Screw Too Old

The Three Bitches, as a good many of the older ladies of the Summerside retirement community in Melbourne, Florida, referred to Annelise, Becky, and Karen, watched with barely suppressed sighs as new fellow resident, Phil, walked between their lounge beds and the edge of the community pool en route to the tennis courts. He did his best not to do more than nod, mumble "Ladies," and give a tight little smile. He knew that if he showed more interest than that the three would be on him like cats on a wounded sparrow, which he thought a particularly apt image.

"What a hunk," Becky muttered behind her Kindle after he'd walked by. "Have either of you . . .?"

"Not me," Karen quickly answered.

"Me neither . . . not quite yet, although I think I might be getting somewhere with him," Annelise volunteered.

Annelise was ever the more optimistic and forward of the three, even though, at sixty-one, she was the oldest. She was the more manufacturedly perfect of the three, though, having had a fortune to spend on uplifts and tummy tucks and cosmetic miracles. The other two were not yet sixty, which made the three the youngest women in the community—and, thus, the disapproval gossip target of the other spinsters and widows who made up nearly 80 percent of the owners of manufactured homes surrounding the artificial finger lake of the community. The animosity went deeper than just their ages, though. The three hadn't given up yet. They hadn't given up on toning their bodies and beating off old age, and they hadn't given up on landing that last husband or sugar daddy. None of the three had given up on using the "fuck" word as more than just an explicative—or on doing it whenever they could maneuver a man who could get hard into their clutches.

Ever since Phil had moved in five weeks earlier, he had been the center of their attention as the newly minted most eligible man of the lot—this despite that he had recently hit seventy. It was a very well-preserved seventy, though, and neither of the Three Bitches were aware he was that old. He had always been a trim and handsome man who spent more than his share of time in the gym. And, as significant as anything else, thanks to his mother's genes, he'd kept a full head of hair that had turned a luminous shade of gray.

"You're putting us on about getting closer to him," Karen said, lowering her sunglasses to show Annelise that she was putting on a mock glower.

"If you think that then how would I know that he recently lost his wife? Her name was Lynn, she was younger than he is—about our age, which we should take as a sign, ladies—and he's devastated. It's not that he isn't interested, I'm sure. He's just still in shock and mourning."

"I wouldn't mind helping him get past mourning," Becky said, using a cooing voice tone. "He's one well-preserved man."

"He was a professional tennis player once, you know," Annelise said, determined to dole out the information she'd gleaned in the sales office slowly and with the inference she'd gotten it straight from him.

"Do tell?" Becky said. "His body certainly bears that out."

"Speaking of hunks," Karen muttered under her breath. "Look see who appeareth now. We're getting a parade of the best men in complex."

Heads swiveled as another man, in tennis togs, appeared from the same direction Phil had appeared and moved toward the same destination—the tennis court that adjoined the swimming pool. This man, Sergio, the recreation director of the community, was even hunkier than Phil was. Of course he was twenty years younger than Phil was. A Brazilian, with an accent that the women of the community swooned over, Sergio was all muscle—for his age—and deeply tanned.

The Three Bitches adjusted their lounge beds slightly to get a better view of the tennis courts, and they swooned and sighed in unison as both men took off their shirts and moved to opposite sides of the court to start warming up.

"Oh, god, what I'd give to be fucked by that Brazilian," Becky cooed.

"I'd happily open my legs for either one of them," Karen chimed in.

"Best concentrate on Phil," Annelise said with a knowing smirk, "Sergio wouldn't be interested."

"Oh, how would you know that?" Karen challenged her. "Lots of men wear an earring like that—although I'm a little leery of the nipple ring. But if you ask me, it's very sexy. In fact, they're both very sexy. I'm melting."

"You've been out in this sun too long. You're beginning to take on the cast of old leather." Becky turned back to Annelise then. "You know that because you hit on him and he didn't bite? Not every man who's straight will want to get into your bikini bottoms, Little Miss Perfect."

"I know what I know," Annelise persisted.

"I still say I'd open my legs for either one of them," Karen said in a dreamy voice, her eyes plastered on the tennis court, her attention bouncing back and forth between the two shirtless men along with the movement of the tennis ball.

* * * *

"You let me win," Sergio said when he and Phil had finished their match on the tennis court and were swigging bottled water by the bench where they had stashed their gear. "With what I'd heard about you having been on the pro circuit, I thought I didn't have a chance."

"The pro circuit was decades ago, Sergio," Phil answered. "I'm just an old man today. I ran out of steam, and you're a much younger man. And you play very well too." Phil was rotating an arm at the shoulder and wincing a bit, not yet stowing his gear away as Sergio was busy doing.

"I'm not a young man either," Sergio said with a laugh.

"Twenty years or so, I'd say," Phil countered. "It makes a difference."

"Not twenty years, surely" Sergio said, with a laugh, but happy that Phil seemed to think he was about forty. "I'm fifty, and you're probably the most fit sixty-year-old in the community."

"Seventy," Phil interjected.

Sergio whistled appreciatively. "I would never have guessed," he said, "and I can see why I won the match now. You're having trouble with those shoulder muscles, aren't you?"

"It's what age—and inactivity—will do for you," Phil answered, the tone of regret and defeat coming through loud and clear in his voice.

Sergio gave him a sharp look and then turned and finished stowing his gear away. "I promised I'd come by and help you get your computer hooked up," he said, not looking at Phil, who was still looking dejected as he pulled a Polo shirt over his torso and starting putting his tennis stuff in his bag. "Any time convenient for you that I can come over to do that?"

"Sure, any time you can schedule it," Phil answered, his voice flat. And then he continued in a somewhat faraway voice, "Any time at all. I'm not going anywhere . . . any more. I have all the time in the world now."

"How about tomorrow afternoon at 4:00 p.m.? I have an exercise class to give at 2:00. I'd have plenty of time to wrap that up and get showered."

"4:00 it is then," Phil said as he turned to walk away. "And . . . thanks for helping with the computer. I'm a dunce at that. It was always taken care of by . . . let's just say that anything electronic is way beyond me. And thanks for the tennis game too. I'd gotten rusty."

"I'm the one who should thank you for the tennis. Now I can say I've played a pro—and I'm willing to bet this is the last time I win. And the help with the computer is just one of my jobs here. Happy to do it." Sergio didn't turn to watch Phil depart until Phil was almost at the gate in the tall, chain-link fence surrounding the tennis court. Phil hesitated, perhaps thinking of turning to say something, but then he resumed moving through the gate and toward the swimming pool, his body in a stance of dejection.

Sergio had meant this tennis game to be something to lift the new resident's spirits. As soon as he'd heard that Phil had been a professional tennis player when he was younger, Sergio had thought this would be a way to help the man settle in at Summerside. Many coming here as their first stop in a retirement community had trouble adjusting to the life. And it was part of Sergio's job, as the recreational director, to do what he could to get them settled in. Phil was more forlorn and withdrawn than most. Of course, Sergio had been told that Phil was here because he was recently widowed and had had a spouse who did almost everything for him.

Such residents usually were the toughest ones to fit in.

Beyond doing his duty, Sergio was attracted to Phil. Really good-looking man, Sergio thought. There's no way he would have guessed Phil had hit seventy. He had kept himself in great shape—probably a function of having been a professional athlete—and he was quite a handsome man. Yes, quite a handsome man indeed, Sergio thought.

The Three Bitches interrupted their chattering as Karen noticed that the tennis game was over and Phil was walking by between them and the side of the pool again. She nudged the other two and they went into a "we don't notice you at all, we don't even see you" pose as they scrutinized Phil's progress behind Kindles and magazines across their field of sight.

"He looks sad," Becky whispered.

"I'd still jump his bones in a nanosecond," Karen whispered back.

"He's well worth it," Annelise said smugly. "He's hung."

"You've never," Becky hissed. "You're just putting us on."

"You just don't know how to interpret sweaty tennis shorts," Annelise answered with a sniff in her voice.

The three giggled into their tanned, manicured hands. Phil just kept on walking, not looking around, although the giggles were loud enough to reach his ears. He had no time for the women of the Summerside retirement community—to him, the last stop in this life—and, considering the depth of the grief of his recent loss, his stay here couldn't possibly be too short.

* * * *

"The computer is in the bedroom," Phil said when he opened the door to Sergio the next afternoon. "And thanks for doing this. I know that if I tried to hook it up, I'd blow the electricity for the entire community. I'll go make us some coffee. I think staying out of the way would be my best contribution to this."

"You might be right," Sergio said as he entered the manufactured home, "there are some people who are quite talented otherwise who just don't seem to be able to get along with electronics."

"That would be me," Phil answered, moving toward the kitchen at the right, as Sergio headed toward the door to the master bedroom to the left. "I had someone to take care of all of that for me. I had Lynn."

Was that a catch in Phil's voice Sergio heard? He kept his eyes turned away from Phil and toward his destination, the master bedroom. This was a retirement community he was working in. He was accustomed to the older folks coming here not long after the loss of their spouse—or not long before they themselves passed on. It wasn't just any depression they might feel from moving from a substantial suburban home to what, essentially, was a glorified trailer park. It was too much change too late in life—an awareness that life had passed them by.

Sergio couldn't see the housing units here as anything but fancy trailers. Once inside Phil's unit, though, he could see that it was as solid looking as any stick-built home. But if you looked carefully you could see that the walls weren't wood or brick but some other man-made board covered in vinyl wallpaper. The interior was commodious enough, for one person, with the hub of the building being a kitchen-dining area-family room section, with a large master bedroom and bath and a smaller guest room and main bathroom off the family room. To the right, beyond the kitchen and dining areas was a large living room, which looked like it was used mainly as a transit room to a screened porch, facing the lake. Phil had managed to snarf up one of the premium lots right on the water.

Phil himself looked in better spirits today than yesterday. And to Sergio he looked good—trim, but well muscled, still causing Sergio to disbelieve that the man was seventy. He still had a full head of hair, which always helped to keep a man looking younger, even though it had gone fully to gray. He was wearing a close-fitting white T-shirt over white shorts today, which contrasted nicely with the tan he was developing. He might have lost steam on the tennis court yesterday, Sergio thought, and left dejected for some reason, but exercising out in the sun was benefiting him—and making him look hot to someone like Sergio in more ways than temperature.

The computer desk was set in the corner of what was a pretty large bedroom, dominated by a queen-sized bed. All the modules needed were there, but Sergio could tell from the tangle of wires that Phil had made a half-hearted effort to hook it up himself but had stopped quickly in frustration. Computer support was key to Sergio's recreation services job, though, so he had no trouble seeing what needed to be done and getting down to doing it.

There was a shelf above the computer desk. A few books laying on their backs and stacked on top of each other, but there were photographs too—of Phil, some younger, some recent—and also of who must be Lynn. Sergio did a double take at seeing the photos and began to readjust his thinking about Phil—and his own attitude toward Phil.

Phil had arrived with a cup of coffee for Sergio. "Is it a hopeless mess?" he asked.

"Not at all," Sergio answered. "We should have you up and running in no time."

"Thanks," Phil said. Sergio was looking up at him and saw Phil wince. The older man put his own cup of coffee down on the top of a nearby bureau and rotated the same arm he was having trouble with at the close of the match the previous day. The expression on his face showed that he was in some pain.

"Your shoulder. It's still hurting you?"

"Yes, a little. Just getting to be too old for tennis. Too old for much of anything."

"Nonsense. You're too good a player to give it up this young. You've kept in great shape. A massage could take care of that."

"I suppose," Phil answered noncommittally. He picked up his coffee cup and turned to leave. "You'll do better without me to jinx the computer build," he said. "Trust me on that. I'll be in the other room, marinating a steak for dinner."

"I see you have photographs," Sergio said, arresting Phil's departure. "You and Lynn, I take it?"

Phil's gaze went to the photographs as if seeing them for the first time, just now realizing he'd left them there. There was a nervous pause and then he sighed and said, "Yes, that's us. That's Lynn. Much younger than me. It should have been me who went first."

"I understand," Sergio said, saying so much in that phrase, saying enough to be able to see some of the tension draining out of Phil that had suddenly arisen at the realization that he hadn't put those photographs away before Sergio arrived.

"I'll . . . I'll be in the kitchen if there's anything you're missing here that I might be able to find for you."

"I don't think I'm missing anything," Sergio said. "Everything's fine. I mean it, Phil. Everything's fine."

Phil gave him a look with a touch of surprise in it and then left the room.

After he got the computer going and hooked up to the Internet, Sergio tested the machine out on some of his own favorite Web sites—just to be sure. And when he found that everything was as he expected, everything was fine.

"So, how did it go?" Phil asked, as Sergio came out of the bedroom. "Find everything you needed?"

"Yes, thanks, I found out all I needed to know. And you're good to go now."

He had taken his time. He could see, looking the full length of the home to the bay window in the living room opening to a lake view, that twilight was beginning to descend. While he'd been working on the computer, he'd decided that he'd like it to be close to dinnertime before he finished.

"What do I owe you?" Phil asked. "You're a lifesaver. A guy can't be without the Internet—even an old guy like me. Especially an old guy like me—suddenly living alone."

"You don't owe me anything. It's part of my job. But I would have been happy to have done it for you anyway."

"Well, we're well into happy hour," Phil said, after a pause during which Sergio hadn't moved toward the front door. "How about a drink out on the screen porch before you go? Although it seems you deserve more than that for getting me hooked up."

"A drink would be nice, thanks. And, well, if it's not asking too much, I see that you have two steaks marinating there. I live alone myself . . . and it's getting toward supper time . . ."

"Yes, of course. I should have invited you myself. I haven't been too swift lately in my thinking. Let's have the drink—or maybe a couple—out on the screened porch and then I'll put the steaks on. We can eat on the porch too. I spend a lot of time out there—alone—watching the lake. Getting this lot was the best decision I made in moving here."

They had two drinks before Phil put the steaks on, and the conversation had become loose and warm as they watched the sun sink over the lake. Phil obviously hadn't had anyone to talk to for some time, and Sergio studiously was being the good listener. There still were areas, facets of Phil's life, that he didn't go into, but Sergio was being very open about his own life—and his preferences.

He wanted Phil to know.

As they were finishing their steaks, Sergio brought up Phil's problem with his shoulder again. He obviously was in pain even from the slightest use of it while setting up and breaking down the supper elements. "I think that a massage would do that a world of good. I don't want you to stop playing tennis. I want to play more with you myself."

"I suppose. I guess I could check around to see—"

"I'm a trained masseur. I could take care of that for you myself."

"You could?" Phil's expression was one of surprise, as if he'd never considered this before and that it was significant information.

Sergio put his drink down and turned serious eyes on Phil. "Yes. I can help you. I want to help you."

The seriousness of Sergio's expression wasn't lost on Phil. They'd been dancing around the topic for a couple of hours now, honing ever closer to the center of the issue, and Phil had made no suggestion that it was time for Sergio to leave. "I'm an old man, Sergio. I'm past all that. But thanks for the offer."

"Screw the old man stuff," Sergio spat out. "You are only as old as you want to be. I can give you a good massage, a special massage. I want to."

"Here, now?" Phil said, a note of panic in his voice.

"No, not tonight. We're both liquored up tonight. I wouldn't want any part of my massage to hurt you or be what you didn't want. I'll be back tomorrow, same time. That will give you plenty of time to decide whether you want a massage. If not, though, it isn't because you are an old man and can't take the sort of massage that would do you good."

* * * *

"God, you're as good as Lynn. You're better than Lynn," Phil gasped. He was lying, face down on a portable massage table in the middle of his living room, naked other than a towel draped over his buttocks. Sergio, stripped to the waist, was standing above him, working Phil's shoulder muscles with a deep-tissue massage.

"Lynn gave you massages then, did he?" Sergio asked in low, thick voice. He still couldn't believe that Phil was seventy. He had the body of a much younger man. He was thickening, yes, but he was still solid and had muscle tone.

"Yes, Lynn did everything for me. Lynn was everything for and to me."

"I can't replace Lynn; I don't want to replace him," Sergio answered—he, in fact, thought he could replace Phil's younger, male lover, and he wanted to, but this wasn't the time to assert that—"but I can give you massages. And," he boldly added, "I could give you so much more."

Surely Phil wasn't so slow on the uptake not to know what Sergio was offering, the Brazilian thought. If Phil was going to reject the offer, this is where it should occur.