Gramma Torrie Ch. 02

Roger's Side

I wasn't surprised when Ben asked me to be his best man. Hell, I couldn't remember a time when we hadn't known each other. We had played child's games and later baseball and basketball for junior high and high school. We had double-dated, shared clothes, loaned each other money, and never kept count. We were that rarest of friends, friends from childhood who were still close as adults.

The bride-to-be, Bonnie, had been my girlfriend first. But it had turned out she was an airhead. Now don't get me wrong, an airhead with nice tits and a truly world-class ass is a pearl to be treasured. But I had moved on to a skinny girl with no tits at all who could actually talk to me about history and international relations and science.

But it had turned out to be a match, as they say, made in heaven. Bonnie and Ben, such an alliterative combination, had been inseparable since their first date and here we were, going to get them married.

We were all a bit hung over. It had been a GOOD bachelor party. But kind of to my surprise Ben hadn't developed cold feet, so here we were, getting ready to do the deed.

I had been delegated to greet the guests from Ben's side and so I was hanging out in the church lobby, smiling and greeting and directing. There was Mary, Ben's mom who hugged me and was SO serious. Here came Laura, his sister, on whom I had a crush at 12. Gramma Torrie, all 90 pounds of her looking positively regal in her mink and black dress, looking nervous as well I noticed. Cousin Bevvy who had claimed my virginity, and her sister, Margie, who had been my second about 20 minutes later. There came LaVerne and Eloise and Cheryl and Frank and Margaret (always Margaret, never Marge or Margie or Maggie or anything else), and Tom and Carl. Family and friends from the neighborhood we grew up in.

Then it was time and we did the deed.

I stood, proud, at his right, handed the ring at the appropriate time, walked in, and then walked out escorting the matron of honor, not a chore since Bonnie's aunt was a pretty damn spectacular brunette and I had decided I was going to bed her before the night was over.

We did the reception thing, food and drink.

And there was Torrie, Gramma Torrie to Ben and me since, well, hell, forever. I couldn't remember not knowing her. And as she sat it was like there was an invisible shield around her. No one would get closer than about five feet.

"Ben," I said, taking him aside, "what's going on with your grandmother?"

So he told me the story. She was an Alzheimer's widow. I remembered Grampa Chet as a big bear of a man, sort of a jolly Santa Claus without the red suit. But apparently, it had gone bad with the disease.

And I understood. I remembered how bad I'd felt when we went to visit Aunt Rita and she hadn't recognized me.

So my plans changed.

When the band had started that triple run dance, the Chicken Dance and the Hokey Pokey and the YMCA, I went to dance with her.

I didn't say anything, just positioned myself in front of her and offered my hand.

And she didn't react at all. It was like I was invisible and she was still watching the dancers with their silly gyrations.

So I stood, holding my position.

And stood, holding my position.

And stood, holding my position.

I was starting to feel foolish, standing there like that.

But I stayed. What was it my own gramma used to say? "In for a penny, in for a pound." I'm a collector of old, obsolete, archaic sayings like that.

So I held my position.

Finally, she met my eyes and took my hand.

We danced our way through a couple of songs, I couldn't tell you the names, and when the band leader broke into "Johnny B. Goode" I figured it was time to get out of there. I would regret not bedding the aunt, but then I figured I wouldn't regret it all that much since I couldn't think of her name.

Back at her table I handed her the purse she had been holding like a shield, and made a little speech. Something like, "Come on Guinevere, your Lancelot is here," or something like that, that made her giggle, a pleasant, girlish sound.

I kissed Bonnie, hard, but it was a goodbye kiss. I wouldn't be trying to make my best friend's wife. Well, not unless he offered her of course. She was still pretty and buxom and bouncy and I knew I would never find the will to say "no" to her, or to Ben come to it.

She smiled and I liked her smile, when we got into my little blue PT Cruiser convertible. When I started the car, the radio started on my favorite oldies station and she sang along in a nice contralto voice, a little age rough. I liked it.

"I'll take you home," I said, "or for a drink if you'd like."

She opted for a drink and I pulled into the parking lot of a little neighborhood place near her house.

Inside, she surprised me by saying she'd like beer.

Sitting over two pitchers I discovered that I really, really liked this woman. She was witty and bright. She knew a lot about a lot of things in a real-world way beyond the academic "book learning" I had. She was a baby boomer and while she couldn't remember Pearl Harbor or anything like that, she talked of things I liked, of '55 Chevy's and '59 Cadillacs as a former owner, not someone who restored and showed, but someone for whom they had been basic transportation. She did remember the first jet plains and how a Boeing 707 under full takeoff ower was so loud it would leave you rigid and trembling before they built a new runway and changed takeoff rules. It was things like that that fascinated me with her.

When I told her I understood, at least a little, about Alzheimer's disease she surprised me by breaking down. I'm not a psychologist, but it was clear there was a lot of pent-up emotion there.

We talked for the rest of the night and I realized, quite to my surprise, that I wanted to see more of her. The thought of dating a woman three times my age, when I first thought it, seemed odd. Maybe "kinky" is the better word. But the more I thought about it, the more I was sure I wanted to at least try.

But tonight was no night to press. She was obviously hurting, the emotion of being basically shunned at her grandson's wedding obviously got to her. So we talked of many things. We even played some darts and a game of pool. I taught her how to use the jukebox, laughing when she started looking through her purse for some change.

We danced a couple of dances on the tiny dance floor, and I enjoyed the looks we drew.

I drove her back to her house and walked her to her door.

When she reached for her key I managed to get my hand into her purse and pulled out her phone. I keyed in my number and handed it back to her.

She looked at me, "quizzically" is a good word for it.

"I have your number now, and I will call you," I said.

Her eyes got big and she giggled. She wasn't stumbling drunk, but she was definitely on the way.

Then there was that awkward moment. It looked to me like she wanted me to kiss her, so I leaned forward, but it was a very chaste kiss on the cheek.

"I'll call you," I promised and then waited while she opened the door and went inside.

I thought about going back to the reception and bagging the aunt, but found it had no real interest for me.

I thought about any of a half-dozen college bars I knew and bagging a co-ed, but found, oddly, that the idea was actually kind of repellant.

In the end, I went home and turned on my xBox and settled for killing bad guys for a half hour or so. But even that didn't hold my mind.

So I went to bed and for the first time in months, masturbated. While I was jacking off, doing it slowly, enjoying the images in my mind's eye as I undressed Torrie, as I kissed her face all interesting lines and wrinkles so much sexier than the giggly girls I usually took to bed, somewhere in the back of my mind the thought was lurking - What the hell, Roger? Are you falling in love? Don't be ridiculous, bonehead. Love at first sight is a foolish lunacy and you know it.

But as I came, as I slowly stroked through my ejaculation, it was her name on my lips and in my mind's eye.

It was a pleasant way to go to sleep.