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Hey, it’s me, Jimmy Axelsson. I’m the sun-tanned, gun-totin’, mustache-growin’ river rat that bullshitted those two navy nurses aboard our assault boat in a six-chapter missive that was unleashed here and titled “Rest and Relaxation”.
I’m a humbled man now, and I’m here to tell you that old age sucks.
You remember Marty and Shauna, right? Marty was the guy who fell head over heels for Shauna, known back then by her rank: Lt. j.g. Shauna O’Meara. Marty, aka GMG3 Martin Demarest, was my fellow watch-stander the day Kerri and I met. Kerri, by the way, is now and has been for the past forty-odd years, Mrs. James Axelsson, but the day we first met, I found out that her full title was Lt. Kerribeth Cavallieri, U.S. Navy Nurse Corps.
If you’ll recall, we met, mingled and mated on a blisteringly hot day just after our completion of a four day operation that took place among the bayous, bugs and bungling of the Rung Sat Special Zone in what was then known as the Republic of South Viet Nam.
Marty and I had been on watch that morning aboard the Stoned Pony, as our boat was very unofficially christened, and we’d been sort of accosted by the pair of hotties that eventually became our respective spouses. Or we had become theirs; I’m still not sure how you’d describe the procession of events that led to each of us finding everlasting happiness and contentment.
I do know that back then we could all fight and nurse all day and fuck all night. Now things are a bit less frenetic but, at least in the case of Kerri and I, still admirably torrid for a pair of respectable ex-river rats.
But then, you have to understand that Kerri has aged well, as have I, though I don’t mean to brag, just to present the facts of the matter.
Having beheld Kerri in the nude within moments of our meeting each other, and for some forty years hence, I can tell you confidently that those naturally imposing breasts, that ebony-shrouded pussy, and that well-wrought ass – maybe not quite J-Lo, but damned fine nonetheless – were, on first inspection, enough to drive me to an embarrassing premature ejaculation, and remain in uncannily serviceable shape even now.
The above-mentioned unfortunate occurrence, you may or may not recall, was mitigated only slightly by Kerri’s understandable exclamation that she’d never seen a man cum before, having, as I later surmised, heretofore experienced these phenomena only with the member firmly inside her. Furthermore, with this startlingly honest revelation, she had proceeded to masturbate enthusiastically and to quickly orgasm, all the while standing next to me in the boat’s small bridge enclosure. Now that’s a memorable first encounter.
Of course, that day, while living forever in memory is, in fact, ancient history. The four of us, Kerri, Shauna, Marty and I have since, at least up to just recently, lived lives of convivial normalcy.
This Cinderella story started to unravel when Shauna called a few weeks back to tell us that Marty had suffered yet another small stroke. Kerri had taken the call and, after hanging up and giving me the gist of the conversation, had again beseeched me to start taking care of myself.
I responded with my usual platitudes to a healthy lifestyle which, each of us knew, were long ago destined to be discredited and ignored. I do, after all, own a home in the wilds of New Hampshire, meaning spring and summer days are full of half-assed landscaping chores and fix-ups around the place, not to mention, when I was younger, several softball leagues.
Meantime, autumn and winter afternoons were and still are times of cutting, splitting and hauling the wood needed to keep our voracious woodstove providing the sweltering heat necessary to defrost after a day of shoveling snow. And, of course, I used to make time for a couple of ham-and-egg, allegedly no-check men’s hockey leagues. All in all, I had enough exercise just trying to keep my little piece of the American dream in order, let alone spending valuable time and effort, and especially money, in the frivolity that nonetheless keeps my gorgeous Kerri still eminently fuckable. Honestly, she still draws stares and leers from guys half her age.
In any case, after casting her self-appointed, and to my mind uncalled-for dispersions on my physical health, ulus escort Kerri finished with the thought that perhaps we ought to travel from those New Hampshire wilds to the even wilder wilds of Montana to visit our old friends.
“We haven’t been out that way for a couple years now,” Kerri said, probably with her brook-no-argument look that I completely missed. “I’m also worried about Marty. What’s this, his third stroke in less than a year? That really concerns me.”
“He’s a tough old bastard . . .” I began.
“No, you’re a tough old bastard,” she interrupted, “he’s just an old bastard, and he and Shauna are more than just our best friends.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got my column to write, a bunch of people to see about my next book project . . .” I began again.
“Hey,” Kerri responded. “You’ve got plenty of time to see the people about your book. The damned thing’s not even half done yet. And you can take your laptop out there to work on your column. What’s the big deal?”
“I can’t just up and walk out on my job . . .” I tried once more.
“Listen, Marty isn’t getting any younger. If he was dying you’d go, right?”
That as it turns out prophetic statement stopped me. After all, he is my best friend and what’s the point of having a job that you can work from home . . . or anywhere else that you can plug in a laptop . . . if you don’t take advantage.
“You’re right,” I answered. “Let’s see if we can book a flight for, oh, day after tomorrow.”
Kerri embraced me. “And are you going to listen to me about getting some exercise and quitting the smokes? You are, after all, getting pretty close to geezerhood.”
Hell, darlin’,” I replied. “We’re both well into geezerhood now; seems like its time to rest on our laurels. Besides, I’m still able to get it up at least two times a week, sometimes three. That ain’t bad for a senior citizen.”
“That’s ’cause you’re a friggin’ sex maniac and I’m irresistible.” She began unbuttoning her blouse. “Wanna go upstairs and I’ll prove it to you?”
“Floor show first?”
Putting some Van Halen on the iPod, Kerri resumed her task with the buttons, one by one by one, to reveal a lacy light-blue bra overflowing with delectable bosom.
Just the other day my ageless wife, who works only four days a week now, had gone to the lake where we have a ramshackle summer cottage. After a few hours of late summer sun in one of her revealing two-piece swim suits, ensembles that would stop traffic on any street in San Tropez had we the desire to go there, she’d touched up a sultry tan line that dipped perilously close to the dark and ample nipples that remained concealed by the brassier. I couldn’t help but admire that tan line as it plunged precipitously toward her yet-taut and oh-so-sun-browned belly.
Now I may not be the most well-endowed male on the planet, but the package is still maybe a tad lustier than most, or so I’ve been informed by Kerri and . . . well let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. Long story short, long and thick is not a problem, and my trousers began to bulge as Kerri shrugged out of the blouse and tossed it on the couch.
I moved unsteadily to said couch as my sexy and delectable wife began working her fingers beneath her bra straps. While I slowly lowered myself to the cushions, my Venus slithered and slinked, hips and shoulders sensuously interwoven with Alex Van Halen’s pounding percussion. She began dropping the bra straps glacially, all-but-imperceptibly from those golden shoulders.
The lighter strap line of the two-piece, contrasting with her perfectly bronzed shoulders and upper chest, tore at my libido. I couldn’t take my eyes from the spectacle, nor could I simply ignore the potential of Mediterranean duskiness . . . naturally dark-ish, but of course not as glowingly browned as her shoulders . . . that I anticipated from her un-tanned breasts.
At last, those ebony-tinged nipples emerged from the lowered bra, while Kerri shimmered enchantingly to the music. As her fingers continued their earthward trek, she nodded subtly toward my crotch.
Knowing the look pretty well after so many years of married sex (and several months of pre-marital sex), I unzipped my fly and probed for the thick rod bulking my suddenly too-tight yenimahalle escort boxer briefs. Pulling the satisfyingly enlarged member from my trousers, I began pumping it to Eddy Van Halen’s erotic licks.
My wife had suddenly increased her pace and I was once more enthralled at her lushly shadowed, daintily trimmed bush, at her plump mons peeking below, and at the single milky droplet of my wife’s hardy juice decorating her dewy sex.
Lying full length on the couch, I offered my engorged cock to this vixen as she languidly edged closer. Straddling me with one knee over my hips and the other planted firmly on the floor, my wife eased her well-wrought pussy onto my stiff member and within six or seven quick jerks my sperm erupted to mingle with those musky female liquids.
Finished, we scrambled for Kleenex and scattered female attire to keep the various creamy liquids from staining the couch, already victim to a number of similar encounters over the years. Such is, alas, what happens when the kids finally move out on their own; what had been a perfectly sex-less couch abruptly becomes a bed-away-from-the-bed.
Though spent, we managed, after a few moments, to drag ourselves to Kerri’s desktop, there to book a pair of seats to Montana at the expected usurious prices. But then, Marty and Shauna were and always will be worth way more to both of us than a couple of airline tickets and a few delayed meetings.
Two days later, hauling laptops and briefcases, overnight bags, handbags, and one good-sized suitcase, we met Shauna at Butte’s Bert Mooney Municipal Airport. As is traditional, when we schlepped our gear to her ten-year-old Land Cruiser, Shauna insisted that I drive so she and Kerri could catch up on stuff during the hour’s ride farther into Montana’s hinterlands.
Like Kerri, Shauna’s in her mid-sixties now and still one handsome woman. Her red hair’s streaked with a little gray and she’s gotten a tad, and I mean just a tad, jowly, but she still has her figure, her Midwest-tempered come-fuck-me look and her vitality. Put plainly, I sure as hell wouldn’t kick her out of my bed for eating animal crackers.
Anyway, as I drove, Kerri and Shauna chatted and laughed over kids and grandkids, mutual friends, both departed and still around, and, obligatory for those our age, the various health issues with kith and kin, most notably Marty.
Both girls had been Navy nurses in Viet Nam, which led to our meeting each other in circumstances both bizarre and exotic. In a nutshell, rarely do romantic relationships between female officers and enlisted men work for any length of time. But ours was a two-in-two-million shot that’s tested out pretty well over the years.
After an hour or so of nothing but corn, cattle, hills, forests and more friggin’ corn, we pulled up to the big old farmhouse to see Marty sitting on the porch, shucking a dozen ears of the aforementioned flora. Shauna and Marty’s firstborn daughter, Diane, sat with her husband, Jay . . . short for J.T., which was short for John Thomas . . . on the porch swing waving and grinning. I parked next to Marty’s Ford pickup and took stock of my old friend and fellow watch-stander.
He seemed okay to me at first glance, but a longer look revealed a touch of feebleness, a slight tilt that hadn’t been there the last time I’d seen him, when he and Shauna had visited just over a year ago. He was wearing a bulky knit sweater to ward off the fancied chill of a mid-September afternoon, and from where I sat a good forty feet away trying to remember which button you had to push to get the friggin’ key out of the ignition, I just thought he was looking a tad elderly.
Kerri, meantime, was out of the car and had my ex-shipmate wrapped in a big Italian hug before I even got my door open.
Shauna, for probably the twentieth time, pointed out the right button, grinned at me, and reminded me that she always left the keys in the ignition at the house. That grin did wonders for my libido, always had.
To this day I will occasionally picture those perfect lips wrapped around Marty’s cock, even as I’m entering Kerri atop either bed or couch.
The memory of how Shauna had savored Marty’s load continues to inspire me as Kerri and I begin to churn. Even though I’m making love to my wife, my soul-mate, I sometimes feel that I’m actually fucking Shauna, she was (and still is) that enticing.
Occasionally, I’ll imagine Kerri also thinking of our intertwined friends and it often seems that she feels the same way, only that it’s Marty inside of her. It’s like these remembrances abruptly focus each of us on the other as our need and our lust, not to mention the pure pleasure of our mating, shakes us into a heightened awareness of how good each feels to and with the other.
The grin that Shauna released at my fumbling had all the sensuality, the beauty, the impishness, the intimacy that men have fallen in love with through time immemorial. She is a woman of unearthly sexuality, a woman who is mentally undressed and ravaged by nearly every man she encounters, and she’s a woman who knows her powers and her attraction and reserves it for her chosen mate to the exclusion of all others . . . almost all others. And there, as we shall see, lies my shame.
The once indomitable lust, the intense yearning, the nearly insatiable hunger that Marty and Shauna once felt for each other has, of course, settled into a less unbridled passion that melds well with our advancing age. Looking at Marty from the driveway, I felt a momentary pity, a pity that I’ve seldom acknowledged. A pity, doubtless self-inflicted, that this once virile man had become essentially a shadow of his former self. More and more I cringe in realization that Kerri and I will soon decline into this same ennui; more and more clearly I foresee the sadness and the unfulfilled need this inevitable decline will presage.
Sitting there in her ancient Land Cruiser, I looked steadily at Shauna and her grin faded, her eyes teared up. She reached for my hand and put it lightly to her breast. We remained that way for a moment as the memories of what once had been overcame both of us.
Ripping our gaze apart, Shauna and I got out of the Land Cruiser and wandered up onto the porch, an oak-planked construction that, though nearly always appearing in need of some repair, had looked pretty much the same for the forty years or so, on and off, we’d been visiting.
Now before I appear just a bit hypocritical, it’s a safe bet that Marty and Shauna consider our whole house a work in progress every time they head out to see us in New Hampshire. In all humility, I must confess that, earlier braggadocio notwithstanding, my often Herculean efforts at hefty home-ownership responsibilities, though doubtless healthy, seldom achieve their desired results.
Anyhow, Marty and Shauna, after living the first five years or so of their married life in Marty’s Montana home town, had moved to Vermont some thirty-five years ago. Shauna had taken a teaching position at a high-end private school there, while Marty found a well-paying machinist gig, his sort being employable just about everywhere. In those days, we got together at least a couple times a month, relived the good old days, celebrated various occasions, even vacationed together when we could all scrape some weeks off of work at the same time.
I had, back in those days, flattered myself that they’d moved east to stay closer to us, but after about eight years, they moved back to Montana when Marty’s dad died, leaving Marty this huge and aged house which front porch we presently occupied. The damned house hadn’t even had indoor plumbing until Shauna insisted, back when she’d first moved in, that it was a much more sanitary, not to mention a more comfortable method of bathing and of relieving oneself.
Truth to tell, Marty seems happier out here than he ever had in Vermont. To me, on the other hand, the sticks are the sticks; Vermont, Montana, New Hampshire, all same-same.
Marty’s whole family had, of course, been enchanted with Shauna when she’d first come out to Montana as a newlywed all those years back. And so had she, the only daughter in a clan of five older siblings, found his family to be just what she’d been looking for her whole life. Kerri and I had spent many evenings overcome with laughter as Shauna and Marty narrated the carryings-on of Marty’s numerous kinfolk, most of whom, now including Marty and Shauna’s two kids and their kids, lived within eight square miles of where he sat shucking corn.
I couldn’t help but think, as I stood there in a moment of depressing prescience, that Marty would be buried here soon enough.
* * *
In the next chapter, we find out just how daunting old age can be.
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