and tight shorts, after coming to work. She loved looking at his muscular chest and firm, nicely rounded buns. For years she hadn't allowed herself to look at men in this way. Her parents would have scolded her, and she'd have been shamed for having lustful thoughts, or for coveting another woman's husband. Now, however, she could look at the bulge in the front of Mr. Randolf's shorts, and lust, almost guilt-free, after the hidden contents of that compact package.

Her first game of bridge had just ended when a short, stout woman stood on her toes and spoke into a microphone at the far end of the multipurpose room. "May I have your attention, please?" She waited until silence filled the room. "Don't start another game when you finish this one. I've a special announcement to make." Her eyes moved in the direction of a man standing by the coffee urn.

"Who's that?" Shirley nodded her head toward the tall, white-haired man who stood there with a Styrofoam cup in his hand.

"I never saw him before." Katherine looked up only briefly from the cards she held in her hand.

"Me, neither." Barbara gave him a cursory inspection. "Never saw him." She looked back at her cards and continued to rearrange them into suits.

Mary Grace studied the man a bit more carefully. He was older than Mr. Randolf and bigger around his waist, but he had an attractive face. He looked to be about her age. She wondered if he still liked sex. I could do him, she thought, but out loud she could only say, "He looks rather dignified."

"So few eligible men around here," Katherine remarked. "He's probably married to a younger woman."

"What would you do with him if he was single, if you had him, Katherine?" Mary Grace asked as thoughts of what she'd do flashed through her own mind. She could picture herself kissing him. His lips look soft. She could imagine his hands moving down to her breasts. His hands look gentle. She began mentally wrestling with words. Would I call that thing of his a dick or a peter? Cock seems harsh - but I somehow like that word. Could I say it? Could I say, "I want to fondle your cock, mister?" She felt her panties begin to moisten, but found her attention called back to the conversation.

"I just miss going places with a man." Shirley glanced down as though imagining where she might go.

"I actually miss cooking for a man." Barbara's tone was serious. She looked up at the man, and then quickly back at her cards.

"And probably doing the dishes and housecleaning as well," Katherine teased.

Mary Grace fought back the urge to ask who among them would want to have sex with this white-haired stranger. She imagined the disapproving frowns that line of questioning would bring from all three of her friends. Seventy-year-old women are not usually supposed to be thinking of such things, she reminded herself. God, I would love it if that man would want me. Right now, I would love any man to want me. I need to be fucked. The wet spot in her panties grew.

The four women at the table turned back to their bridge. The tall man stood alone in silence, looking dignified as he carefully sipped his second cup of hot coffee. Mary Grace checked him out from head to toe one more time, and pondered her own unspoken question. What would I do with him sexually?

I would, she thought, want to do something with him - or to him. After reflecting on her own thoughts, she realized that she wasn't quite sure what she would do, exactly. Being sexual with a man is not one of my usual behaviors, she admitted to herself. Would I stroke his - his cock? Could I ask him to rub my clit? What would I say if it felt good? Would he know when I got close to coming? It's not fair for a woman to reach my age and still have so many questions!

Miss Thompson again stood on her toes at the microphone. "People, listen up. I want to introduce Nicholas Jacobson to all of you. Nick is a poet. Next Monday night he'll be here at seven to read some of his poems. Nick, why not say hello to the group and mention something about your poetry?"

The man had moved to the side of the woman who appeared even shorter in comparison with his height. A surprised look spread across his face when she asked him to speak. It was as though he had been caught off-guard and suddenly was no longer that dignified stranger.

"He looks like a small boy, unexpectedly asked by his teacher to come to the front and tell the class all about his hobby." Mary Grace liked that look of vulnerability that flashed across Nick's face, but she hesitated to share that thought with the women at her table. I think he'd understand me and be gentle. I know about feeling vulnerable! I'd need him to be patient.

"Hello," Nick said in a deep voice, stepping up to the microphone. "As Miss Thompson said, I'm Nicholas - Nick - but I don't really consider myself a poet. Yes, I write verse, but I'm a retired high school history teacher. I didn't begin writing poetry until I quit teaching about seven years ago." He looked out across the room.

As though looking out at the students in his classroom, Mary Grace thought. She did some quick calculations in her head. If he retired seven years ago at around sixty-five, he must now be about my age. I wonder if his old cock still works. She squeezed her pussy muscles as she silently asked herself, What would it feel like to have an old cock in there? Or any cock, for that matter?

Nick continued to speak. "As I grow older, I find myself becoming increasingly sentimental, and so many of my poems tend to be on the mushy side. You know, an aging male's reminiscing about the past." Again he slowly looked around the room of predominantly gray-haired women. "It looks as if everyone here can remember those days before TV: going on dates to a drive-in theater and having a filling station attendant check your oil, wash your windshield and fill your gas tank for five dollars. So, if you want to reminisce with an old poet and maybe even cry a bit with him, then join me here this coming Monday evening."

I wonder if he remembers getting hard from just kissing a girl. Mother warned me that would happen. I should have kissed more! I've missed so much!

"He must be getting a bit senile." Shirley spoke in a hushed voice. "Grown men don't cry."

"I never saw my husband cry." Katherine squinted through her bifocals to better see the cards that had been dealt for the next game. "Even when his sister died and he delivered one of the eulogies at her funeral, he didn't shed a single tear."

"I never saw Ralph cry, except when we had to put our dog down," Mary Grace said, remembering how unemotional her husband had been. She then added, "But I think it's sexy." I don't believe I just said that, but this man seems sensitive and sensual and I need that right now.

"Sexy?" Barbara echoed in disbelief.

"I, ah- I meant sensitive. I think he must be a very sensitive man."

The thought occurred to her, however, that there really could be something sexy about a man with a sensitive nature. She looked at him again as he stood talking to the woman who'd introduced him. She might not have picked him from a crowd based on looks, but the thought of his sensitivity was clearly a turn-on. She actually felt herself dampen a bit more. I hate it when I have an erotic thought and then feel this darn guilt! She was growing tired of feeling shameful about having sexual feelings.

"Four hearts."

Mary Grace's thoughts were not on the bid her bridge partner had just made. A widow for ten years, Mary Grace had become a frequent visitor to the Senior Center and had struck up a friendship with Shirley, Katherine and Barbara. Today her mind drifted away from cards. She began to consider each of the gray-haired women at her table. Here sat three women she had grown to know well. She could name each of their grand children, recall the year each of their husbands died, and would never forget any of their birthdays.

I wonder if any of these old gals ever play with themselves or even think about sex. With all the information we've shared, we've never talked about this taboo topic, and I don't dare bring it up. Did they like to screw, and if so, do they miss it? Why does it have to be such a secret?

As she fumbled with her cards she looked at each woman sitting around the table. "Do any of you ever get lonely?" That was the closest she could come to the question she really would like to have asked.

"My cat keeps me company." Shirley had often mentioned her cat Percy.

"Are we going to talk or play cards?" The look on Barbara's face was almost one of disgust. Barbara never was much of a talker and would usually become uncomfortable if the conversation turned the least bit personal.

"I'm going to come Monday night to hear his poems." This was as much as Mary Grace would say. She concealed the excitement she felt.

The three women at the table focused on their cards and ignored her comment.

***

I feel terribly guilty even talking about sex. Mary Grace felt her anxiety skyrocket as she struggled to find words with which to begin. It was not easy for her to open up and share such personal information. However, having finally summoned all her courage, she had scheduled an appointment with the social worker engaged by the Senior Citizens Center. Ms. Carver came each Thursday afternoon before the bridge games were scheduled to begin, and was available to discuss a multitude of topics and concerns of the elderly population.

Mary Grace had made an appointment, but her concerns were intensely personal. She stammered a bit at first. "I - I've been feeling the need to talk with someone like you about my pitiful history and maybe get some sense of direction," she managed to reveal.

The social worker pointed to a metal folding chair in the corner of the small, makeshift office that had been set up in the room housing the center's copy and fax machines. "Have a seat, Ms. Stevens. I'll call you Mary Grace if you don't mind. Feel free to begin anywhere you'd like." Ms. Carver sat down across from her, on another metal chair.

Thoughts about sex and sexual pleasures were something relatively new for this seventy-year-old grandmother. "Yes, yes, do call me Mary Grace. This is really going to be hard for me to talk about, but I think I need to. It helps that you're a younger woman, so maybe you'll understand." As she spoke, she shifted around on the chair.

The social worker noticed the movement. "These chairs are pretty uncomfortable, aren't they?"

"Oh, my discomfort's more in my head than my bottom, but I'll just jump in as best I can. If I get stuck, feel free to ask questions. You see, I come from a very strict and religiously conservative family, hence my name and my long history of - ahh - of sexual ignorance and shame." She looked down at her hands, nervously shredding the paper tissue she held. "The ideas of sin and eternal damnation were repeatedly pounded into my head long before I married - as a virgin - at twenty-one."

"It's important to understand that you're not the only one with these feelings," the social worker declared firmly. "I've seen many people who have grown up with sex-negative messages. Sometimes those early attitudes are very hard to shake, and that holds true for men as well as for women."

"I'm still working on it. Being married didn't help." Mary Grace shifted in her chair. "I think it just kept me stuck."

"How did you meet your husband, and how long did the two of you date?"

"I met Ralph in the college chapel. Attendance was required by our church-related college, and we were assigned seats. They had chapel monitors: students assigned to take roll. He was the one who checked the section I sat in. He asked me out a couple times before I finally accepted."

"Why did you hesitate to go out with him?" Miss Carver leaned forward as though wanting to hear every word of the response.

"Because he'd mentioned going to a drive-in movie. That frightened me."

The social worker interrupted. "Why? Why did a date to a drive-in frighten you?"

"Well, I'd been told the drive-ins were just passion pits where everyone went to neck. I eventually told him that, and he said he just wanted to see the movie. So I gave in and went. We started dating fairly regularly. After a few months we did make out some, but I never let him touch my breasts. It was just kissing. We dated for two years before we married. During our entire courtship I never once allowed him to feel me up."

"It seems you were pretty uptight about sex."

"Yes, and as you can imagine, my honeymoon night was a total disaster. I undressed privately in the bathroom - with the door closed, of course. Before leaving the bathroom I put on a long heavy flannel nightgown that my mother had packed for me, and called out to be sure the room was totally dark." She smiled nervously at the younger woman. "I was scared to death, so once in bed I just couldn't relax. There was no verbal communication between Ralph and me, and there was very little sexual foreplay. He basically pulled up my nightgown, found what he was looking for and forcibly pushed himself into me."

The social worker briefly placed a hand on Mary Grace's arm. "Ouch. That experience must have been very painful!"

"It was every bit as excruciating as I'd been warned to expect. The only good thing was that it was quick. Ralph reached orgasm after only five quick strokes. Back then, I knew nothing about anything, so I had no idea why he'd stopped and I sure wasn't about to ask."

As she disclosed this personal information, her legs jiggled, and she looked down and to her left as though sorting through memories. She caught her breath. "He remained silent from the beginning to the end of this brief clumsy introduction to intercourse. I cried myself to sleep. He knew I was in pain, but he rolled over and made no effort to understand what I was feeling. There was no attempt on his part to try to comfort me."

"At the time, did you realize this was not good - not right? I mean, not every honeymoon is as emotionally and physically painful as yours."

Mary Grace looked down at her hands as she thought about her past. "I accepted so much as simply the way things were. Men needed sex and women needed to lie there and be quiet."

"But did things improve over time? I mean, did the sex get any better?"

"No." Mary Grace grimaced, and then continued. "That set the pattern for our marriage. Sex was always initiated by Ralph, usually in complete darkness. There never was much foreplay, I was never very aroused, and the entire painful episode was accomplished in complete silence except for my sobbing. It seemed almost a blessing that at age fifty-five he began losing erections because of his poor health. At that point he backed off and never touched me again."

Ms. Carver leaned forward again. "Were the two of you ever able to talk about that? His backing off, I mean."

"I once asked him why he no longer played with my breasts, because for years he'd come up behind me and do that as I leaned over the kitchen sink. He never helped with the dishes, but he was always ready to help himself to me."

"So what did he answer?" The social worker looked puzzled. "Did he tell you why he'd stopped fondling you?"

Mary Grace frowned at the memory. "He just looked at me and asked why would he ever want to build a fire if he couldn't put it out? But I didn't know anything of this fire he was talking about, so I never brought it up again. I was just thankful that he had stopped pestering me."

"But what has happened? What has you wanting to talk about all of this now?"

"Well, several things have changed in my life, and I find myself wanting answers." Obviously nervous, Mary Grace stood up and moved around a bit. "That total abstinence after Ralph quit would've been good for a lifetime, except for one thing. For some mysterious reason, as my menopause drew to its end, I began to feel some very unfamiliar and unsettling yearnings deep down inside. They were sexual feelings that were very new to me. I'd wake in the middle of the night, damp down there, and longing for something. I even thought about waking my husband- I was that desperate." Her voice died away.

Mary Grace remained silent for a few seconds. She sat down again before continuing in a whisper. "I didn't even know what it was I wanted. I had no idea what sort of forbidden sexual pleasures I could even dare wish for. How could I? I'd never experienced any kind of physical need or pleasure. Remember, I was super-religious, so I prayed that these new sinful desires would be taken from me. Well, that brought no relief, and even after Ralph passed away, I continued to feel this physical demand."

Ms. Carver smiled. "A lot of women would have masturbated: sought pleasure and release through self-stimulation. I hope you understand that it's really okay for women to do that."

"Well, I didn't know that, fifteen years ago. I'd been taught that masturbation was self-abuse - that it was something dirty - and if I did anything like that, I was also dirty. 'Dirty' was a favorite word in my family. I can remember how in church a Bible story would be read about a man named Onan, and masturbation was called Onanism. It was drilled into me when I was a child that if I played with myself I'd be committing a terrible sin. By the time I reached my teens I was totally convinced that I'd be damned to eternal hell if I ever touched myself down there."

"Down there? You mean your genitals - your vulva?"

"Yeah, that area was 'dirty,' and I would be 'dirty' if I touched it. Dirty, dirty, dirty! That's what my mother and the people at church told me." Mary Grace's lower lip trembled as she said those words. Turning, she turned looked out the window. "I was scared and nervous. I didn't even know how to touch myself." She hesitated before looking up into the eyes if of this understanding woman sitting across from her. "I did learn quickly where it felt good, but I'd stop touching myself before it went anywhere. That would leave me even more frustrated. Eventually, though, I kept going and this forbidden act became my only source of release, for I had discovered my ability to - to reach orgasm. This brief pleasure cost me."

An inquisitive look appeared on the social worker's face. "Cost you? In what way?"

"Well, I was having orgasms, but afterwards I suffered really strong feelings of guilt and shame."

Leaning forward once more, Ms. Carver took one of Mary Grace's hands. "There are some women who never masturbate, so I always say that it's okay if you do and okay if you don't. Some women don't need to, but some really do. I'm glad you discovered how to do so, but are you still laying that heavy guilt trip on yourself?"

"No, not nearly so often, and when I do, I find the guilt easier to shake. I really do need those orgasms. I had too many restless nights. Now I can relieve that tension."

"Well, I'm glad you've found a way to have those orgasms, because you'd gone a lot of years without experiencing that exciting release and pleasurable afterglow."

"I think I must've been fifty-five or older when I had my first climax. It scared the devil out of me."

"Literally?"

"Huh?"

Ms. Carver chuckled softly. "Have your orgasms scared the devil out of you - rid you of that tremendous guilt you'd been living with? Can you now accept that masturbation's normal and natural - that it's okay for a woman to bring herself to orgasm and to experience pleasure?"

"Pretty much so now, but it's been a long, painful journey. Ralph's death came after a drawn-out illness. It left me feeling pretty depressed. When I think about that now, it seems sort of strange for me to have taken it so hard. He and I had never really developed much emotional closeness. He was a salesman - often on the road and frequently away for a week or more. I ended up with the major responsibility for raising our three kids."

"That was a lot for you to handle." Reaching out, the social worker gently squeezed one of Mary Grace's hands. "How do you think you did?"

"Well, I tried my best to be a good mom and think I did a good job of teaching values without scaring the pants off my kids." The social worker removed her hand and Mary Grace leaned forward. "It was important to me to show my love. I swore I'd never ever be like my mother. I never knew how she felt unless she was angry."

"Oh, my." Ms. Carter shifted in her chair. "That's sad."

Mary Grace nodded, and continued. "So I hugged my kids a lot and never failed to tell them how much they meant to me. When Ted, my son, was in his preteens, I'd give him extra hugs, hoping he'd be more emotional than his father - or my father, for that matter."

"So, did you miss having an emotional connection with Ralph, or did you just assume all men were like your father, and women shouldn't need to feel wanted?"

"Oh, I missed being loved. I noticed other couples. I saw the affection they shared, and I knew that I'd missed having it."

"Even though you didn't miss the sexual aspects of the marriage."

"Yeah. I missed being touched, but you're right - not in sexual ways. I knew other couples were having sex, but I assumed that every woman was like me, and would just lie there until the man finished. Then things began to change in my body, and gradually in my mind, but it still took a while to admit to myself that I could actually enjoy sex."

"I hope this doesn't sound terribly blunt, Ms Stevens - Mary Grace - but it sounds as if your marriage was dysfunctional. Had you ever thought of leaving?"

"Never. I would've been excommunicated from my church and shunned by my family. Divorce was as big a sin as premarital sex. Once I 'd made the commitment and had the kids, I was stuck with that until-death-do-us-part promise."

"Were your kids still at home when your husband died?"

"No, they were grown and living their own lives when Ralph passed away, so I was suddenly all alone. As I said, I felt depressed, but with time, and the help of friends, I managed to get through my depression. A lot of it, I now realize, was my fear of being totally on my own. It gradually dawned on me that I really had been on my own throughout my marriage."

"It doesn't sound as if your life has been very easy. You had a lot of old stuff to work through. How do you feel you're doing with all of that now?"

"It's probably only been within the past five years that I've been reevaluating my life and feeling excited about setting new goals. One of those goals I've set is to rid myself completely of this awful guilt I've been carrying around since childhood. Talking openly about it with another woman has helped me."

"Most erotica is written by women. By reading some of it, you could learn a lot about what sexually liberated women are thinking and wanting - and doing. In addition, reading hot novels would provide some pretty good fantasy material for you."

"I'm not ready for that, quite yet. I think my guilt is still a problem. I'd been preached to about the evils of reading smut. I'm changing, but I'm not quite- not quite liberated."

"Your guilt's been a heavy burden, Mary Grace. You might try reading some of the women's magazines. Most have some good articles on sex that provide lots of helpful information."

"I've read a little, and learned some new things, but I'll definitely plan to read more."

"It sounds as if you're finding some inner strength."

"Yes, but will I ever find a man?"

***

At half past six on Monday evening, Mary Grace arrived at the Senior Citizens Center. She noticed a few familiar faces in the small gathering, but she quickly ascertained that none of her three bridge-playing friends had come. Folding chairs had been lined up in four rows. She chose a chair in the middle of the second row. She noticed a table covered with a plain white tablecloth, and a chair that had been set up in the front of the multipurpose room between a piano and the American flag. There was no microphone, but a vase of artificial flowers had been placed on the table.

Promptly at seven, Nick, wearing a tan corduroy sports coat, jeans, and a blue open-necked shirt, walked to the table. He was closely followed by the woman who had introduced him on the earlier occasion. Neither Nick nor the woman sat down.

Miss Thompson waited for the predominantly female gathering to settle down, before announcing in a loud voice, "We're honored to have Nicholas Jacobson, a local poet, with us tonight to share his wonderful poetry. Some of you might recognize him as a former teacher at Central High School, where he taught until his retirement seven years ago. Since then, he's been writing poetry he describes as - well - I'll just let him tell you. So, here he is: Nick Jacobson." With that, she smiled up at him, and walked to a seat in the front row.

Mary Grace wondered how Nick's body would fit with Miss Thompson's short stout one. She had just read an article on positions of intercourse. She tried thinking of this woman on her back with her legs up over Nick's shoulders. Impossible! Then she thought of her own body. My stomach wouldn't get in the way, but my arthritis sure would. I could do that one where I'd be sitting on him. The article said men like watching a woman's breasts swing as she rides him - rides his cock. She felt comfortable thinking the word cock, but could not imagine saying it out loud.

"Good evening," the object of her fantasies began, looking into the eyes of each of the fourteen woman and two men seated before him. "I want to thank you all for coming to hear me tonight. Given the number of empty chairs, I'd guess that either they planned on a larger turnout, or someone inadvertently locked the doors." He hesitated, waiting for a reaction, but no one laughed. "Well, perhaps the doors were intentionally locked." That sally produced one giggle, but it issued from an eighty-five-year-old senile woman who habitually giggled even when the center's overhead heaters kicked on.

Undaunted, Nick continued, "My poetry reflects where I am in life - seventy-plus years into it. From that vantage point, I'm trying to make some sense out of it. As many of you might believe, I think we grew up in a time of innocence: a time when life was a lot simpler, and there were a lot fewer temptations. We didn't lock our front doors, didn't have to learn about computers and didn't have to cope with drugs." Pausing, he looked into each face. "But we also grew up in a time of injustice and prejudice. Our past is a combination of innocence and of shame."

Mary Grace smiled. I knew a lot about these two topics, but...what's that? She was momentarily distracted by the strong lilac-smelling perfume of a woman sitting to her right. I'm going to lean away from that gal, so I can get away from that smell! Wow, I can now get an even better view.

Nick had seated himself. In his hands, he held the spiral notebook he had originally placed on the table. Having cleared his throat, he looked up. "My poems are my reflections on the past. They are my opportunity to reminisce. In my verse I remember those I've loved and those whom I've lost - through death, separation and divorce. I don't let go of love easily, and in some of my poems I'm still trying to say goodbye."

Mary Grace wondered about his past love affairs and his sexual history. His face told her nothing about the number of women he had been with, but she wanted to be added to his list.

Momentarily falling silent, he stood. Again his gaze swept across the array of gray and white heads in his audience. "But as in most of our lives, I've known some good times. So in some of my verse I once more say hello to the fun I've had, and to the good people I've known." Opening his notebook, Nick turned a couple of its pages. He then read a short poem in which he remembered his father. As he finished a single tear ran down his cheek.

Oh, my, Mary Grace thought, that is so tender. She thought of her own father, and how he had never earned such a loving tribute. I missed something. Probably if I'd had a loving father, I'd have looked for a loving husband. As she studied the poet's face, she wondered if he was a father, and if so, what kind of father. I'll bet his kids know that he loves them.

After flipping through a few pages, Nick read an amusing poem in which he fondly remembered his first car, a 1957 red and white Ford Fairlane. Mary Grace tried to picture a 1950 Ford and tried to imagine a young Nick washing the whitewall tires he'd mentioned in his verse. Instead she recalled how she had once been severely scolded for scuffing the tires of her father's car while learning how to park. At the end of the poem about his car, Nick smiled. "Who remembers a lover's knob on the steering wheel? I doubt if kids today would know what those were."

"I don't know," a woman in the third row blurted out.

Nick thanked the woman. "For those of you who don't know what a lover's knob was, let me explain. It was a knob that attached to the left side of the steering wheel and allowed a guy to drive with only his left hand. That way he could put his right arm around his girlfriend. Do you remember when all the cars had full front seats? It was before seatbelts and center consoles, so girls could slide over and sit right up next to the driver."

Mary Grace had never done that, as she had been warned about boys trying to reach up a girl's skirt if she sat too close. As she wondered what she had missed, the woman on her left leaned to her left and silently passed gas. Mary Grace leaned back toward the perfumed lady on her right. Phew, I'll take lilac any day. I hope no one thinks that was me!

Nick leafed though his notebook. "This is a hard one to read," he observed, hesitating. In the poem that followed, he remembered the girl he'd taken to his high school's junior prom. This one also brought a tear to his eye. "She recently died of lung cancer," he confided. And so it went. For an hour and a half Nick read his poetry and shared his memories, some playful, some serious.

A man in the back row and two women in the front row, including Miss Thompson, fell soundly asleep during the course of his presentation. Mary Grace watched the short woman's head bob and then drop. Silently, she addressed the back of the dozing woman's head. Please, lady, don't snore.

"My time's about up, and I've appreciated your tolerance of my verse - those of you who could stay awake. Now I'll push the limits. For my last poem, I'll read one some of you will hopefully think of as erotic, although others of you might be more inclined to label it nasty."

Miss Thompson's head came up and her eyes popped open.

Nick turned a page in his notebook. "This poem I've entitled Passion's Rich Rewards." With much feeling, Nick then read a poem that spoke of sensual love. While there was nothing sexually explicit in his words, his references were quite clear when he spoke of gentle caress and of the flavor and the smell of uninhibited intimacy, ending with the lines, "I crave the velvet feel of your skin, the aroma of your unleashed passion, the sweet warm taste of your womanhood. Come to me in my moment of need and let me know you."

Oh, yes, dear poet. I would be yours for the asking. Mary Grace thought his words and voice were gorgeous. A surge of blood rushed into her genitals, producing a single contraction that she feared might turn into a full-blown orgasm. My God, I've grown wet just from listening to him! I must be some sort of a pervert, she thought. How many seventy-year-old women would get turned on by a poem? And what of my aroma and taste? Would he write of it in poetic verse? Oh how I crave that feel of skin to skin. Her pussy flooded, soaking the crotch of her panties. Would he enjoy me?

When Nick finished, several gray-haired women who'd been sitting in the front row hurried to talk to him. Mary Grace stood behind them, hearing them mention their own fathers, childhoods and high school memories. This all must be a bit boring, she thought, feeling sorry for Nick. However, he listened and smiled as each took her turn telling her own story. Having waited until all were finished, she moved toward the table. Nick had gathered up the papers that had been spread across the table and was jotting something in his notebook when she approached him.

"Suicide knob," he said.

"What?" That comment, which seemed to come out of the blue, confused Mary Grace.

"Suicide knob. I wanted to write that term down. One of those women remembered those steering wheel knobs being called suicide knobs."

"My brother had one on his steering wheel. I think he called it a 'spinner knob' or something," Mary Grace said. "Since he wasn't one who'd be hugging a girl while driving, his was on the right side, so he could steer with his right hand and stick his left arm out the window. He thought it was cool, I guess, to make a sharp one-handed turn with his other hand up on the roof."

"I guess I was one of the romantic guys." Nick stole a glance at the cleavage visible through the open neck of her flowered blouse.

Mary Grace had intentionally left the top two buttons unbuttoned. Still, her reaction was a mixture of excitement and guilt. "I loved your last poem," she muttered almost to herself.

"What?" Nick looked up from her breasts and their eyes met.

Mary Grace felt that contraction again. She hesitated.

Nick kept his gaze on her eyes. "I didn't hear what you just said."

"I said that I loved that last poem you read - the erotic one."

"I think most of the women in the room closed their ears to that poem, or maybe just turned off their hearing aids."

"Well, not me." Blushing, Mary Grace dropped her glance.

"People our age grew up in an era when sex wasn't talked about openly," Nick observed.

Quickly, she picked up on his statement. "And my family was even worse. I wasn't allowed to date, even in high school. I wasn't allowed to dance, so I never made it to a prom. I was taught not to get close to boys because they only wanted one thing and I'd surely go to hell if I ever gave it to them." Mary Grace finished her thought in silence. I didn't even know what that thing was the boys were supposed to be after!

"Sex was joked about in my family, but never seriously talked about," Nick confided. "I was probably one of those boys they warned you about: one of those horny guys who only wanted one thing. I never got that lucky, though." He glanced again at the soft cleavage visible though the open collar of her blouse. "I guess things got better for us once we were grown and out on our own." He looked back into her eyes, but she looked away. "The sexual revolution sure changed things for us, though."

"Sexual revolution? Speak for yourself, Mr. Jacobson. In that revolution I never got to fire a single shot. I was a naïve virgin when I got married, and throughout my marriage I never did learn to open up and enjoy sex." Mary Grace couldn't believe she'd just shared this with a stranger. Once more she lowered her gaze and looked at the pure white tablecloth. She thought of her virginity.

"Pity." He folded the piece of paper with suicide knob written on it and slipped it into his shirt pocket. "Oh, and you can call me Nick."

Mary Grace shifted her weight. "I didn't mean to get so personal. I just met you, and here I am telling you what a cold fish I was."

"Oh, that's quite okay. I like your openness. It reminds me of how different women can be. My wife enjoyed sex until she hit menopause. Then she froze up, grew cold as ice, and never wanted it again. I felt rejected, and I sure couldn't live with that."

"Menopause worked in the opposite direction for me. When I hit it, my body went wild." Mary Grace blushed. Dear God, did I really just say that? She looked around to see if anyone else could have heard her.

"Your husband's a lucky man."

"No, he had lost interest. He died shortly after my libido caught fire."

"You didn't screw him to death, did you?" Rising, Nick lightly touched the back of Mary Grace's hand. "I'm sorry. That feeble attempt at humor was spontaneous. I realize that you might've just shared a pretty significant tragedy in your life."

"No apology required. The doctor said it was Ralph's two packs a day and lack of exercise that killed him. His heart just gave up, and if it hadn't, his lungs would have gotten him. Anyway, I don't think he understood or appreciated what a woman really needs. For him it was get it up, get it in, get it done, and get it out."

"His loss," Nick observed.

"Well, definitely mine as well." Mary Grace gazed into Nick's blue eyes. "Even more so, perhaps," she added. He smiled in response and in that moment there seemed to be a brief connection. Her mind raced. Was that a promise of more to come in his eyes or just my wishful thinking? She smiled back.

Nick glanced down at his watch. "Gotta run. I'm already late for a son's birthday party, but I do hope we can talk again soon."

"Have fun," Mary Grace said as he turned and began putting on his coat. Damn, she swore under her breath, using a word that normally never surfaced in her spoken language. I don't want him to leave so soon!

Just then a police officer came into the room. "Can I have your attention, please? I'd like to talk with the owner of the dark blue Toyota SUV, license plate GT9836."

"That's mine," Nike called out.

The police officer walked to where Nick stood. Mary Grace could hear him ask, "You say that Toyota's yours, sir?"

"Yes, officer. What's the problem?"

"We had a 911 call - someone on his cell phone. He was driving by and saw a woman in the parking lot spraying your car with yellow paint."

"Did you catch her?"

"No, sir. We did see some footprints around your car, but she was long gone by the time we got here. Any idea who might've done this?"

"Well, I'm a retired teacher, so maybe…"

"A former student?" The officer finished Nick's sentence, turning it into a question.

"Yeah, maybe, but I don't really know. I guess it could've been anyone with a can of spray paint and nothing better to do."

"If you need anything for your insurance company, my report will be on file at the station. Sorry about this."

"Hey, not your fault. Spray happens."

Mary Grace giggled as the officer walked away.

Turning back toward her, Nick asked, "You heard?"

"A bit of it."

"Well, now I really am late, but at least I've got an excuse. See you around, kid."