Fantasy Meeting You Here

George looked around the day room of the Batsworth Nursing Home to see if there were any new faces. He knew that the home had a couple of vacancies, and he lived in hopes that the next admission would be something easy on the eye, a female conforming to his idea of desirable womanhood. It wasn't too much to ask, he thought. She didn't have to be young: anywhere between sixty and eighty would do. She didn't have to have a pretty face, so long as it didn't sport a moustache or warts. All he hoped for was a nice plump body, well fleshed thighs, good sized boobs, and a bum that invited a friendly squeeze A warm smile and a sense of humour that didn't mind a bit of saucy badinage wouldn't come amiss either. Someone he would enjoy sitting next to for an exchange of confidences, someone who wouldn't object to an arm round her waist or a hand on her thigh. Someone who hopefully might even . . .Damn it, someone who would make him feel like a man again, instead of a burnt-out shell.

Not one of the dozen or so female inmates of the Home came anywhere near to fitting the description. Most of them were scarcely alive, sitting most of the day slumped in armchairs, snoozing with their chins on their chests, moving only to scuffle slowly to the loo, pushing their walking frames before them. The only reasonably fit female resident was 75 year old Mrs Chalmers, a skinny little woman with a hatchet face, a sharp tongue, and a dyspeptic disposition. She seldom spoke, unless it was to complain or criticise. He'd sooner drink vinegar than talk to her.

Even Matron was a disappointment to George. He had thought, when he first moved in, that with a thirty year advantage over her female wards, she at least would be worth looking at, but not so. To begin with, she never wore a skirt, let alone a short one, always trousers, and they showed no sign of anything worth calling buttocks, even when she bent over. Nor did she ever crack a smile. She was always helpful, but never friendly. She was super efficient, and looked it. When they get round to making robots to run these homes, George thought, they might do worse than use her as a model. Her deputy was even worse. He knew that to have reached that position, Elsie Gunny must be at least thirty, but she looked as if she was just out of school, and had the acne to prove it. Her spotty face was crowned with straight black hair, cut in an unattractive fringe, and sported a pair of round-lensed steel-framed spectacles. Ugh!

George sighed. Oh well, he thought, perhaps one day there'll be someone. In the meantime, he'd have to continue to use his imagination. He went back to his room, and hung the sign on the door, "Resting. Please do not disturb." He stripped, lay down on the bed, and closed his eyes. He was soon smiling as his hand massaged its contents into life.

* * *

Ruby Chalmers saw George Boswell look into the day room, then turn and go. What a pathetic specimen, she thought. His clothes hung untidily on his skinny frame, and he walked with a stoop, dragging his feet. His bald skull was covered in brown blotches, some of which extended to his face, which was always in need of a shave. His teeth were yellow with darker margins. His eyes were filmy, and drooping skin above them gave his visage an unattractive Mongolian look. She grimaced wryly at the thought that John Wayne and Robert Mitchum had similarly hooded eyes, but there the comparison ended. They were real men, men like her imaginary ideal.

One day, she hoped, such a man might be admitted as a new inmate. A retired sailor perhaps, with an upright military bearing and wide shoulders, shoulders on which a girl could rest her head. And he'd have a broad chest, against which he'd gently hold her while murmuring tender reassurance in her ear. A safe haven, a port in a storm. Some hopes! The reality was three revolting specimens, for the other two male inmates were even worse than George. One was Bob Jones, so grossly fat that his belly hung down towards his knees. He was always talking in a booming voice, mainly about football. The other was Ted Thompson, whom none of the female inmates wished to be within ten feet of, so disgusting were the noises and smells issuing from both ends of him.

Oh God! Ted was about to enter the day room. Time, she thought, to retire to her room for some solitary consolation. She went to her room, and hung the sign on the door, "Resting. Please do not disturb." She took her special toothbrush from the bedside cabinet, stripped, lay down on the bed, and closed her eyes. She was soon smiling as the toothbrush handle performed its magic.

* * *

F396 left Theatre 33 and started towards her own bay just as M434 was coming out of Theatre 35. They had never seen each other before, and they smiled as their eyes met. They were both still on duty, and should have returned to their quarters to stand by, ready to be called to another assignment, but neither of them felt inclined to do so. He looked at F396 with interest, approving of her somewhat motherly middle-aged face, with its laughing blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Her smooth round shoulders were nicely padded, and her breasts were plump with brown nipples. Her belly was a shallow dome above a pair of legs with fleshy thighs, a cluster of soft curly hair marking their upper junction.

"Hi," he said, "had a good session?"

"An exhausting one," she replied. "One of my regulars, named George. Always gives me quite a workout. Seemed to be particularly eager today, especially for the O."

"I know what you mean," he replied. "Mine came on a bit strong today too. Funny old girl called Ruby. Something must have lit her fuse. I had my work cut out."

She looked at him appraisingly. Well set up, she thought. Could be ex-Navy, with that well trimmed beard and moustache. Keen blue eyes with a twinkle in them. Broad chest with a sprinkling of grey hair, but no flab. Strong arms, not scrawny. Flat belly, and . . .Oh my! Is that twitching for me, she wondered. "Well," she said, "I can see what might have got into Ruby."

"Might have?" he said. "It did get into her. Several times, I might add. She was insatiable."

"Ooh, you are naughty!" she chuckled, adding, "You're making me quite jealous."

"No need to be," he replied. "My quarters are just around the corner. I don't expect another call. Would you care to . . .?"

"Why not? Lead on, MacDuff."

* * *

The Controller looked at them with an enigmatic expression on his face. "You know why you're here, I suppose?" They nodded sheepishly. The Controller tapped the report on his desk. "S75 heard strange noises coming from your quarters, M434, and on investigating found you two engaged in what he calls 'unscheduled activities.' I am not sure what he means by that. Perhaps you can enlighten me."

M434 and F396 looked at each other, lips twitching with suppressed laughter. She recovered herself first. "Well, Controller Sir," she said, "as to the noises, S75 would not have found them strange if he were employed in Operations rather than Security. The noises were in accordance with our specifications. For myself, I am equipped with moans, groans, grunts, screams, and several obscene words, for use as required, as provided by Spec 87b, Female."

"The same in my case," M434 said, "except that for me it is Spec 87a, Male. I might add that the moans, groans, grunts, and screams are almost identical in both cases, but there is some variation in the obscene words between 87a and 87b."

"The same applies to the activities in which we were engaged," added F396. "They are so many, and with so many styles, that I cannot quote offhand the precise references, but I assure you that they are all fully described in our specifications."

"Ah, but the specifications apply to scheduled activities. Your activities were not scheduled, were they?"

M434 thought for a moment, then replied, "Sir, we acted out of a sense of duty. Not having a current assignment at that moment, we thought it behoved us to keep in practice."

"All right," the Controller replied. "I can't find anything in the regulations specifically forbidding unscheduled activity, so I suppose I shall have to let it go at that. But I'm still puzzled. I wouldn't have thought that it was physically possible."

"It isn't," answered F396, "but then our scheduled activities aren't, either."

* * *

As the residents of Batsworth Nursing Home assembled in the dining room for their evening meal, George and Ruby collided in the doorway. "Look where you're going!" she snapped. "Anyone would think you were as blind as a bat."

"That's better than being an old bat, like some as I might name, not a million miles from here."

"You know what you are, Mr Boswell?" Ruby asked. "You are a rude, conceited, bitter old man."

"And you, Mrs Chalmers," George replied, "are a withered, frustrated, skinny old crone."

Matron overheard the exchange. "When you've eaten, I would like to see you both in my office, please."

* * *

Matron looked at them with a hurt expression on her face. "You know why I sent for you, I suppose?" They nodded sheepishly. Matron drummed her fingers on her desk. "I find it hard to believe that two grown people could behave like unruly infants, and badly brought up infants at that. I cannot think of any justification for it. Perhaps you can. Please enlighten me."

George shuffled his feet like a schoolboy. Ruby looked at the floor. Neither spoke.

"Nothing to say for yourselves? I'm not surprised. Your conduct was indefensible. I'm taking a long weekend this week, and won't be back until Tuesday. Elsie here will be in charge while I'm gone." Standing behind Matron, Elsie did her best to look stern and implacable. "When I get back, I hope to see an improvement in behaviour from both of you. Before I go, however, I want to see you shake hands. Go on! Now!"

George and Ruby glared at each other, inexplicably allied in a common resentment against Matron for forcing them into this embarrassment. Each slowly extended an arm until their palms made a brief contact, at which they simultaneously jerked their hands away. Ruby gave a little shudder. Ugh! You wouldn't want to feel that leathery paw crawling up your skirt, she thought. It didn't bear thinking about. But she was thinking about it, thinking about horrible George stroking her thigh! Desperately she tried to drive the thought from her mind, but that very effort ensured that it remained.

George was regarding her unsympathetically. Touching her hand had revolted him. Yuk! he thought, imagine a withered claw like that wrapped around your John Thomas! It was enough to make it shrivel away altogether. It didn't bear thinking about. But he was thinking about it, thinking about frightful Ruby giving him a hand job! Desperately he tried to drive the thought from his mind, but that very effort ensured that it remained.

"You may go," said Matron. Disconcerted, they retired to their rooms.

"It's such a pity about those two," Matron said when they had gone. "They have got so much in common they would be great companions for each other. They would both be much happier if they faced reality and shacked up together."

Elsie was shocked. "Oh, surely not, Matron. I mean, at their age, they're past it, aren't they?"

"You have a lot to learn, Elsie. They are old, not dead. What do you think they are doing in their rooms when they go up 'to have a lie-down'? They still have feelings, including sexual desires. It's only that their bodies won't let them satisfy those desires in the usual way. Haven't you heard the one about the 80 year old man who asked his doctor to lower his sex drive? When the doctor told him that it was all in his mind, he replied, 'I know it is. That's why I want you to lower it.' It's a case of si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait."

"Huh?" Elsie gaped.

"It's life's culminating irony," Matron continued. "No sooner have we gained the savoir than we start losing the pouvoir." Seeing Elsie's puzzled face, she softly sang, "I wish I was a little bit younger, and knew what I know now."

None the wiser, Elsie replied, "Yes, Matron."

* * *

In her tiny flat, Matron was making preparations. Every four weeks she took a long weekend off from the Home, and her routine was always the same. Taking an overnight bag and a hatbox from the top of the wardrobe, she checked that the bag contained her costume and makeup, and that the wig in the box was in good order. Then she lay down to take a short rest. It was a long drive to Newcastle.

* * *

The manager of the Geordimondo Gentlemen's Club checked the week's lobby posters. He lingered over one which read, "Saturday. One day only. By popular demand: Return of the fantastic Dolores de l'Eros!" Not for the first time he wondered about Dolores. She appeared only every four weeks, and on those weekends club takings rose dramatically. And no wonder, he thought, gazing approvingly at the photograph which adorned the poster.

He ran his eyes over the attributes the photograph showed: golden chestnut hair, pulled back to a bunch of ringlets; a sweet face, with lips temptingly painted, and 'come-hither' eyes emphasised by skilful eye shadow; perfect breasts, full yet firm; narrow waist; cute bum; long shapely legs. And her performances lived up to the promise of her image. Whether at the pole or circulating the tables, she had mastered the art of looking demure while acting lascivious. The punters didn't know whether they were debauching a virgin or being ravished by a houri.

Either way, their generosity was provoked. Money was thrown onto the stage and pushed into her costume. Other girls were employed to follow her with plastic buckets, discreetly collecting the manna as it fell. Dolores kept most of it. The club could afford to be generous; money flowed across the bar as well.

The manager wondered how much Dolores was grossing each month. It must be in four figures, he guessed. She gave two performances on the Saturday, and another, less publicised one on the Sunday afternoon. A smaller clientèle attended the latter, mainly middle-aged business men whose wives believed them to be playing golf, but the takings were just as high. The same liquors were served on both days, but on Sunday the labels were different and the prices higher. Dolores' performance was slightly different, too. Only the Sunday customers knew that in one respect she varied her appearance from one month to the next, and they were known to take bets among themselves as to whether she would be totally smooth, or would have retained a tasteful landing strip, or perhaps be sporting a complete bush of soft short brown hair.

* * *

As Ruby began to dress she noticed that the drawer from which she was taking her tights still held a pair of silk stockings, half hidden at the back. How her husband had loved seeing her in them! Ah me, that was a long time ago! Why had she kept them? It didn't make sense to keep them unused. She should either dump them or wear them. She took them from the drawer, tempted. Did she still have a suspender belt, she wondered? Yes, there it was, at the back of the drawer, and, oh my goodness, there were those apricot coloured French knickers that her husband had so relished! Her 'naughty knicks' he used to call them. Whenever she wore them, he would . . . She felt warmed by the memories which came surging back. Why not? she thought. Only she would know what she'd got on under her outer clothing. She pulled off the cotton knickers she had first put on, snapped the suspender belt around her waist, and stepped into the apricot 'naughty knicks.' She sat on the edge of the bed and began carefully pulling on the silk stockings.

* * *

George looked in the mirror, assessing whether he needed to shave. Hmm, only three days' stubble, perhaps four, but he could still go another day. He examined the shirt he'd worn the last two days. He couldn't see any gravy stains, so it would do again. His socks were distinctly stiff though. Perhaps time for a fresh pair. He rummaged in his sock drawer, trying to find a pair not embellished with pictures of Father Christmas or Wallace and Gromit. Strange ideas his grandchildren had of suitable socks for old men. There was a photograph lying face down in the drawer. He couldn't remember putting it there. He turned it over and looked at it. It was a full length portrayal of a slim man, perhaps in his forties, of upright bearing, and with a pleasant smiling face. George frowned, trying to remember who it was. Relative? Friend? He was annoyed that his memory was so bad these days.

He turned back to the mirror and stood stunned. Christ! That photo was me, he thought. I wasn't a bad looking fellow in those days. Still, time marches on. Can't do anything about it. He looked in the mirror again and tried to emulate the photograph, pulling his shoulders back and lifting his chin. I think I'll take a shower before I shave, he thought. And then perhaps the blue striped shirt, or maybe the plain white. That always looked smart. He picked up his sponge bag and made his way to the men's shower room.

* * *

As she drove back South, Matron happily sang along to the car radio. Another lucrative weekend. Her extra-mural activities served to triple her income; more if you took into account that it was tax free. She had a simple philosophy in regard to the tax man: she wouldn't bother him if he didn't bother her. What could be fairer than that? She chuckled as she recalled a story the girls at the club were fond of relating, about the time that Inland Revenue sent an undercover investigator to check on the dancers. Aware of the temptations that might beset their agent, they assigned a 65 year old male investigator, close to retirement. They could hardly have made a worse choice. He was detected within five minutes and suborned within ten. Still, Matron thought, he probably retired with a smile on his face.

* * *

Back at work on Tuesday, Matron asked Elsie, "So, what sort of weekend did you have here while I was away? Anything interesting happen?"

"No, totally uneventful. Nothing special happened. Nothing ever does. Boring really, same old, same old, all the time," Elsie replied.

Matron smiled. She had already noticed that Ruby and George were sitting together in the day room, although there were plenty of vacant chairs, and she had heard them address each other by their Christian names. The hem of Ruby's skirt was well below the knee, but there was still enough leg showing for a woman's eye to recognise silk stockings. When George stood up, he seemed taller, holding himelf upright, exposing a cleanly shaven chin and neck.

"That's life," she replied to Elsie. Privately she wondered what on earth could have persuaded the girl that she was cut out to work with old people.