Regarding Harold Dimly

Nothing. Nothing behind, nothing ahead. It's a harsh world to be born into. And indeed it's a harsh world he's seen. To be born, stillborn, truncated and futile. All is soft around him now; he watches his hands, now soft in idle stretches and stenches. No accomplishments or accomplices, save for his soft wife with her soft spiteful, spunkful breath. 'What has she been up to?' he wonders. Her eyes beguile malice with doom, speaking of doomful falls from grace. His is to be punished, for nothing more than having endured time with her, beside her, besides her.

He wonders, he fails, he settles for the here and now. Faithless climbs and falls swirl into brackish black. Coffee or tea? Who cares? Then comes the waitress. And love for lovely legs, so soft, so slick. How can they be-how so perfect? How are they not for him? To surround. To adore. To discard prison for. To divulge his pension and penchant for lacy lingerie. Oh fuck. What a world is his?

Anyway.

Fresh eggshell ovides flutter past his baleful, bashful eyes. Cupfuls o' Buxomflesh, not menu-offered but all the while present to pass between them. It's his wife and himself. But wait, they're not married; they are marginalized and merged in the eyes of the law and God.

Crucifix to bend and abash their union, to turn its back and sneer at old impossible crippled mechanics of forgotten machines. Pale men of sacred cloth pale still more at such squanderings of future grace in death of those slipped past stages of salvation. Men of slipped discs and sharp tongued wives. Fuck it all. I hate you all so much. Bastards.

"Harold! What the hell are you on about?" She leans forward and squeezes his hand, and none too gently at that.

He starts! He sits upright in his plastic, sticky insult of a chair. "Sorry Dear. It's the pain meds. They make me drift." She settles back, smugly satisfied. The mighty are meek now a days. Unneeded men have settled their wrenches-have folded their coveralls. Wrenches rust in garages where old men do mutter. Okay, okay, he tells himself he's not all that old.

"Harold! Shut Up!" The whole of the customers turn to see the source of blatherings.

"Oops, was that out loud?" He knows it was.

"One more outburst and you can forget about breakfast." She means it too, but not for the mumblings of her husband-much more for his oglings of the sex-ful waitress who doesn't wait all that long between fuckings up high and hard, up into her greedy, coveted pink, or so assumes the wife.

Harold steals to glance at this apron full of hard packed, young sex flesh far too often and openly. She is a human, young and lucky to be more fuckable than most. All-and she is all, with her face and body holding lesser mortals to task. Why her? Who the Hell knows.

But stare he does. Who the Hell cares? His wife does, that's for sure. She cares the hell out of it. She folds her arms over her chest, regarding Harold dimly as he beams up at the waitress. She takes his order. He could have said "The usual" but he didn't. How transparent of him. Then she leaves. Helen catches the wake and waft of blonde arousal. That damn waitress irks her in all the flirting. Fishing for tips, with her sexy lips and swiveling hips. Her scent of sex would stir other motives. What the Hell?

"As if you could handle her." The words of his wife slap the joy from his face. Shows what she knows. Young waitress Colleen has got the goods. 'Good for a go', thinks Harold. Oops, he said it out loud. Thinking quickly, he raises his mug to sip coffee. "Mmm, good stuff."

Breakfast goes down nice and easy. His erection doesn't. He aims to tease. Colleen returns, "Want more?" she winks, sloshing the coffee decanter. He turns outward, knees together, erection tenting impressively in his pants-a sweaty idiot dog does pant for her approval. How she does notice. He's still pretty smooth, at that.

"I sure do," he whispers, blushing down at his throbbing pride of prides.

Colleens cleavage reddens. Coffee isn't the only hot fluid she dispenses. Her panties do dampen.

******

The ride home finds them together, with Helen driving, with Harold dreaming of better times: Better Ever-Ready erections he could always count on; a hot desiring girlfriend adoring him; a bright future ahead. All gone. Still here. All fucked up but still here.

Helen turns up the radio and sings along. Harold cringes at her warblings. His erection is a thing of the past again. Gone but not forgotten.

Just a little more time to put in today-then time to dream of Colleen. Pain meds allow for great times dreaming of sexy girls named Colleen. He can't get there soon enough. Ahh, nap time. Mmm, Colleen.

******

"Ungh! Oh fuck! Harold, It's been so long. You're so long and hard!" Helen's dowdy housecoat flaps, as does her hot white flesh against his. Harold isn't fully awake-just caught sailing in a dream at full mast.

"Colleen! Colleen! Oh! I love you!" he moans, Helen's juddering hips secure in his grasp. Everything grinds to a halt. Possessive wife-pussy clenching his rod ends his dream.

"What!" shouts Helen, shaken for the moment. Their eyes meet, Harold's are wide and unsure. Helen's are not.

"Don't talk. I was almost there," fumes Helen. She pushes away, releasing his throbbing, gleaming prick from herself. She leaves it behind her, jutting up and abandoned. She settles her dripping crotch down on his face, adjusting to her position of dominance perfectly. "There. Put your mouth to good use. Lick me." And he does. Who he thinks about however, is his.

"Mmm, Colleen!" he moans into Helen's twitching snatch, licking and sucking at her intimate pussy flesh. Helen doesn't hear; she enjoys the vocal vibrations under her, pleasing her to no end as she humps away. She grinds her fleshy pussy swells into his open mouth, making him lap at her juicy clitty, ordering him to suck her off.

She's on the ragged edge of losing it, bouncing and rolling her sex over his lips and tongue. Her juice dribbles into his ears. His cock weaves and waves around in the dark-a blissed out drunk heading home, mindlessly stirring and spoiling to spill.

Helen grabs the hair of his head, pulling, urging his tongue up into her. She contorts her face, sighing and crying out. He crosses his thighs around his cock, gripping it, clenching it towards satisfaction. She really is beautiful.

"Ahh! Mmm! Suck my cunt! I'm your waitress Harold! Suck Colleen's hot pussy!" she squeals, humping his face, using him, fucking his face with short, rapid, circular thrusts, parting his gently pursed lips with insistent jabs of her stiff clitty. A gasp escapes her. She heaves through her thigh churning orgasm, riding high, proudly in claim of her man, triumphant on her husband's face. Dirty girl.

"Helen!" Harold volleys spurts of fucksome sauce. A hot spurt splats dead center between her shoulder blades; they converge in reply. She smiles; she leans back. Palms pressed together, arms stretching overhead, she yawns. She rolls off onto her side, sighing, nestling her cheek in the shallow of his hip. Silky curls of her long brown hair sketch across his ticklish abdomen.

She parts her heavy thighs. Wedging one knee under his shoulder, she urges him to rest his head near the hot sanctity of her sex mound. She gently lowers her upper thigh over his cheek. Harold caresses her, reveling in their intimate union. He's moved to kiss the downy flesh of her yielding lady-belly. He shivers at her delicate handlings and lickings of his cock.

This is how they were once. Time is expensive.

*****

Twenty years ago, or more, or less, Harold was a man to be reckoned with, but not so much now anymore. He follows Helen into the Breakfast Cafe. She looks back, catching him nodding an approval at their usual waitress's car, parked in the usual spot. He looks lovingly at Colleen's high heeled footprints fixed in the grime of the city snow. He imagines soothing the girl's sore feet after her busy waitress day. Helen reaches back for his hand. "Harold! Don't dawdle."

But there sits a new man in their usual spot, so they sit elsewhere. Helen helps him out of his coat and hangs it about the back of his chair. Harold is put out; he likes to sit at the same table each time. He casts a sour eye at the new man. He's not a very 'new' man exactly; he's Harold's vintage, or so they suppose. Like Harold, he has designs on Colleen, that much is obvious.

Breakfast service is interrupted-Swap! The 'new man' smacks Colleen's haughty ass cheeks. This will not do. To Harold, he might as well have pissed on the Mona Lisa-so is his reaction.

"You Bastard! Keep your shit-hooks to yourself! You ugly shit!" Harold hacks these words into the man's face while clutching a fistful of bastard beard cheek in his hand.

The man, eyes wide, takes a hard swipe at him. "Bugger off!" Harold lets go, dodging the assault to his midsection.

"Harold! For god's sakes! Can't we have a quiet breakfast!" sputters Helen, dragging him back to their table, her eyes pleading an apology to the new man. Colleen looks on, tray contents about her feet, hands over mouth, with nipples swelling. The two men glare on. Breakfast resumes wordlessly. Bile ruins the flavor.

Helen walks him back to the car as one would a simple child, saying, "You wait here. You forgot something." She pauses in the lobby to write a note. Harold invents excuses for the pains in his chest. Snow falls hypnotically. She returns. "Honestly Harold, I can't take you anywhere." She tosses his coat over him. "You'd forget your head if it wasn't screwed on."

*****

Colleen, having recovered from morning events, prepares to finish her shift. She sits applying crimson lipstick at the staff table. The busboy, grinning, drops a note in front of her. He waits, expecting her to read it to him. He can manage some words, but doesn't know much english.

Crossing her legs, she smiles and says, "Well, what have we here?" The busboy waits. Colleen reads, "Great service, sorry I forgot your tip, I'll fix it tomorrow." The busboy rolls his eyes and leaves; Colleen shrugs. Blushing profusely, Colleen slips her hand down under the table to her parted thighs, stopping just short of her pussy. Flustered, she looks from side to side-no, no one noticed.

What the note really says: "You are the most beautiful woman I know. May we meet in private? Friday at 8 at the corner pub? Sorry I forgot your tip. I will make it up to you." This isn't some rare note of proposition-not for Colleen especially. She is outraged by an old ass slapper thinking he can date her up after humiliating her at work. Why she's so aroused-she can only wonder.

The note couldn't have been from her Harold. He left a good tip behind, hidden from his wife, under his coffee mug, as usual. Something must be done.

*****

"So, I must say, you sure have it bad for that Colleen person," says Helen, handing over the car keys. It's Harold's last vestige of dignity-the passing of the car keys. Oh boy.

"I don't know. She reminds me of you when we first met." Dreadfully familiar sights shuttle by.

"You could have got yourself killed today. Try minding your own business." Helen strokes his hand. He pulls away, but not right away. She shakes her head and walks to the house.

"Yes dear." He remains behind, in the passenger seat of his car. He sits, admiring her lively, lovely derriere. She is his, all big and beautiful, she is his. Dropping the keys into his coat pocket, he finds a note. His eyes widen. His erection looms. His lips tremble.

*****

"He wants a meeting? We'll give him a meeting," says Colleen to herself. She waits at the corner pub, some minutes before eight. What a sight she is. She hardly needs to spike the ball, so to speak. Long since accustomed and weary of her beauty, she's outdone herself tonight. Hair up in a french braid, black stockings and mini skirt, she's out to break her enemy. Here comes Harold. Here comes Harold carrying flowers.

She starts to her feet. "Harold? What__"

"Hi Colleen. We need to talk," he interrupts.

The waiter comes over, scanning Harold dubiously. "What'll it be, you...two?" He lingers on the word 'two'. Cheeky git.

"Guinness," they say both at once. They share in a nervous smile. This looks for all the world like a date. But it isn't. The waiter mumbles something under his breath and strides off.

"Listen, I think we need to talk," repeats Harold, fingering his watch strap. "I think you're great and all that, but I'm very married. And you're so much younger. Who knows. Maybe__"

"And who's this then, Colleen?" asks Charles, slapping Harold on the shoulder. Charles is Colleen's on and off boyfriend. Harold looks up at him, cringing at his shoulder pain.

"Charles! No!" she blurts. Too late. It's on. All she can do is sit, head in hands.

"I know who this is. It's the slime that can't keep his hands to himself."

"No, I'm Harold!"

"Charles, stop this," she murmurs.

"Now, now. I've got this. Now listen mate, you are nothing but an old sod and you better listen. You touch her again and you and I will have a problem."

Harold sits perfectly still, red from the top of his comb over, down to his bow-tie. He doesn't answer. A small crowd has gathered. Loving an audience, Charles snatches the bouquet from the table.

"Flowers! Flowers! For! Her!" He bashes Harold over the head with the bundle with every uttered syllable, scattering the peace offering everywhere. "Leave her be!"

Harold, scalded and wretched, bolts for the door as the crowd looks on. "Charles! You got the wrong man! You idiot!" she seethes. Too late. Harold is gone.

"Why didn't you say something, you silly cow!" says Charles, dropping the tattered bouquet. "Goodnight!" he coughs. He beats a hasty retreat, head held high, arms pumping purposefully. She watches him rush off-an actor who's flubbed the scene of a lifetime. Playtime's over.

"Oh, Charles," she mutters, staring at the floor. She plucks a business card from the ruined bouquet. Turning it over, she finds handwriting. 'To a great girl' it reads. The waiter stops by with two beers. She drinks them down.

*****

Harold brushes flower debris from his coat after paying the cab driver. He walks the two blocks between him and his home to find Helen still away. "Goddam it. I'm a laughing stalk now." He rushes over to the basement to find an extension cord. "There. This will do." His hands fumble; he fashions a noose fit for a failure. He ties it to the chandelier above the bed. His eyes cold and hard, he resolves to succeed. "One. Two. Goodbye!"

The cord stutters, drawn with terrible tension. His eyes bug out. He sees life in a new way. He wants...he wants to live! Feet thrashing, hands grappling, he struggles. He catches his feet on a potted plant at the bedside. He frees himself. He falls to the bed amidst wet flowers and sloppy dirt. "I damn near got myself under the flowers and dirt," he gasps.

In time, he collects himself and the soiled bedcovers. Down to the basement laundry he goes. Helen mustn't know. She must never find out.

*****

Colleen examines the business card. The beers hit her pretty hard but she sees things clearly. She's off to see the florist.

"So can you help me?" she asks. The man behind the counter flutters his long eyelashes, turning the card over in his hands. She notices his silk ascot and his slight mascara. Oh, how the world loves a cliche.

He flinches, turning his head to the side, and sighs. It's a lustful sigh. His body sways ever so slightly. "What the?" She sees plainly now. She studies a pair of heels facing her from under the counter. They move in time with the florist. Their eyes meet. His plead; hers deliver scorn. With an eyebrow raised, she waits.

"Here. Here's Harold's address. I wish you all the luck...Ohh!" He waves her off, slumping over the counter.

"What a day." She's off.

*****

Harold sits in the laundry room watching bedcovers churning in soap suds. "I could sure use that beer now," he says.

Ding! Dong! He hears the doorbell, half wondering if he didn't really kill himself. He imagines meeting the grim reaper bringing him his last beer. "No, I don't think he rings doorbells," he chuckles, heading upstairs.

"Harold. May I come inside?" Scanning for onlookers, he ushers his tear streaked visitor inside. Snow falls from her slight shoulders.

"You smell like a brewery. What the fuck do you want?" says Harold, peering out a side window, out at the dark streetscape.

"I'm so, so, sorry. Charles thought you were the other man. The one what slapped my ass," offers Colleen. She blinks up at him; she's smiling. Harold eyes her with caution. And optimism.

"Really?"

"Yes really. I wouldn't lie to my favorite customer."

She embraces him, backing him into a bookcase, lifting her thigh high up between his legs. Arousal begins. "Colleen, no." He slips his thumbs between her shoulders and his chest, preparing to push her away. She has other ideas. Even with her runny make up, she's still his fantasy girl. She raises up on her heels to kiss him. He sighs defeated, drawing her lower lip into his mouth, he's cupping her forbidden buttocks in his palms.

Her breasts squish into his chest. Together, they embrace. HIs cock surges, bridging the gap between them. She never forgot his impressive breakfast time erection; this wets her all the more. She swivels her form against the strains of his member, deliberately, knowingly-her hot lips urge him on.

"S,stop!" he stutters. Helen is back. Headlights pan across the room. "Colleen! Go hide!"

Harold locks the door on his way upstairs. He's making the bed when Helen finds him there, grinning up at her.

"What's all this then?" she asks, knitting her brow. "New bedding? What's the occasion?"

"I got a bit sick after my nap. And no wonder. Breakfast didn't sit all that well. It'll all come out in the wash."

"Oh yes. Next time, don't be a hero," she laughs. "I was visiting my niece. She knows of a place that hires men like you."

"I'll think it over."

"Want to...you know?" smiles Helen, noticing Harold's semi erect cock. She doesn't notice the lipstick smear on the back of his hand. Closing her eyes, she leans back, lifting her breasts together. He looks on.

"I do, but can we just cuddle tonight. I don't know if I can take anymore excitement."

"Yes dear, anything for a hero."

He's never been so nervous as he sits on the side of the bed, idly stroking his cock, watching Helen slip into a sexy negligee. They settle in under the covers, his head resting on her right breast. For the moment, he's happy.

Sleep comes easy to Helen. Harold molds his tired body around her voluptuous curves. He wraps an arm over her chest, just under her impressive breasts. He draws a leg up over the tops of her thighs. He basks in the warmth of their bed, listening in the dark, his cock hardening against her silky hip. There's nothing to hear save for his wife's deep breaths of sleep. He slips away into slumber.

But not for long. He awakens to Colleen spooning him. She's slipped under the covers and how she grinds him. Prior to waking, he had been pushing his butt cheeks back at her-her gyrating, young hips, her bushy mound brushing and crushing against his flesh, her firm tits raking stiff nipples into his back. But no more; he freezes in place between two hot women. Helen stirs. Panic wells in him.

"Harold," whispers Colleen. He fakes going back to sleep. She parts from him, but only briefly. Her hand slides down to her pussy; he hears her squelching lust. "Harold. Here, smell," she giggles. Her fingers wave at his nose, he stiffens to her scent-the same horny scent from the cafe. She rubs her hand over his lips as she grinds him from behind with mounting aggression. He remains silent, wondering if he's in a dream.