Back in New York, a month later, a year later, too late later, I'd kick myself for not saying something flattering to that woman. More vanity of age. I'd seen that she was old and squelched any interest a fair look might have generated. She forced me to look anyway. But I was too retarded to respond when it could have counted. The woman had a great set of knockers, even if one was stuffing. She wore them under a cashmere sweater. Sweater girl. Hide the skin, you'd believe she was sixteen. The rest of her body was similarly well proportioned. Slender. Nice bearing. And admit it: her face was beautiful too. Just older than me. What an asshole. I should have improvised an ode to her right then and there. Begged her to take me home with her so I could tell her more. God damn it! I should have made love to the one tit that was still hers.
The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young.
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Stupid. But sometimes I do learn. I got over my vanity after that fourteen year old girl. I got over this other vanity after wasting a chance to make that woman feel what she was signaling that she needed to feel: beautiful. Still desirable. Lady, forgive me. You were. You are. You just picked a retard.
Fussing with backgrounds and layouts today this file again reminds me of that woman. I hope she's alive and wish she would somehow stumble onto this recollection, recall the events, and herself imagine the possibilities I missed: we both missed. I bet she's still beautiful. I bet she's still sexy. And I'm afraid I bet she could more than ever use a good worshipping. Old women are one of our most wasted precious resources.
I've been intimate with females from half-way toward ten to similarly past nintey and there's no age at which they can't be wonderful.
Ever since the meeting reported above I've wondered about mastectomies: what exactly is involved? A friend of my Darling's, also in her nineties, had one breast removed, I've know for years. The other day I got up the courage to query her about it: is it just the nice breast flesh that's removed? Please tell me that the nipple remains, that sensation remains. Nope, she said. They take the whole apparatus, leave you flat as a pancake, with a scar. Hard to imagine: even a man's chest has nipples.
Well yesterday, I got a look. I was showing her my oozing blisters after the dermatologist spray-froze dozens of cancers all over my face, forehead, ears, arms ... She wound up showing me one hell of an assortment of scars: a tumor removed from her neck, heart-bypass scars, the complementary scars on her thighs where they took the veins ... I suggested that she might give me just a peek at a corner of the other scar.
Once she'd confirmed that I meant her mastectomy, she stood, pulled up her blouse, pulled up the left side of her bra. Good God! She wasn't kidding. There really was nothing there.
What part of the human body has such an expanse of unfeatured flesh? The back has the spine. The buttocks turn toward other things. The belly has a navel ... Men's chests, boys', have nipples ...
That was pretty brave of her I think to show me.
Ah, at last I've fulfilled my fantasy of those decades ago. Living among old people there are plenty of one-breasted women around. And the other day I petted a bit with one. I knew because she had told me which breast was her and which just stuffing. I sat, and drew her, still standing, to me. I put my arms around her hips and fondled her ample buttocks. She's old enough not to be too great to look at, but her big bottom felt just fine in my hands. I nibbled at her true breast. "Show me. Show me," I urged her. She lifted that side of her bra up and away from it, revealing a breast as beautiful as any, a very pearl of a pink nipple in its center.
"I have a bone to pick with you," I said. "You told me you were small-breasted." "Well, smaller than some," she answered.
I'm still impressed at the gal who showed me her scar. And I'm grateful to this gal for giving me a chance finally to pay loving respects to another victim of breast cancer.
Her nipple though didn't really respond. So many women, born before a certain time, still resist their sexuality. I think they cooperate more for the man's sake than for their own: just when it was her I was most trying to please.
Maybe next time.
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