No Frame of Reference (New Knees!)

Robert paused at the closed front door: she said "You can put me down here, Sir Knight -- you're too old to be a Boy Scout anymore." He joggled her gently in his arms, as if to toss her into the air, and grinned -- the closer the grin, the more infectious she found it, and now she was embarrassed again. "You open the door, I'll carry you across the threshold. A good way to begin a relationship, wouldn't you say? Hopefully there are no neighbors watching -- what would they think about this 'across the threshold' business?"

He laughed when she responded with a neck-hug and a muttered "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn!"

She turned the knob, he stepped in and kicked the door shut.

"We'd best deposit you on your bed, and get all the strain off your knees. Okay? Where is it?"

He laid her carefully down, then stood upright, studying her. Pure-white hair and fair skin against a navy-blue sheet. His crotch stirred noticeably, and he thought 'Stop it! Don't be absurd!' -- which of course did no good whatever, crotch-cobras being subject to so little conscious control. "You make a lovely picture there, by the way, scars notwithstanding."

He waited -- ball in her court.

"Ummm... er. Well, it's been a while since I was alone in my bedroom with a young man, Robert. But I can't say I mind." Lying there abed, leaning on her elbows, she scanned him full-length, twice (most discreetly, of course!), and was highly pleased to notice that the shape of his Speedos had changed markedly... and equally pleased that he didn't seem embarrassed by her noticing. 'What the HELL are you doing, Old Woman?' demanded part of her brain -- a part immediately silenced by the remainder.

She managed to say "You're still pretty sweaty, My Professor. So, can I offer you some iced tea? It's in the fridge -- I'm afraid you'll have to fetch it, though. If I were really ambulatory, I'd offer an omelet or something -- it's still pretty early and I'll bet you ran without breakfast!"

"You're right. You had breakfast yourself?"

She hadn't.

"May I have free run of the kitchen for ten minutes, while you catch your breath?"

The request surprised her: she nodded, said "As you wish. But why?"

He just smiled, said "You'll see. Surprise. Back in ten minutes."

He was actually back in thirty seconds with a glass of the tea: he handed it to her without a word, turned and left again. Ten minutes later he returned with two omelet-laden plates, buttered toast, forks, salt. She was sitting propped up against the head of the bed: he tried and failed to keep from noticing how her oversized nipples made muslin-bumps. They hadn't been nearly so obvious outdoors.

"You can cook, too! I'm IMPRESSED!" she said. "Thank you! Any chance I can I hire you?"

He sat on the edge of the bed -- a VERY firm mattress -- he approved. As they ate, she explained her situation with disarming candor and bluntness -- age 81, widowed over thirty years, lived alone since then, the depth and length of her mourning and the results thereof (namely celibacy ever since), the gradual, inexorable dropping-away of friends and acquaintances. Lack of any form of intimate contact --physical, emotional, intellectual- with any man for longer than should be humanly permissible.

He was equally candid: very recent arrival here, single-never-married, no time yet for local personal contacts friendly or romantic, not even a date since arrival, no prospects of lady visitors from afar, no long-term girlfriends floating about, decidedly horny and getting more so, and determined to fix that problem as soon as an opportunity arose... just NOT via his students or fellow faculty!

She was surprised again at how comfortable it felt to have him sitting there almost beside her. And that he stayed so readily, seemed so engaged and unreserved -- it was great fun, just being close to such a beautiful specimen, not to mention breaking the intellectual drought she'd suffered for so long.

And through the conversation about bodies and workouts ran her unspoken question, 'Why is he spending so much of his precious Saturday morning HERE!?'

They chatted about a wide range of topics, dominated by exercise and rehabilitation. His exercise program was simple -- running six miles every weekday noon, and sixty minutes of intense yoga every morning. Plus a long weekend run every Saturday, and Sundays off. Her routine these days, she acknowledged, was also pretty simple -- doing exercises her therapist devised. She aimed first for normal walking -- something she hadn't had for many years now, and must regain - and then for a return to the gym ASAP. She did her daily at-home sets first thing every morning, mostly right here in the bedroom, the carpet was ideal footing. Her therapist was also a yogi and had prescribed a number of yoga-related exercises to both strengthen and limber her, especially the knees and their attached bits, of course.

An hour into the tête-à-tête, with breakfast long since finished, Robert gathered up the wreckage, took it to the kitchen, returned.

"I have a proposition for you."

He paused: she laughed delightedly -- as she breathed, her nipples moved under the fabric like kittens under a blanket -- he found it (motion) and them (nipples) seriously distracting. Her turn to pretend not to notice.

"Have you any idea how long it's been since I was propositioned!? What is it, this proposition of yours?" She loved the way he turned bright pink: it suggested --strongly- that he'd been thinking naughty thoughts of some sort, didn't it? Men -- transparency personified!

He shrugged, growing steadily pinker. "You've just chosen the wrong men as acquaintances, M'Lady! How about I come over here tomorrow morning early and we do our exercises together? I can help you if there's any need, and I can do my own yoga right alongside. There are times when I could use a little help myself. Besides, exercising is always more fun with a partner, don't you think? And I'm a lot more likely to do mine if I have a commitment like that."

Discussion followed: her protestations quickly faded under his insistence, until arrangements were set. They were both early risers: he would call her at about 0600 to let her know he was up and about, would arrive here at 0630 sharp. They would work in parallel on his yoga and her rehab, helping or advising or commiserating as needed. Then perhaps coffee and breakfast.

She showed him where the extra house-key was hidden -- he would let himself in after giving her a two-bell alert. Before leaving, he punched his home and cell numbers into her phone: she was to call him any time she needed help -- or even just for some company.

Things worked fine from the get-go. At 0630, carrying a bag of fresh pastries, he trotted up the stairs in his Speedo and a teeshirt, much to the bemusement of her paperboy, whose person was owned and operated by a typical early-teen male mind, the kind that puts two and two together and invariably gets sixty-nine.

They set to work in the living room, where her stationary bike and mats and weights and exercise bands were laid out. They were compatible co-exercisers, and thoroughly enjoyed one another's company. There was extensive mutual help, lots of hands-on, plus plenty of physical flirting -- complete with increasingly overt sexual innuendoes.

Robert --more than Irene- was a bit flummoxed. It was obvious to him that Irene was responding (by which he meant SEXUALLY!) to him, and increasingly strongly so -- both her eyes and her comments made that clear, and at least intellectually he understood the attraction that flowed that direction.

What he DIDN'T understand was his own reaction, although it was just a perfect reciprocal of hers. He had no frame of reference for an 80+ female body (or mind either, for that matter) -- had never seen one this close, had never before touched one, had never dated a woman older than himself -- much less developed an emotional --sexual!- connection to a woman two and a half times his age! It literally had never crossed his mind before this encounter that an 80 year old human COULD be (much less WOULD be), or might WANT to be, sexually interested or active - or that an octogenarian could in turn be sexually interesting to anyone of opposite sex regardless of age. And there was the fact that by doing interesting and unexpected things -- 'young girl in sight' sorts of things - his crotch was insisting that IT understood the situation. It didn't compute.

Nor did it help when Irene, twenty minutes into the session, declared that she'd dressed in overly restrictive clothes, made an appreciative comment about his Speedo's lack of similar restrictions, and disappeared into her bedroom. She emerged shortly, having swapped her ankle-length warm-up pants and exercise tee-shirt for one of her old (very snug) tennis skirts and a near-gossamer boat-neck blouse, knotted bare-midriff style, under which, to his chagrin, some much more substantial boob-confinement structure had been emplaced.

She grinned at his reaction: "I can't in good conscience go QUITE as free as thee, but at least this way various forms of parity are better conserved. If I get to look at your legs and butt -- which I am doing and intend to keep right on doing -- then you should have approximately similar access to mine! Though I haven't a clue why you'd want to exercise that access!"

He was happy to do so, studied her frankly for some period, during which her belly did flips and her face got progressively redder. He declared her legs and breasts 'eye-candy for the y-chromosome': she was happy that he was happy -- an altogether good state of affairs.

She contemplated his clear interest in her chest, then said almost shyly, 'Robert, I appreciate your paying so much attention to my breasts -- it's very flattering -- but let's face it, there's hardly anything worthwhile left about them to either attract or amuse you... They USED to be my pride and joy. My twin girls. Gravity wins, doesn't it?! Phooey! I wish you could have seen them in their heyday!"

He responded strongly - "Phooey on your opinion, Love! Volume, shape and texture are interesting parameters but not the crucial ones in my personal book -- properly functioning nerves, and enjoyment of touching, are both MUCH more important. You have a lovely chest. End of statement. Please don't be hypercritical of yourself -- it bothers me!"

If Robert was mystified -- even perturbed - by his attraction to her, well, so was Irene. Whilst determined to enjoy his interest, she couldn't parse it clearly. He was a handsome young man, in his sexual prime. Yes, sure -- of COURSE he'd be horny, given his (temporary, she warned herself!) social orphanage. But so what? Any normal male his age and condition would be perpetually so, hence his response to her presence might just be autopilot (most likely WAS, in fact!), not person-directed. That would be logical -- so perhaps it was best to hope ("But not expect!" she warned herself) that the universe was having a momentary fit of illogic?

Regardless of all that, she had to consider the intensity with which SHE was responding to HIM! Robert was exactly the physical and mental type --simultaneously muscular, brainy and genuinely NICE- that had most turned her on back in the halcyon days when with hubby's insistence and prospecting she was fucking a new partner (often more than one at a time) almost weekly-- and thoroughly enjoying it (all whilst remaining physically connected with and head over heels in love with Mister Hubby).

As days progressed and they grew increasingly comfortable with one another, Robert and Irene engaged in a slow-motion, Salome-like mutual tease. On his part it took the form of steadily increasing frequency and intimacy of "helpful" touchings, always sensual, never quite becoming overtly sexual. For her, there was a form of clothing "DE-escalation".

On Day 2, she met him in an even snugger dark pink tennis skirt, snug enough to cause him internal quiverings -- particularly when from an inverted position on the floor he noticed the pronounced centerline wet spot in her crotch-panel -- and he'd believed women her age were incapable of such juiciness! One old urban legend flushed!!

Day 3 she declared she needed yet more freedom, parity was still out of whack, so she wore tighter-still short-shorts with no liner and no underwear. On several occasions he saw part of a lip escaping momentarily, only to have been corralled next time he got a glance. At least half the time he was carrying more than a semi-hardon -- and he felt particularly exposed when doing headstand with such an unconcealable problem.

She commented obliquely, and observed much less obliquely.

Day 4 was even more interesting; she escalated to a thin black dance leotard with neither crotch panel or nor bust support. The fabric was to all intents (and for her purposes) functionally transparent even before she got sweaty, at which point it turned into, effectively, a coat of paint. A thin coat. And nearly transparent, too.

His package positively blossomed: they were both a bit red-faced when Irene finally managed to remind him that today's session was to be a bit shorter than usual, she had a multi-hour home visit from the therapist, due to start soon. Robert left, thankful for his baggy teeshirt. Luckily, neither neighbors nor paperboy were about.

It was an intense therapy session. After a long and exhausting series of exercises and manipulations, Irene's therapist decided on a new exercise, a special version of adho mukho virasana -- downward-facing hero pose in yoga, forward-folding with shins on the floor, knees widespread and toes together. The "ideal" pose (seldom reached without initial flexibility plus ten years' practice!) had buttocks against heels, torso between the knees, and forehead to the floor.

Irene's version of the pose would be highly modified, done using props - a stacked pair of long firm bolsters under her midline, projecting forward. Her torso would be fully supported by the bolsters, and her bottom wouldn't descend much -- over time the thickness of the support would be reduced. The goal was long, slow stretches of the knee ligaments and muscles. Hopefully the pose would be relatively comfortable, so she could hold it for the necessary prolonged stretching.

The long-term plan was that as her knees gained mobility, Irene's heels would eventually reach her buttocks -- about 150 degrees of knee flexion. The bedroom, with its carpet, would be ideal, since shin-floor contact was part of the plan and cushioning was required. They tried it: it worked just fine. When the therapist departed, they left the setup in place beside the bed.

The workout had sapped Irene's strength and resolve. Early in the afternoon she called Robert at his office. Could they skip tomorrow morning's workout?

Robert commiserated but held firm, "For us both!" he claimed -- they mustn't miss a day voluntarily. Besides, he really needed the exercise -- if in the morning she were still whupped, she could just keep him company -- he would try some difficult poses where real help would be a godsend. Please?

She finally agreed

Irene spent much of the afternoon napping, awoke surprisingly refreshed, got up and pottered about the bedroom, contemplating her life and her resurfacing libido and her interactions with Robert. Idling along, she rearranged things in her dresser, then perused the big walk-in closet. She simply MUST get rid of two thirds of her clothing, she thought. Poking about, she found a set of three dusty file-boxes, 6x9, their purpose and contents long forgotten. She opened the top one, expecting old checkbooks or aged nylons or some such.

What she found was pornography -- extensive very personal photography, photos in the hundreds, from her and Hubby's long career of swinging, back in the wonderful free-rolling interregnum post-pill and pre-AIDS. She examined the images critically - they had been a handsome couple, adventuresome, willing, and able -- and they'd had some stellar partners. Plus Hubby'd been a seriously good photographer, with his own color darkroom -- the materials had early-on been culled down to the best, and their quality and arousal-capacity hadn't diminished by being forgotten lo these many years.

She browsed, reminiscing: almost instantly, her juices were flowing both literally and figuratively. And that raised high her frustration with herself. For the first time in many years, she seriously contemplated her long lack of sexuality: it was really too bad there was such an age gap between her and Robert -- truly too damned bad! The hours they'd spent together, the intensity of their flirting -- what did it mean, really? She was convinced that she couldn't actually expect to arouse him sexually -- the whole idea just seemed crazy on its face. But the flirting, the touching, her deep, prolonged belly roilings -- all that was REAL. But it was inside HER, not HIM.

Didn't the "May-December" syndrome flow the other direction? Then again, what about his continual, repeated, apparently perpetual hardons? Disregarding her feelings of "impossible", what better and more convincing evidence could she ask for, to help prove that she did, in fact, arouse him? What was going on between them, if NOT mutual sexual arousal?

Confused and entangled in her internal discussion and argument, she stepped over to the wall mirror, stared into it, shimmied out of her clothes. After a minute of study, she stuck her tongue out at her reflection, shimmied again, watched her heavy-hanging boobs wobble. Gravity! The eternal winner. Oh well, it was not hers to argue with Mother Nature... But now, forty years past childbearing age, what was it that made her so totally conscious of her boobs? Silly question, she told herself - Robert's presence. A conspecific male, very close nearby, and capable of (perhaps even into) the great-ape version of musth. Probably not for HER body, however! Anyhow, this tit-preoccupation of hers was almost like when she was growing them in the first place. Weird!

Rather than actually think about such things -- and partly to avoid facing her soaring frustration and now frank and exploding horniness, she spent the rest of the afternoon, til past dinnertime, viciously culling clothes to go to Good Will. That evening she dropped into bed early, nude as usual, but couldn't get to sleep. She rolled and tossed for an hour before she gave up, tormented non-stop by her resurrected, exceedingly vivid imagination and its swarming fantasies, all of which involved Robert, always naked and ready for action. Always involving HER, too, of course.

She needed something -- but what?

"DUMMY! Don't you even PRETEND to be that naïve!" she told herself aloud: "You know perfectly well just EXACTLY what you really need!" She also answered herself: "Yeah, sure, ya betcha! -- but absent that, then what?"

There wasn't the slightest actual mystery about her needs now: she determined to do something about them. A trip to the kitchen produced a small squeeze-bottle of grapeseed oil. She'd been introduced to the wonderful substance during a swinging swap session and it had been an erotic staple thereafter. Eventually, it also became what it had been these last thirty years -- debased from lovemaking-aid to mere cookery. It was the same old bottle, however, and it seemed genuinely happy in her hand enroute to the bedroom, where she set it on the nightstand, readily available. A protective towel on the bed, pillows properly arranged, cheval glass well positioned.

In moments, it was obvious that she was not going to need oil. Nor even saliva. She was thoroughly pleased -- Old Ladies, she knew, weren't supposed to be able to provide their own internal lube -- hell's bells, they weren't even supposed to be interested in TRYING! Someone should --please and thank you!- shoot THAT stupid concept!