Horace and Billie

I guess you're right Baby Doll, I am a romantic. Looking back on the stories I've written, regardless of whether they've got lot of sex in them or not, regardless of whether they're violent or pacifist they're all love stories. Thanks for your love. I love you very much.

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Begin:

My name is Albert Wolf, and I want to set the record straight about my grand-uncle Horace Featherstone and my, uh, my, um . . . I guess I'll have to call "her" my grand-aunt because, I . . . well they . . . actually . . .?!

It's hard to say exactly what I want to say. I guess it'd be better if I start from what I guess is the beginning. I'm still not sure how to go about it, though. I guess maybe we should start not too long after Grand-Uncle Horace's accident. I don't quite know how to, um . . .

Okay, what happened was that Uncle Horace was under the pedestal crane when it toppled. He worked, still does, come to that, in construction, but, okay, okay. The accident happened when they were working in the Templeton Saints Hospital Annex, you remember that job, the pedestal crane had a bad bearing or something and it went down, killed the operator and a couple of people on the ground and injured four others. Well, Uncle Horace was one of the injured although he did manage to get against a steel reinforced footing that hadn't been back filled yet, and got partially sheltered. The way the steel crane bent when it slammed down ended up lightly tapping his back. It was a very glancing tap as far as falling cranes go, but it laid a solid bruise on him. His spine swelled up and put him out "temporarily" -- for over a year and a half.

In the first four months or so that he was laid up, he was essentially paralyzed. With his temper and the way he had with words, i.e., cussing, he went through six LVN/LPN's and three non-medical helpers. Granted that was the roughest time of his recuperation because he couldn't move his lower extremities and was in excruciating pain. There were times when the low dosage pain meds weren't enough to take the edge off and he refused anything stronger saying that wasn't going to get hooked. Those times he was literally bending steel because the pain was so great. He was screaming obscenities at things and at people around him. I knew it was the pain, other people knew it was the pain, but nobody wanted to be around him in his pain. We all wanted him to take the pain meds and hang getting hooked on them, but he wouldn't. So he drove people away with his cursing and stubbornness.

Right about then, Billie answered the ad we'd been continuously running and willingly took the job. We didn't expect her to last too long. We thought she, er, he, or whatever -- that Billie would never last, because Billie appeared to be such a sweet, even-tempered girl. Billie surprised us, managing to hang in there and showing a lot of grit, holding her tongue and answering Uncle Horace's loudly obnoxious tones with her soft sweetness. It seemed to tame him a little, but only a little.

As for Billie, well, Billie was, or is, a strange one. Here's what I found out later, okay, don't judge, lest ye be, you know, judged okay? Okay. Billie was a guy. He was as queer as a three-dollar . . . you know. Or not, I still don't know where to put him -- her. I called him gay, I don't really know if that applies, see he had a medical condition called Klinefelter's Syndrome. Men -- men? Males with this thing have what is basically a feminine body, i.e., no facial hair or very thin facial and body hair, feminine features, female breasts, more slender bodies and shapelier hips -- and their male parts are tiny, like a little boy's things -- smaller. I'm told that some have them looking like an infant's penis and nuts. I found out later that they can't cum much because their nuts are way small and may not produce sperm. Billie told me that guys with this condition sometimes just have an empty sac, too few male hormones. Basically, he looked like a woman, his breasts weren't that big, maybe C cup sized, but they kind of went with his slender body, you know? And maybe it wasn't so odd that he liked guys, looking like he did. He certainly was prettier than a lot of women I know, even without the makeup, and, and . . . oh, hey, now! Don't get me wrong, I'm no queer, and I don't want nobody to think I am, okay? But he was a real pretty guy, plus, he had a lot of patience.

Uncle Horace was at a point where he was getting some movement in his legs when Billie came along. His therapist was an ex-GI and put up with a lot of his mess. He said that he knew a couple of drill sergeants who could learn a few new ways to cuss from him. Anyway, about that time, Billie answered the ad in the newspaper for a non-medical care-giver. By then all we needed was someone to help him in and out of his wheelchair, assist him in getting in and out of the shower, get his newspaper in the morning and just generally cook and keep house for him and be available 24 hours a day. The pay wasn't much, but meals and a room with a private bath were included as well as cable TV. And of course, it was getting to be a better job with Uncle Horace calming down and getting used to his gradually healing condition.

Billie certainly seemed capable, she, or ah, he, uh . . . what do you call him, uh, her or . . . shit! Fuck it! Her! She was able to help Uncle Horace in moving around and she fixed his meals and she even got him dressed decently. She took his verbal abuse and turned it right back in on him, using her own brand of logic and stubbornness to get him to do what he should be doing. I think Billie's problem was that he looked too feminine for most gays and the guys that she attracted were straight guys that thought she was a good-looking woman, which she was. Damn good-looking. Okay, okay, I'll admit it, I liked her.

The thing is that she could have had an operation to make the actual change, so she could actually be more of a woman, but she didn't want that. She was as stubborn as Uncle Horace. And I mean she was more like him than we imagined. She had said to me in a private moment, that she was pretty content with what she had and enjoyed her little penis and that she was afraid that if she got cut apart, she'd lose all her sexual feelings.

Alright, lookit, if I sound confused, it's because I am, okay? I mean, well, lookit -- Uncle Horace was a man's man. Billie was a womanly man. No three ways about it, but . . . and this is a pretty big but . . . she came into his life when he really needed someone to care for him. His wife, Grand-Aunt Caroline had died, oh, roughly ten years previously and he'd only recently started fooling around again. No dates, just women he knew who were "ready, willing and able." Then the accident took him out for a while, and he was laid up for over a year and a half, almost two years. About the time that the Physical Therapist needed some help in getting him motivating, as depressed as he'd become, along came Billie. If you believe in serendipity, this was it, she came at just the right time.

Uncle Horace took to Billie as if she were a long-lost enemy. He'd pile his verbal abuse and scream at her. He'd end his diatribe by saying that he'd never had to fire anybody, they just plain quit on him. Billie looked back at him, smiling a gritty little smile and very gently said that she had never quit a job, so just get over it! She gave him back as good as she got -- in a surprisingly civilized tone of voice. She was as stubborn a, um . . . person as he was.

She had been putting up with him for the better part of a year, and as I understand it now, sleeping with him for a couple of weeks, when he grumpily asked her if she was tired of paying for her other apartment yet. Before she could answer, he told her that if she was, then she needed to get her crap out of it and move in to the house since she was sleeping there most of the time. She smiled but shook her head, she had beautiful head of long very fine thick, thick russet hair. She said that she had a cat and couldn't just walk out on her just as she couldn't walk out on Horace. She said that she had to keep her fed and her litter-box changed out. He sighed and went back to watching his football game as she went about the cleaning chores in the house that she already kept spotless. Finally, he grumpily gave in and told her that she might as well bring the stupid animal with her as well, they'd just have to make room for it. She had smiled and impulsively kissed him on the cheek, embarrassing them both, but true to form, Uncle Horace ignored it and stumped out of the room on his walker. They may have been sleeping together but evidently hadn't yet kissed.

Rhonda, the cat, was a persnickety animal. She would not make friends with me no matter what I tried, but she fell in love with Uncle Horace almost immediately and spent more time with him than with Billie. Rhonda would come sneaking into the room after they went to sleep and curl up under his chin, her nose close to the source of the loud snoring. He'd fuss about "that stupid cat" but he never pushed her away and usually shared his breakfast with her. Rhonda liked her eggs over easy, so he changed from his usual scrambled eggs to eggs over easy -- with a runny yolk. And he had a similar change with Billie just as gradually, although still refusing to admit that he liked her. Odd man. He slept with her, didn't have sex with her and would not admit his feelings for her.

In the mornings, Billie would fix their breakfasts, and he'd wait politely for her to sit before eating or even letting the impatient Rhonda eat. Afterward, she would help him into the bathroom and help him with his morning shower, scrubbing his back and legs and butt. He was a fastidious man. Early in their relationship, she climbed in with him completely dressed, wearing shorts and the heavy bra of a two-piece swim suit. He threatened her with worse than death if she tried to mess with his butt hole.

"Keep your hands off my ass-hole," he growled the first time she helped bathe him.

She just ignored him and scrubbed him down. He wouldn't touch her in there, and only rested his hand on her shoulder if he lost his balance. It was a strained relationship for a long time. But eventually they got to be great . . . friends? I'm not sure how to label it. See, I stopped by one time, much later in his recuperation, and came in as usual, without knocking. They must not have heard my car driving up, because they were sitting very close to each other and he had his arm around her shoulders pressing her to him as they laughed at the antics on the TV, "America's Funniest Home Videos," I think.

To say the least, I was surprised, but I pretended that it was nothing unusual and burst out with false laughter at the same time they did. Billie jumped up as if suddenly hit with scalding water and he let her go, twisting around to see who the hell it was dropping his hand between the cushions where he kept a pistol. He cussed at me telling me to never again enter without knocking.

"Bert," Billie gasped, "we didn't hear you!" she wiped her hands on her trousers, and pushed her hair back.

"Obviously," I smiled, trying to sound natural, I mean, what they did together was none of my concern, I was glad for my Uncle Horace and had mixed feelings about his choice of companion. However, by then I really thought of Billie as a wonderful person and maybe I was a little jealous, which, threw me into a turmoil.

"Sit back down here, sweetheart," Uncle Horace growled and patted the seat beside him, "if he doesn't like it, fuck him."

Billie gingerly came back and started to sit on the edge of the couch, but Uncle Horace pulled her into his arms again. He stuffed his pistol back in its hiding place as she looked up at him questioningly. Evidently this was the first that he'd been willing to publicly admit that they had something more than an illicitly gay relatioship -- but was it really gay?

"Should I call Billie "Aunt Billie" then, Uncle Horace," I smiled.

"Call her what you will," he retorted, "she's made me happy these last few months, and since the state made gay marriages legal," he turned back to Billie, "how 'bout it, Baby?" he looked at her wistfully.

"I'm not —" she started.

"Technically you're a guy," Uncle Horace frowned, "to me you're my woman. Well?"

For answer, she launched herself into his chest with a little squeal of delight.

"Whoo-oof!" he smiled as he fell back sideways with her in his arms.

"That's the sorriest excuse of a proposal I've ever heard, but, yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"I take it "Aunt Billie" it is."

I smiled outwardly, but inside I sighed knowing what a lot of our family were going to say about it and about him and her. I also knew what Uncle Horace's response would be -- "fuck 'em!" he'd say. But, they'd be legal in the state of Massachusetts.

Billie told me some of the story several times, but each time she'd turn red and omit some details. I finally talked her into writing down the story. She said that she read it all to Uncle Horace before she let me see it. What follows is the story of her and Uncle Horace in her words.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

I met that crotchety old fart for the first time in August of (year deleted). He was foul-mouthed and insulting and, at first, I just didn't care for him, but it was a job and I was almost out of unemployment. The state would have supported me because of my condition, but I've always paid my way and I wasn't about to go on the public dole. The pay wasn't that great, but the perks it offered were room and board, so adding that in, made it a pretty good paycheck.

The first few days were hell, every five minutes, it seemed he was cussing about something or another. Then I saw the pain in his eyes, and I realized that it wasn't about me, see, he was trying to ease that incredible pain the only way he knew how, by cussing at it. I was just th aiming point. When I saw what a rock he really was, I knew that there was nothing in it against me, and nothing that he could say that would hurt me as much as his pain was hurting him. What solidified my resolve to stay was when he said that he had never fired anybody, that they quit on him. That got my back up and I knew that this cranky old fart wasn't going to run me off. (Horace is laughing at that.)

Putting up with him, at first, was just a pure grind from sunup to sundown, and many late nights. Especially when he had trouble getting out of bed to do his business. One night, I got up and helped him to the commode. We'd been together for close to six months by then, and I held his penis for him as he pissed. Suddenly, he realized that I was holding his man-hood as he pissed. We had a funny confrontation then. Some of the medications he was taking set him a little off and his arm was numb from lying on it so his hand wouldn't work. His other arm was almost mended but it was still in a steel armature so he couldn't use it. I gave him the choice of sitting on the pot and pissing like a woman or standing up over it and pissing like a man while I held it for him. He was in such a quandary for a few seconds that he couldn't piss. I started laughing at the absurdity of the situation, then he began to laugh, too (Horace is laughing again, remembering what it was like). I do believe that was when the ice finally cracked. I helped him sit and pushed his stiff cock down into the bowl. He looked up at me helpless and speechless. No one had ever had to do this for him. He'd never needed anybody's help before. You know, as nice as his cock felt in my hand, I didn't linger, I just did what was necessary. I guess that's when I realized that I wanted to stay with this crotchety old fart for a long time.

He must have felt the same way because the next day, he told me in his gruff manner to bring my cat and move in more or less permanently. I got two of my cousins to help me get my stuff up there and gave the landlord my deposit in lieu of a thirty day notice. Moving in was easy, and up until now, we'd been more or less helper and sick man, but things suddenly seemed to turn around. He sometimes slipped and called me "honey," or "sweetie," and even though I knew better and felt that it was only a slip-up on his part, my heart leaped into my throat when he called me that.

After I moved in, I found myself doing little things for him, things that I'd never done before, little things to not just make him more comfortable, but also to please him. Like massaging his back when his pain was bad and he refused the "hard" pain meds. I'd sit beside him and massage until I couldn't hold my arms up (yes, really, you old goat), then I'd read the newspaper or a book to him. I read the entire "Gullivar's Travels" to him over a week-long period and he really enjoyed it. Several times he draped his arm around my supine tummy and closed his eyes, listening to my voice as I read.

Then it happened. One night after I'd been reading the paper to him, I smiled and turned to face him as usual. This time felt different somehow and I reached up and caressed his cheek and told him "good-night." As I sat up, he cleared his throat as if he wanted to say something. He'd done that the past few nights and I knew that there was something that he wanted to say, but couldn't bring himself to (yeah, I love you too, honey). I knew there was something I wanted to say about our budding friendliness and I was pretty sure he wanted to say it, too.

"Spit it out, Sweetie," I smiled down at him.

"I don't want to sound stupid, or to say anything that'll get you mad, you know?" he frowned as his hand gently worked circles on my hand.

"Stupid is only what isn't said that should be," I whispered lying back close to him and caressing his cheek, "there's nobody here but me to judge whether what you say is stupid, I mean you've already said plenty of stupid things," I giggled and he smiled, "and I've never, ever, thought that anything you said was stupid."

He grinned then blurted out,"Stay with me!"

"Wha-a-at?" I answered as intelligently as I knew how, not knowing if he meant what I thought he'd said.

"Don't go to your room," he croaked out again, seeming completely breathless, "sleep with me tonight, I promise I won't try to do anything, just lie with me, let me hold your warm body close to me . . ." he paused his face reddening and sounding like a lonely darling little boy, "please, it gets so lonely here." (His face is turning red all over again!)

He paused for a long time as I tried to make sense of what he was asking.

"Please," he finally added.

I rolled onto my side to face him my other hand joining my first on his rugged cheeks.

"You don't ever have to say "please" to me," I answered him solemnly, "as long as you keep me with you and let me love you," I smiled, "or even if you don't, then -- do you want me just like this, or may I go change into my nightgown?"

He suddenly burst out laughing. It was a joyous very liberated laugh and I joined him.

"How about nude?" he smiled daring me, and pulled me to him, "I mean, what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound, you know?"

I laughed delightedly and nodded. We'd both showered already, so it was just a matter of stripping off my clothes and pulling his off him. We giggled as I peeled, then dragged his PJ's off him. I stood and fastidiously folded them and set them on his dresser. I had a knee on the bed when he made me stop so he could look at my entire nude body.

"It's not very big," he commented on my baby penis.

"It doesn't get very hard either," I sighed, "but it feels pretty good when I play with it, and I'm afraid that the only hole I've got for fun is my back-hole," I turned and bent provocatively, spreading my ass-cheeks for him to look.