Cleo Ch. 01

I was working on my third beer and watching some stupid baseball game on television. I know enough about baseball to understand my once-a-year trip to the ballpark but didn't care enough to have this particular game hold my interest. My friend who had lured me here had gone home and I was about to do just that myself. "Oh, well," I was thinking, "I need to study for that test anyway." I was in my senior year, and finally getting around to making up classes outside of my Education major, so I needed to work hard to maintain my 4.0 Grade Point Average.

"Hey, sailor, buy a girl a drink?" the voice asked.

I turned, spinning on my bar stool, and looked, then looked down.

She was a short woman, I guessed no more than 5 feet tall even in the moderately high heels she wore.

It would be impossible to imagine a woman more out of place here. This was a college bar, plain and simple. Balls clicked on a pool table, the beeping of the various electronic games was a constant background sound, and that weird clack sound of plastic darts being thrown at a plastic dartboard set up a counterpoint.

And she was anything but a college student.

I guessed her at a minimum of 70 years old, and a maximum of 80, although I gave myself a plus or minus 5 years on that estimate.

She had that white hair shot through with grey that I've always found attractive on women of a certain age. She was cute as a button and she looked ridiculous.

It was like she had dressed specifically to look like a damn whore.

Her blouse had a scoop neck that showed about six inches of cleavage, obviously helped by a push-up bra that left her soft pale breasts, showing those tiny wrinkles some old women with big boobs get, on display. The blouse ended about two inches above her spandex pants showing pale, slightly cellulite-dimpled skin. The spandex was skin tight, drawing attention to her bubble butt and round hips. On her feet she wore moderately high heels, not spikes, those sort of broad heels that were all the rage for a while, with open toes showing pudgy pink toes with red nails, and ankle straps, what the college girls I hang with called their "fuck me" shoes.

And I felt like I should know her.

"Am I that forgettable, Davey?" she asked, batting her eyes, blue eyes that I couldn't help notice were, as that old song from the Zombies went, "clear and bright."

It was the tone when she said my name as a pet name, "Davey," not the "Dave" I normally go by, that triggered the memory.

"Cleo?" I asked and the smile that spread slowly across her face stripped decades from it. Oh, she was still the same age, but she looked so damn happy she seemed young.

"So, buy a girl a drink?" she asked for the second time.

I laughed, called up the bar, "Hey, Maggie," and hopped off of the barstool. As Maggie approached I laid my arm across Cleo's back, finding her softness interesting.

"Whatever my new best girl wants," I said, "on my tab."

Cleo grinned up at me and said, "A pitcher of whatever's on tap and two mugs. I think I'll give drinking lessons tonight."

I handed her the mugs, picked up the pitcher, and led her off to the other room. In there, the music was much lower and you could have a conversation. Couples usually wound up in there when they hooked up.

We sat across from each other in one of the well-worn booths. I adjusted my butt around the tear in the vinyl and said, "Well, what's been going on for the past 20 years?"

Cleo was my grandmother's best friend. Growing up I spent almost as much time with Gramma as I did with Mom, and Cleo was often around. But I was a kid and she barely impinged on my consciousness at the time. You know how it is with kids. We have narrow fields of interest and the attention spans of hyperglycemic fruit flies.

"Well," she said, and drew a deep breath before going on.

"I suppose I should start with this," she said, taking a drink from her beer before going on. She touched my hands with hers and met my eyes, all seriousness. "I have syphilis."

As conversation stoppers go, that pretty much tops them all in my experience.

"Don't worry, Davey," she said, a little giggle in her voice, "I'm not contagious. I was treated back in 1976. Penicillin is a great thing. But a few of the little buggers hid out in my brain and, well, here I am, a half-century later, and it's back."

She paused, and took a healthy drink from the mug, leaving a cute little foam mustache before she went on.

"Soooooooooo," she said, drawing the vowel out dramatically, "you didn't run screaming from the room."

"No," I chuckled, "This is a story I HAVE to hear."

"It's an old story, Davey," she said, smiling, "well, at least until last November. Gregory, my husband, I don't think you ever met him, brought it home from a business trip. When I got the rash and my pussy [I felt a little rush at her use of the word pussy, I don't know why.] started leaking I went to the doctor, got diagnosed, and got treated with a giant shot of penicillin. I confronted Gregory and told him to keep his fucking [another little rush at that word.] dick in his pants or I'd cut the fucking thing off. And we were happy for the next 30 years."

She smiled, took another drink, refilled our mugs, and went on.

"Gregory died, well, Gregory was killed at work, and I entered my new life as a widow, doing all of those things a widow does. I worked the polls on election day, served as the Chairwoman for the Fall Cleanup, and attended the Historical Society meetings, all of those things a crone is expected to do. And then," and here she paused and met my eyes with an almost elfin smile, "I got the itch. I started masturbating frequently, something I had never done before. I ordered, you know," and she blushed quite prettily, "toys off of the internet and played with them until it's all I was doing. I'd masturbate until I was exhausted enough to sleep and then wake up and do it again before I even went to the bathroom."

I noticed that her face was flushed and realized that talking about this was getting to her.

She took another drink and went on.

"I knew this wasn't normal, Davey, so I went to the doctor. My gynecologist found nothing wrong and told me to enjoy it. But I knew something had happened and I'm not stupid enough to let something like that go. Maybe I watch too much TV, too many of those doctor shows, but I was convinced I had a brain tumor. So I went to my family doctor and told him everything. He didn't find anything and so referred me to a specialist. The Neurologist got an MRI, and that was no fun at all, believe me, but he found it."

This time I'm pretty sure when she stopped talking it was for dramatic effect. She was obviously enjoying herself and, if I'm being honest, I was captivated by her story and enjoying it with her.

"A few of those nasty little syphilis bacteria had managed to sneak into my brain and just laid there, not doing a damn thing, for almost a half-century. And then they started doing what bacteria do, multiplying. That," another drink from the pitcher, as she giggled, "caused a swelling in an area that, in turn, put pressure on something called the orbitofrontal cortex, you can think of it as your pleasure center."

"So you took more penicillin?" I asked.

Her smile this time was almost angelic. If she could keep that look on her face she could pass for 40.

"He prescribed penicillin," she said, taking another drink.

She reached across the table, took my hand in hers, and then started lightly tickling the back of my hand with the fingernail of her other hand. It was like she could find a single nerve ending and stimulate it. I felt a tingle suddenly run up my arm and my cock, as the saying goes, sprang erect.

"I didn't get the prescription filled," she said.

What she was doing to my hand made me gasp in a sharp intake of breath. I had to struggle a bit to get out the next question.

"Why?" I asked, although I was pretty sure I already had the answer.

"Davey," she said, and her finger on the back of my hand took my breath away again, "I'm 78 years old. The syphilis will kill me in 5 to 7 years. The last year will be bad, and I'll check myself out. I've already looked into it and when the pain is greater than the pleasure I'm getting right now, I'll sell everything, make my peace with the family, and then check myself into a place I found in Colorado where I can die while looking at those mountains I've always loved."

She took a long pull at her mug then, found another nerve ending with her fingernail, sent a sudden very sharp burst of pain up my arm and down my side where my erection disappeared as suddenly as it came up, and smiled.

"Soooooo, sailor," she said, smiling, "would you like to come home with me? I'll promise you three times although my personal best is five."

I poured the final bit of beer into my mug, drank it down, and stood.

She finished her beer, laughed, a very happy sound, and accepted my offered hand and stood.

"I am going to rock your world, Davey," she said, her hand on my arm, her fingernail doing something that gave me goosebumps down my back.

"And I'm going to make you cum like a garden hose," I said, running my own nail down the soft skin at the back of her arm. I might not have her skill or be able to find a single nerve ending, but I know a woman's sensitive places.

We walked to the door, hand in hand like two college students about to hook up.

Outside I asked if she had a car here. She didn't so I walked her to my little chick magnet, a bright blue PT Cruiser convertible so cute the girls all loved it. I helped her get in, got in myself, and put the top down. When I started the car my favorite oldies station was playing music from the 1950s and 1960s and she sang along with every song.

She gave me turn-by-turn directions and in about 10 minutes had me pull into the driveway of an old, two-story brick house near the downtown area.

"Of course," I said, smiling as I got out of the car and ran around to open her door, "I would have been disappointed with anything less."

We walked hand-in-hand up to the door and I laid my hand lightly on her shoulder, enjoying the softness and warmth of her, as she got the key out and opened the door.

As soon as we cleared the door she turned and with amazing gracefulness, slipped to her knees, and lifted my foot into her lap where she started untying my tennis shoe. I was forced to grab her shoulders to keep my balance, and from this vantage point, the scoop neck top showed me more of that excellent cleavage.

She got my shoes off, rolled my socks down and off, and then unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, and pulled my jeans and boxers down and off in a single smooth motion.

"No man should wear pants in this house," she said, smiling up at me before taking me into her mouth.

She was an artist with her mouth, just like with those fingernails that had taken my breath away earlier. Her tongue was a separate, living thing, that almost seemed to wrap around my cock like a snake. Her lips were just holding me, but her tongue was making me shudder. Her palms on my ass held me to her.

And her eyes never left mine. She was smiling up at me as she took me close to the finish and then held me there, an amazing tongue knowing just how much pressure to apply.

I don't know how long that first blowjob with Cleo lasted. Hell, I'm not even sure "blowjob" is the right word for something so amazing. The smile in those eyes that held me was so damn happy she reminded me of a little girl getting the present she wanted so badly. It seemed natural to reach down and lightly stroke her hair, almost petting her, before her tongue took me to the next level.

She did that three more times, taking me past the point where I would have been finished and beyond, into some new region of sensation that had my whole body trembling.

I felt that point of no return pass, and she did too. With that first pre-pump, my body preparing to answer the demand of millions of generations of evolution and send my seed deep into her, she pulled quickly off, grasped me in her right hand while her left, on my ass, held me still. She pushed my erection down, the sensation bordering on painful since I'm one of those men whose erection points straight up his body, until my urethra touched that cleavage she was showing, and I ejaculated between those big soft boobs.

She smiled and stroked me gently as I finished. That weird little "aaauuuugggghhhhhhh" sound, I realized, was me, as my body tensed with that sweet agony/ecstasy only a man can understand.

When I finished, my body relaxing, she stood, again showing that strange gracefulness, smiled, reached behind my neck, pulled me down for a kiss, and then said the first thing she had said since we got to her house.

"One."