Ageless Erotica Read online

  I don’t come very often these days, and my infrequent spurts provoke bellows that carry through the jungle and must disturb the local mongooses, doves, and wild pigs. But it’s great fun trying to squirt, almost like having multiple orgasms since I sidle up to completion, retreat, and repeat.

  But all this is physical. What’s most important is empathy, passion to compassion. What are my feelings about myself, about my partner, about us? Not only about what we do, or how we go about it, but why we interact. What’s unique? Is it more than another playdate? If so, why? Not analysis, mind you, but synthesis. A reaching out that is reciprocated on, dare I say, a spiritual level. A coupling of kindred spirits sowed on trust, nurtured with experience, and expanded with friendship that sometimes develops into love: greeting each other with a warm embrace and basking in the cocoon of a serene and tender afterglow.

  There’s the doorbell. No time to choose and tempt with an appropriate costume. Damn!

  “Aloha, Jim.”

  “Hi guy—you’re wearing a towel!” He lowers the brown bags he’s carrying and reaches an eager hand for me.

  “At least come inside before you yank it off!”

  “Yeah, I’ll put these groceries in the kitchen—before I undress us.”

  Jim slips out of his sandals—customary in Hawaii, although I have yet to figure out why—what’s a little dirt and dust, for Christ’s sake? He steps inside, plops two brown bags on the kitchen counter, puts a few items in the fridge and something in the freezer—dessert, I hope. He shimmies out of his shirt, drops his shorts, and stands there, arms on hips, dick, as usual, already hard. A polished, stainless steel cock ring, perverted craftsmanship at its finest, captures both sac and dick. He moves into a funnel of sunlight, and the band sparkles like a large wedding ring.

  He’s a painter, creative with a sharp eye for color, form, and texture, whereas I can’t even draw a half-ass smiley face, despite, or because of, my technical knowledge of colorimetry. His eyes avert the piles of books and papers roosting on the dining room table and kitchen counter. I apologize for the clutter, but he grins, flings his arms out, palms up, and says that he’s here to see me, not the house.

  He smiles. I smile. He throws my towel onto his heap of clothing. We clutch each other, our erections pushing belly to belly, his rock-hard, mine semi-rigid. Shall I kneel or bend over?

  I rest my palms on Jim’s shoulders. “Off to the bedroom?” I ask with a wink. He nods, and I grab his hand. I lead him down the long hallway, our arms swinging like two kids heading to the playground, which, in a sense, we are. I stop and ogle his dick.

  “Fuck bench, bed, or rug?” I ask. “Guest’s choice.”

  “Lean over the bed,” he orders.

  We move into the bedroom, where Jack, my large, orange tiger tabby, is curled in a tight ball on his neatly folded rainbow beach blanket on the far side of the king-size bed, paws covering his snout. I lean over the bed, firmly plant my feet, reach behind me, and spread my cheeks. Jack opens one eye. Sometimes he watches my solo adventures as I meander across the bedroom, following my bobbing dick, but not tonight. He yawns and resumes his siesta as only a cat can.

  Jim kneels and runs a finger around my hole. “Nice, as usual,” he states. “Good shave job.” I groan. He explores deeper with his tongue, spits into the tunnel, and tongue fucks me. “Christ,” I gurgle. I squirm, he slurps, and we settle into gentle kisses, slow licks, and moans of pleasure.

  He stands, slaps my ass, leans against me, butt to butt. Must be donning a condom and lube, I think, judging by the vibrations. He grabs my hips, and I feel his dick probing. But not for long. He shoves its fat head in, and I receive it with a loud groan. Not a yelp, mind you.

  “Ready for me, eh, slut?” he teases and again slaps my ass. “Feels great,” he adds as he pushes his entire cock in.

  “Sure does, as usual, Sir!” I respond.

  He laughs and begins a slow, gentle piston motion. I purr. The bed shakes a tad, and Jack looks over. Jim gets serious, real serious, and screws me like it’s our last time together. He knocks the breath from me. I clutch the sheets and yell. “Fuck, oh fuck, yes, yes, yes, do me, oh do me, thank you Sir, oh fuck, fuck, yes, yes, yes!” I bite the bedspread. Jack saunters over, rubs his Maine coon cat jowl against my cheek, a cat’s way of claiming its territory. One of his fangs is chipped, and he drools on my chin. He licks my forehead, his feline agility compensating for my oscillations. “Scram,” I shout and push him away. He retreats to his blanket, assumes a sphinx posture, and watches us like a movie critic. I’m almost embarrassed by being scrutinized by a neutered tomcat.

  Jim howls, a mixture of laughter and pre-orgasmic shrieks.

  “I’m coming,” he roars. I clutch his dick with my sphincter and feel his shudders as he surges into me.

  “Wow,” he groans and flops onto my back. “Double wow!”

  I synchronize my breathing with his until he slithers off my back, his slippery journey lubricated by our mixture of sweat. We sit on the edge of the bed, feet dangling over the edge, and I mop his brow with a small white towel, the usual cum rag. I hand it to him and he heads for the bathroom, dick dangling between his legs, supporting a cum-filled condom.

  “Take your time,” I say. He nods. I head for my office.

  Two suitcases, hard black plastic with metal corners and hinges, are tucked in the closet. They contained electrician’s tools, judging by the lift-up inserts with sleeves for screwdrivers and pliers. One now holds my electrical toys, the other my pumping equipment.

  I haven’t pumped my dick in ages. I washed the largest clear plastic cylinder with the morning dishes. It’s ten inches long, two inches internal diameter, one end sealed with flat plastic that contains an air coupling, the other end open with curled edges. My smoothly shaved crotch aids and abets a tight vacuum seal. I join a small bronze hand-held pump similar to a bicycle tire pump to the cylinder with clear plastic tubing.

  The preparations excite me, and I’m semi-rigid as I slide my dick into the cylinder and push on the far end with the four fingers of my left hand. I grasp the pump between my left thumb and index finger, and I pump with my right hand. The seal is immediate, and the tube presses into my crotch. My cock is reasonably large, so I’m told, but it’s great to see my hard-on pulse and swell as its length increases about an inch and its girth fills the chamber. I pump until the plunger is immobile, and I tie off my dick by looping a leather thong several times around the base and secure it with a tight double knot. I uncouple the pump, click the air release, and, presto, a long, fat, very hard dick, without prayers or pills.

  I return to the bedroom and lean against the bedpost, assuming a casual pose and a shit-eatin’ grin. Jim returns, halts, and gasps.

  “Holy shit!” he bellows.

  “Your turn to get fucked,” I announce as I fondle my beer can dick.

  “You’re not gonna stick that thing in me,” he states, although his eyes say otherwise.

  “Don’t be a sissy,” I sass back. “Onto the bed with you.”

  Jim forgets to mark me with a butt plug, crawls onto the bed, and looks over his shoulder at my crotch. I slowly and adroitly roll a condom over my dick and smear it with lube.

  “On your back!” I order. I place a pillow under his hips, kneel, and pull his legs over my shoulders. I massage the perimeter of his hole and slide one finger in, then two, then three. I look into his eyes and smile. I massage his prostate and nod. He shudders. I ease my dick in. All the way. I pause, savoring the sensation of our pelvic kiss. I pull my shaft out, pause, lingering as his sphincter grabs my dickhead. I reenter halfway, pushing gently to the left, to the right, up, down, an explorer in an eager cave. I increase the intensity and depth of my thrusts, and he grabs his dick, hard despite the pounding he’s taking. I feel my orgasm approaching, its ferocity not to be denied. I lean over and bite his lip.

  “Together,” I whisper, and seal his mouth with mine.

  We arch our backs and erupt, ou
r muffled grunts and screams flowing between us. Spittle slides from the edges of our harlequin smiles.

  I pull out and rest on my haunches as our breathing returns partway to normal, and I untie my cock bondage. I trot to the bathroom and clean up as Jim rests, then stand in the doorway and gaze at him.

  “Let’s relax a bit,” I suggest.

  “Sounds good.”

  I move a clutter of books and pens from the far side of the bed to the floor. We stretch out on our backs, shoulders and knees touching, and link hands. Jack pounces onto the bed and curls up, perhaps drawn to our serenity.

  “I want you to see this,” I say and raise my head. It’s late afternoon, and sunlight streams over the bedroom onto a stately Ohia tree, the largest on the property. The side facing us glows a deep yellow that tapers to dark gray on both sides of the column.

  Jim gazes, his eyes running up and down the trunk, and focuses trancelike on one spot. I savor his appreciation. He looks at me.

  “A perfect moment,” he whispers.

  Dinner can wait. We kiss and drift into sleep.

  TONY TEMPO

  Tsaurah Litzky

  I never thought I’d end up like this, in the Crescendo Home for Aged and Indigent Musicians—I, Tony Tempo, once known as the trumpet king of swing. I’m heading towards that last command performance, watching Jeopardy with a bunch of lonely old wankers in the common room of a converted Victorian mansion in Baldwin, Long Island.

  I thought I’d spend my old age with my darling Clara, my wife of forty-five years. I was sure she’d outlive me, me with my daily pack of Pall Malls and nightly half-bottle of Jack, but then she up and died. An embolism, the doctor called it, a bubble of blood, burst in her brain. He said it didn’t hurt her; she just saw red, and then she was gone forever.

  I had hoped we’d head south when I retired, move to Florida. After she kicked the bucket, I didn’t retire. I hung on, kept touring, kept playing my trumpet, but wherever I was, whatever song I was playing, she was always on my mind. A couple of years ago, I had this stroke, and I lost all the feeling and movement in my right leg. Now I’m an old gimp on a walker. At least I can still play my trumpet; at least I still got my memories.

  I used to imagine Clara and me in Florida. We’d buy a nice condominium by the sea. In the evenings we’d have dinner in a fancy restaurant, then walk on the beach holding hands. After that, we’d go home and make love. Clara was always so hot for me; we partied every night until the day she died.

  I’d lie in bed on top of the covers stripped to my birthday suit while Clara was taking her shower. She’d come out of the bathroom naked, my Venus rising from the sea. She was voluptuous, a va-va-voom girl. She would wiggle slowly towards me, doing a dance older than time.

  She’d lick her lips, moisten them, and then bend over my belly and take me in her mouth.

  Clara loved to smoke my pipe, as she called it. She had this trick, something she did with her head, twisting it round and round in a corkscrew motion when she had her tongue on me. It got me so worked up I was about to explode. She usually stopped to let me calm down before that happened.

  How I miss her. There are no women here except for the nurses, and they treat us like babies. For example, Miss Pouty, when she knocks on my door every day at 3:00 PM, she says the same thing. Her voice is loud and syrupy, oozing with heartburn. “Would Tony like a little snacky-poo?” What I’d really like is a snacky-poo on some poontang, but I don’t tell her that. I decide to have a little fun with her. When she knocks, I hobble over and open the door. I make as much of a gallant bow as I can manage.

  “Good afternoon, lovely Miss Pouty,” I say.

  She draws back, surprised. She doesn’t seem pleased. I’ve deviated from the script, our routine. “Would Mr. Tony like a little snacky-poo?” she asks, but now her saccharine voice has a sharp edge. I give her what I hope is a winning smile; too bad I don’t have my dentures in.

  “I’d rather snack on your lovely lips,” I answer. She steps back, nearly drops the tray. Her complexion turns from pale gray to angry orange. “What’s the matter with you?” she sputters. “You’re too old to even think about such things. You’re obviously showing symptoms of dementia. Try any funny stuff, buster, and I’ll fix you so you won’t even be able to change your own diapers.” She slams the door, and I hear her clumping away down the hall. I don’t even wear diapers, and she has hurt my feelings. So much for a little innocent flirtation.

  I feel shaky, totter back across the room, sink down on my bed. She may think that all I have left between my legs is a skinny straw to piss through. Little does she know my sleep is filled with dreams of Clara. Every morning I wake up with my hand holding a hard-on the size of a one-pound salami, a poor boy.

  A couple of nights after the Miss Pouty incident, I’m feeling low. I imagine Clara lying beside me without a stitch on. All she is wearing is the black leather mask she puts on when she wants me to take her in the ass. There is a loud knock. It must be ten o’clock, time for my nighttime meds. I hope it isn’t grouchy Miss Pouty.

  “Come in,” I call.

  “May I switch on the light?” a sweet voice, certainly not Miss Pouty’s, asks hesitantly.

  “Sure,” I say. The lights go on, and standing in my doorway is a little woman with a nice face.

  She cuts a trim figure in her nurse’s uniform, first nurse I’d seen around here who has a waist. “I’m your new night nurse, Mary,” she says. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer, and I sit straight up in bed. She smiles at me as she steps into the room. She has a grin that would melt a snowman’s heart.

  “According to my chart, you’re Tempo, Tony Tempo.” Her big eyes take in the pictures, the framed album covers on the wall.

  Those big eyes grow even wider. “You’re the Tony Tempo,” she says, her voice rising, “who played with the Harvest Moon Orchestra and with Bucky Bernstein’s Big Band! You made the record, Trumpet Solos for Love. My father had all your records but he loved that one best. Oh, Mr. Tempo, I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you.”

  “Call me Tony,” I say. Her glance falls on my walker.

  “Mr. T—I mean, Tony, I see from your chart that you had a stroke. Do you still play the trumpet?”

  “I do,” I told her. “Maybe I’ll play a tune for you.”

  “Could you play ‘Begin the Beguine’?” she asks. “That’s my favorite.” That was Clara’s favorite too.

  “No problem, I’d be delighted,” I say.

  “Right now?” she asks hopefully. Then she looks at her watch and frowns. “I forgot,” she says. “Head nurse told me you are not supposed to play music after ten o’clock. Some of the other residents are sleeping by then.”

  The stiffy between my legs is perking up. I puddle the blanket over my legs so she won’t see. “Don’t worry,” I tell her, “I hope to perform for you soon.”

  “I look forward to that,” she says as she hands me my pills.

  “When are you coming back?” I ask her before she leaves.

  “Tomorrow night,” she answers, then she clicks off the light and goes out the door.

  The next night by eight o’clock, I’m freshly shaved. What is left of my hair is parted on one side and neatly combed. My trumpet is in its usual place, resting in the case on top of the dresser.

  At eight thirty, there’s a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” I say.

  “Good evening, Tony,” she greets me, “I came to you first. It’s still early enough for you to play me a song.” She looks like a sunny day. I know I am being an idiot. Why should a pretty woman like her be interested in an old fart like me? Is she just trying to be nice, or is she genuinely interested in the music? It doesn’t matter. I am just happy to see her.

  “I was hoping you might show up early, because I had the same idea. Sit down, make yourself comfortable,” I tell her.

  She sits down on the bed and puts the tray of pills beside her. I notice she
isn’t wearing a wedding ring. “Tell me, Mary,” I ask as I unlatch the case, “How come you’re working nights? Don’t you have a family?”

  “My husband and I split up years ago,” she says. “My son is still in school and busy with his friends. I like working nights. It keeps me from being lonely.”

  “I agree. It’s hard to be alone. My wife’s gone ten years. I miss her all the time. There are pictures of her on the wall behind you.”

  Mary turns her head and takes a look. “She’s so pretty,” she says.

  “You’re pretty too,” I respond. Did I imagine it, or did her face tinge with pink?

  She looks up at me expectantly. I pick up the trumpet, put the mouthpiece in, and start to blow. The notes come out, perfect, golden.

  I can hear Ella’s singing, and down by the shore, an orchestra’s playing and even the palms seem to be swaying . . . and there we are swearing to love forever, and promising never, never to part . . . what rapture serene, to begin the beguine. I never played better. A woman can sure bring out the best music in a man. Playing for Mary, I almost feel like a kid again. Her mouth is half open, her eyes half shut. She seems enthralled. When I am done, she claps her hands.

  “Oh, Tony, you sound even better than on the record,” she says. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard live music. Play another for me?”

  “With great pleasure,” I tell her. “I’ll take requests from the audience.”

  “Hmmn,” she says. “Let me think.” She leans back, crosses her legs. They are very shapely, even in their shiny white nurses’ hose and clunky nurses’ oxfords. “How about ‘Loverman’?” she asks, batting her thick, dark eyelashes.

  I nearly drop my horn. Can she be flirting with me? I try to be cool, control the sudden shaking in my fingers. “This one is dedicated to Mary,” I say, as if we were in a big nightclub. Once again, each note is perfect. The melody floats in the air like a kiss. This time Mary doesn’t clap. She jumps up, puts her arms around me, and gives me a big, soft smooch on the cheek. She smells of rubbing alcohol and Dentyne.