by Cynthia Lucas
(07/01/09)

Kelly loathed working the night shift. During the day, the residents at the Rosewood Home for the Aged were relatively energetic and coherent. By nightfall exhaustion set in, along with the usual complaints of arthritis and aching joints. They lived life according to prearranged schedules: breakfast at 7:30, lunch at noon, supper at 4:30. The intervals between meals were pocked with visitors and the occasional game of euchre or chess. The television kept vigil in the background, droning game shows and talk shows and soap operas and the news.

Only Mrs. Wellemen kept Kelly's spirits buoyed. She rarely complained and always greeted Kelly with a smile full of teeth too perfect to be real. She was meticulous about her appearance. Unlike the other ladies in her ward, who some days couldn't even be bothered to change, Mrs. Wellemen dressed immaculately and always wore makeup; she insisted Kelly comb her hair before wheeling her down the hall to the dayroom every evening.

"A lady must always look her best," she said. "Don't you agree, dear?"

Kelly nodded, but felt like a hypocrite in her own wrinkled green scrubs and unkempt hair.

Snow had started to fall earlier that day. Mounds of the stuff piled against the fogged windows. Mrs. Wellemen's friends had already arrived and were waiting for her at one of the card tables, a carafe of weak tea before them. Mrs. Johnson shuffled over with her walker.

"Have a nice visit, Mrs. Wellemen." Kelly locked the wheelchair so she wouldn't be tempted to roll away on her own -- a habit she had recently acquired.

"Thank you, dear." Mrs. Wellemen patted Kelly's hand and stared wistfully at the window. "I remember one snowy evening like this, many years ago. It changed my life."

"That's nice." Kelly turned her attention to a stack of used soggy paper cups that needed clearing from the other table. She knew eavesdropping was a bad habit, but she couldn't help it.

"Was it the night your son was born?" asked Mrs. Haskell, whose gnarled fingers always twitched as though she was knitting some invisible sweater.

"Carl was born on a warm spring morning. I'm talking about the night I realized what a truly beautiful and desirable woman I am," replied Mrs. Wellemen.

"Your wedding night!" Mrs. Johnson was the only one with hands steady enough to pour the tea.

Mrs. Wellemen cackled. "I've had four husbands. You'd have to be more specific."

"You've been married four times?" Mrs. Johnson asked. The ladies in the group were all widows, married only once.

"Oh, yes!" Mrs. Wellemen stared dreamily at the falling snow. "And let me tell you, none of them could compare to Harold!"

"Was he one of your husbands?" Mrs. Johnson asked.

"Heavens no!" Mrs. Wellemen said. "I would never marry a man like that. But what a man!"

"You mean he was a lover?" Mrs. Haskell widened her eyes and curled her upper lip.

"And what a lover!" Mrs. Wellemen stared back at the ring of blank expressions. "None of you have ever had an intimate encounter with a stranger?"

"Certainly not!" Mrs. Johnson sniffed. "I was married in church before God. My husband was my first and only and I never would have dreamed of debasing myself."

"Then you missed out on a lot of good shagging, sister."

"Mrs. Wellemen!" Kelly whirled around. "There's no need for that kind of language."

"But it's true." Mrs. Wellemen gazed up at her with blue rheumy eyes. "Tell them, dear. All the young people like you are doing it all over the place. Tell them how marvelous it is."

"I don't think that's any of your business." Kelly was too ashamed to tell her that she hadn't been with a man since her break-up with Miles. Given her work schedule, her prospects looked grim.

"I'm sorry, dear, I don't mean to pry." Mrs. Wellemen patted Kelly's hand in the customary way. "But these old biddies need enlightenment about man-woman relationships."

"Who you calling an old biddy?" Mrs. Johnson snapped.

"At least I'm not a prude." Mrs. Wellemen sniffed.

"Well, I'm certainly not a slut!"

"That's it!" Kelly held up her arms like a referee. "I think you ladies have had a long enough visit. Time for bed."

"But I'm not tired!" Mrs. Wellemen protested.

"You're getting yourself all worked up and you need rest." Kelly unlocked the wheels and pushed Mrs. Wellemen from the table. "Say good night to your friends."

"Sleep well, you old tramp!" Mrs. Johnson hollered at Kelly's back.

"Those old crones wouldn't know a good shagging if it jumped in their laps," Mrs. Wellemen said as Kelly wheeled her into her room.

"And I suppose you would?"

Mrs. Wellemen's room was as neat as her personal appearance. Lace doilies occupied every surface. Photos of grandchildren hung on the walls. Her bed was covered with a handmade quilt and thick puffy pillows trimmed with lace. A vase of white roses sat on the bedside table, their rusty edges curling and snowing petals on the table.

"Don't judge me by how I look," Mrs. Wellemen said as she heaved herself from the wheelchair and into the bed with Kelly holding her elbow. "I wasn't always like this. I was once young and pretty like you. I had men courting me day and night -- that's what we called it back then."

Kelly helped Mrs. Wellemen out of her robe and tucked the sheet under her chin.

"Do you blush easily, dear?" Mrs. Wellemen looked up at Kelly with mischievous humor in her eyes.

"No."

"Want to hear a little story?"

Kelly glanced at her watch. It was still early. The other residents wouldn't need her for a least another hour.

"Sure." She pulled a chair up beside the bed.

Mrs. Wellemen gazed up at the ceiling as though the memory played out before her like a movie. She began:

"I was between divorces, but at the time I didn't know it. I think they call it the Swinging Sixties now. I'm not sure. Whatever they called it, I had missed out on what became the sexual revolution. While my fellow sisters were out burning bras and building careers, I was in a traditional marriage, changing nappies and ironing shirts. My first husband was an accountant, a traditional man with a steady nine to five job. He died while I was pregnant with Carl, but at least he had the good sense to leave enough life insurance so I could live comfortably.

There are many things I could say for that snake I remarried, most of them not good. But he did have compassion for me and Carl, at least in the beginning. He took us in and supported us and raised Carl as though he was his own.

Then, after eight years, the bastard turned around and left me for a younger woman. Needless to say, I was devastated. I thought I had been a good wife. I cooked, I cleaned, I threw dinner parties to entertain his clients, attended church every Sunday. Isn't that what a good wife is supposed to do? According to him, it wasn't enough. He needed excitement and a pretty girl to hang off his arm at parties. I wasn't hip enough, or "with it" as they used to say back then; I was a square.

Self pity is the most worthless emotion you can waste your time on. I wallowed in it, spending months in a fog, wondering what was wrong with me. I thought my love life was finished -- not that it had been that exciting. I was washed up.

After several months of driving everyone crazy, Estelle, a good friend, handed me a business card for a new hairdressing salon called "Salon Montague," Harold M., proprietor.

'He does marvelous work.' Estelle said over coffee one afternoon. 'You'll feel like a new woman. It's just what you need.'

I thanked her and tucked the card away. It wasn't until much later when I began to haul myself out of my bubble that I figured 'why not?' After all, I deserved a makeover.

At first Harold balked when I called for an appointment, claiming his schedule was booked solid for several weeks. I pleaded with him to squeeze me somewhere. I would even take an evening appointment. Back then getting your hair done was not the simple procedure it is today. It was the era of big hair and bouffant hairdos that took hours. Harold finally agreed to see me Tuesday after he closed.

I didn't know what to expect when I arrived that snowy night. I'd heard rumors that most male hairdressers were what we called in those days "a little bit flamboyant." After Harold's brusque attitude on the phone, I thought for sure he would treat me like just another head in some great assembly line.

All my fears were assuaged the minute I stepped in the door. His previous customer was on her way out, wrapping a scarf around a massive beehive hairdo. Harold beamed a million watt smile in my direction. He was a tall, slender, striking man with dark wavy hair and huge sideburns (remember those?). He wore tight jeans secured at the waist with a leather belt and big silver buckle.

'You must be Mrs. Cooper,' he said and shook my hand warmly. 'Please come in and have a seat. I'll be with you shortly.'

The waiting area was furnished with plush chairs and a couch with a zebra skin pattern on it. Photoplay and Readers Digest magazines were scattered on the table beside a vase of beautiful white roses. He helped me out of my coat, an endearing gesture my ex-husband hadn't performed since before we were married, and offered me a cup of tea.

Harold washed my hair with fragrant shampoo. I sighed, luxuriating under the lather as his strong firm hands kneaded my scalp. A gold chain dangled from his neck; his shirt was unbuttoned at the top and when he leaned over I noticed a thin layer of dark hair running down the centre of his chest and circling the pink nubs of his nipples. I resisted an overpowering urge to reach out and stroke it.

'Does that feel good, Mrs. Cooper?' he asked

'Hmm...' I sighed.

'You are awfully tense.' He ruffled a towel through my wet hair. 'Is there something troubling you?'

'Nothing that I can't handle,' I replied, trying to be stoic.

He led me to a barber's chair and proceeded to run a comb through my locks. I hadn't had a haircut in months and the ends had gotten scraggly. He snipped at them; bits of damp brown hair fluttered to the floor. I watched him in the mirror. He moved with the grace of a seasoned athlete, his narrow hips swinging seductively as he circled the chair in search of another split end. Feelings I thought had long since died slowly bubbled to the surface. A warm halo burgeoned in my chest and sent ripples of pleasure down my groin. I looked away, ashamed at my own desires.

'You really must relax, Mrs. Cooper,' Harold said. 'A pretty woman like you needn't be so troubled.'

Troubled? All this time I'd thought I'd cloaked my grief behind a stolid smile but this stranger -- this handsome, confident man -- could see right through me. I collapsed in tears.

'I'm not pretty!' I wailed. I buried my face in my hands and let it all out. The past year spilled out of me. I told him about my ex and how he'd left me for someone younger, perkier, prettier. When I finished, I sniffed into a handkerchief and wiped my eyes.

I hadn't noticed that Harold had been rubbing my back and shoulders with his expert hands. He leaned down and his warm breath brushed against my nape.

'Poor, poor Mrs. Cooper,' he cooed and brushed his lips against the tender skin, raising gooseflesh until I shuddered.

'Call me Sylvia.' I moaned and let my head fall back.

Harold trailed soft kisses down my temple and along the curve of my neck, his five o'clock shadow scraping lightly across the skin. His hands worked their way down my chest and popped the top button of my blouse. My skin tingled; renewed passion zipped through me. His fingertips slipped under my bra and gently pinched my firm upright nipples. I kissed him hard, my tongue probing the depths of his mouth. He moved round the chair until he faced me. The buttons on my blouse popped open, one by one. He dug his hands into my bra and pulled the straps down until my breasts flopped out. His warm tongue wriggled its way down my neck, down my chest. He kissed the warm doughy flesh of my breasts until his mouth found a nipple. He sucked and nibbled, pausing only to move his attention to the other. I groaned and arched my back. My pussy throbbed. I didn't want him to stop.

Breathless, he pulled away and stood up. His jeans bulged under the big silver buckle and I couldn't wait to see what was inside. I tugged at it but he brushed my hand away.

'Not yet.'

He lifted my skirt past my hips and helped me wriggle out of my hose and knickers. He kneeled before me and gently placed each leg on the armrests of the chair, exposing my steaming pussy. He kissed his way up my inner thigh, his thumb caressing the soft downy hair of my snatch. A high pitched sigh escaped my lips when he plunged his tongue between the folds. I bucked under his ministrations. A part of me still wanted to stop, but a stronger, lustier part of me wanted it to go on forever. Passion surged through me, growing higher and higher with each flick of that magnificent tongue. I opened my eyes and saw my image in the mirror. My face was flushed and filmed with sweat, my boobs jiggled under my heaving breath. His head was nestled between my knees, working its way back and forth, up and down. His bushy sideburns brushed the tender skin between my thighs.

All the passion I'd had locked up for so long boiled out. I cried out and mashed my hips against his face. I grabbed my nipples with both hands and pinched hard, trying to prolong the sensation. Harold wouldn't stop until I collapsed against the chair, my throbbing pussy ready for more. He pulled away, a thick layer of juice glossing his face.

'Now,' he said as he stood up and unzipped his fly. 'You can have your prize.'

His big purple cock sprang out of his jeans, firm and rippled with veins. A tiny silver drop oozed from the mushroom shaped head. I stuffed it into my mouth and sucked hard, savouring every drop of tangy sweetness. I worked my tongue up and down the shaft, twisting my head back and forth, tickling the little dimple under the head with the tip of my tongue. Harold moaned and bucked against me, forcing his cock deeper and deeper into my mouth. He was so huge I was afraid I'd choke but I didn't. I grabbed his ass and kneaded the cheeks together, my fingertips burrowing into the furry crack.

'Let's finish this where we can be more comfortable,' Harold said as his cock slid from my mouth.

We scurried over to the zebra skin couch, shedding our clothes along the way. I leaned back against the cushions and spread my legs, my pussy pulsing with anticipation. Harold kneeled between my legs and shoved his cock deep into me in one smooth stroke. He threw his head back and pounded hard; I raised my hips and met his every thrust.

'You're so fucking hot!' He groaned.

I fingered my nipples again, rolling and pinching them to the rhythm of our thrusts. Harold massaged the firm pink little nib under my public hair with the ball of his thumb. Another wave rose up in me and threatened to break.

'Look in the mirror, baby,' Harold panted.

I turned my head and watched us in the mirror, me with my legs spread wide and Harold's enormous dick sliding in and out of me. I watched my expression as I came. It was as though an electric bolt struck us, igniting the salon with multicoloured lights. Harold groaned and bucked one last time. His hot jism squirted inside me, filling me up. He collapsed on top of me, his slick back twitching as his orgasm subsided.

Harold did a brilliant job on my hair. When I looked in the mirror I saw a different woman -- attractive and sexy and confident in herself, a woman who knew she could make it on her own.

Harold helped me on with my coat after I paid; I offered him a few extra for what we had done.

'No.' He stepped back, hands raised. 'A pretty lady like you shouldn't have to pay for her pleasure.'

'You really think I'm pretty?'

Harold plucked a rose from the vase and handed it to me.

'A lovely rose for a lovely lady.'"

Mrs. Wellemen closed her eyes and sank back into the pillow, a dreamy smile across her flaccid lips. Kelly pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed and tucked it under her chin.

"You get some rest now, Mrs. Wellemen," she said and rose to dim the lights.

Mrs. Wellemen responded with a light snore. Kelly yanked the cord to close the window blinds. It was still snowing outside. The road beyond the parking lot looked treacherous and Kelly wondered how she would make it home.

A volunteer stepped into the room just as Kelly headed for the door, pushing a cart laden with flowers and gift baskets.

"Sorry it's taken so long," she said, fumbling through the tags. "Deliveries were delayed because of the storm. Here it is."

She handed Kelly a bouquet wrapped in shiny paper and cellophane.

"I'll make sure she gets it," Kelly said. "She's asleep now."

Kelly dumped the old withered roses in the trash bin and swished clean water round the vase in the bathroom sink. A small card fell out of the wrapper as she peeled the cellophane away. It was a dozen white roses, each bud with a swirl of cream in the center. She picked up the card and read the inscription:

"Lovely roses for a lovely lady. H."

Kelly smiled and placed the bouquet in fresh water. She set the vase on the bedside table so Mrs. Wellemen would see it as soon as she awoke.

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