I Did It for Science

I blew smoke out. I let the spreading cloud guide my gaze through Tompkin Square Park: The flowering Magnolia tree with pink flowers. This squirrel was launching daring advances towards the nuts the pigeons were pecking at. The pale-faced punks tuning their electric guitars for a street quintet. The purples were unusually sparkly today. Vic must have mixed some powder into the weed. It was kind of beautiful to see the normal world and then sprinkles of sparks like the fabric of reality was ripping open to reveal another world, a dark world, a wild world, a world that provided relief from this world.

Then I saw him, an old man with a silver mane of long hair that lit up in the sunlight. He proudly had both hands planted on the walking cane in front of him. There was an enthusiasm in his eyes like being out in the park would make it a good day. In the back of my mind, I had always wondered about those human relics. There are people like you and me, young people, fresh out of school. Then there are grown-ups. And finally, there are oldies. They seem so foreign. They barely move. They barely talk. They barely do anything with their lives. They more seem like tortoises than humans - slowly moving, munching salad with a glacial speed, and mostly only tanking up sunshine without moving.

They might as well be an entirely different species. They are so foreign and inexplicable. It probably was the weed, but how do they fuck? They still got dicks. They are probably still horny as fuck. How do these tortoises who slowly crawl along with their walkers fuck? Do they suddenly turn into bunnies? I've seen so much porn in my life, but none has given me a glimpse on how the old fuck on the bench fucks? It was probably the weed that made me ask those questions, but I was going to find out for science!

My lunch break was over. I got up to walk back to my job. The East Village was a beautiful walk with sunlight filtering in rays through the canopy of trees and the bright, young leaves soaking the ambiance into youthful green. I was wearing knee-high white socks of a thick, fuzzy winter fabric that made my dark, caramel, thin thighs stand out even more. My skin was baby smooth and oozed youthfulness. My bum was covered by a skin-tight bootie short that was made from pajama fabric. Hugged tight but with a loose fabric, there was a kind of oh- la-la-feel to it. In contrast, yoga pants are tight but also feel like a closed uniform. The pajama fabric felt easy like it could come off. It gave plenty idea of what my naked bum underneath was like. And my bum was perfectly round. The munches filled out the shape. The youth kept it perfectly round. That extra fill gave it ripples and swings with my walk that were ever-entrancing. Yet the cut was snug enough to let my butt cheeks leak out, expose the shape of my butt crack, and trace the camel shape of my mound. The outfit was finished with a bra top and my short and clean dreads.

In my head, I had an upbeat soundtrack of a hip-hop song about "Walking! Walking in my big, black boots!" The guys kept checking me out. The sound of their footsteps silenced after they passed me to look up my backside. A young white college boy checked my boobs. I own you! A middle-aged guy in a business-smart blue shirt with his arms across a MILF in Prada got his eyes stuck on my chocolate brown navel button. His girl tensed up. He couldn't pull his eyes off of me. I own you! The two Mexican delivery workers resting on their e-bikes in front of Two Brother Pizzas stopped talking mid-conversation to watch my hips swing. I own you! That crazy old bitch who walks her tiny terrier all the time got mad at me: "Cover up, young lady!" I own you, too!

I slung through the open door of "Holisticaly Medically." There is a small room with giant foam pillows on the floor and merchandise in glass jars along the walls arranged on shelves. I hopped behind the counter onto the barstool. This place was going to be under my dominion for the next four hours. The job was a perfect fit. I ripped open a mail package and then the inner packaging. I smoked some of the weed from a pipe. Yep, my job includes merchandise quality control. All I have to do is wear cute shit, get high, and collect money.

A dude with a covid mask walked in. He seemed tense and agitated. "Give me all the money in the register," he ordered. There was a strange sound in his voice. He tried to be quiet, but the adrenaline was pushing him to be loud and fast.

All the bad feelings that I had kept trying to keep at bay came rushing back to me. I felt fat. I felt ugly. I was broke. I had no future. People thought that I was fun to be around but stupid. They always only invited me to parties because I'm so fun high but not because of me. My head hurt from drinking last night. My belly felt like vomiting. I reached for one of the rolled-up blunts in the drawer under the counter. I lit it up. I took a deep inhale. I could feel myself calming down.

"Now! The money now!" the guy yelled at me. He was really getting into my face.

"Don't fucking rush me!" I yelled at him, exploding in anger and frustration. I hate it when people rush me. Chill out, dude! I hated the job. I wanted to quit on the spot. I had quit this job already a dozen times, but Charlie had shown up at my place each time and begged me to come back. The people needed me and loved me. Okay, I wasn't going to quit. I was going to take another hit from the blunt instead.

"You got this!" I mumbled to myself audibly. The dude shifted uncomfortably to the other foot as he waited for me. Ding, the cash tray slid open. I looked over the dirty, crumbled bills. Fuck, I hate counting money with a hangover. I gave him the only crisp one hundred dollar bill and closed the register.

"Everything!" he yelled.

"Fuck off!" I told him back. Who does he think he is?

His bravado to do a hold-up seems to have run out. He quickly turned to run out of the store. Charlie, a big, black man, who looked like he was running a bar in Jamaica after twenty years of no exercise, waited outside the store. He grabbed the dude by the nape of the neck and threw him into the van. We didn't have a license. So we couldn't call the cops. Charlie had said that he took the dudes to Jersey for a serious talk and a long walk home. The hundred-dollar bill would be back in three hours or so.

On my home, I liked passing behind Stuyvesant Square Park. There is a little charm about that little neighborhood park that most people don't know about. That it's not a destination park makes it feel intimate to sit there. And the brownstones behind the park are in a pocket between two busy hospitals that keep the streets empty. The atmosphere feels like the place has been untouched for decades. The trees are the lushest and largest like they haven't been molested just as long. Walking there feels like being in a magical world of NYC in the seventies. The real world, with all those things like student loans, fuck boys, and Instagram, seems so far away.

There was one building in particular that caught my eye that day. Of course, a beautiful, towering brownstone with a meticulously unkempt and tiny strip of garden in front of it. There was a row of seniors sitting in wheelchairs. A senior home! I would be able to do my science experiment here. I walked up the stairs, heavy, big, and steep stairs, created a feeling of importance to the building and having to come up as a favor seeker. The inside was anything but glamorous. A tiny, packed room with a nurse behind a door with the upper half swung open. The floor was halfway on the journey from white to black.

"Who are you visiting?" asked the nurse without looking up from her paper work.

"I'm hear to volunteer," I answered.

She looked up at me. I could see her estimating me: A young, foolish, black girl who is probably high and completely unprofessional. I estimated her: 35 years old, nursing degree, boring fuck life, bitches about not owning a home, and super stuck up.

"We pay $17.32 an hour. You need a license, honey," she said curt and went back to her paperwork expecting me to leave.

"Oh, I only want to volunteer to give back to the elder," I replied.

She looked back up at me like I was crazy. "What's your name, hone?"

"I'm Shush," I replied modest and with my clear interview tone of voice.

She tried to say, "What kind of name is that?" but she held her tongue, knowing better than to get into legal hot water.

"Oh, one thing, I don't want to fill out any paperwork," I added. I didn't want to get into any legal trouble with what I was going to do with one of those old fucks.

She got up without words and walked me into the next room. The next room was a mix of a doctor's waiting office and a tea room. The window had beautiful Victorian wood beams and the furniture was cheap aluminum tables and chairs. A quiet crowd of seniors sat in the room in pale shapeless clothing. The preferred fabric was either a single color or a carpet pattern. The stink of old people was the most prominent. She walked me to a table of three gentlemen, which seemed to be of the younger variety, freshly arrived in the anteroom before death.

"Why don't you play some Monopoly with the guys?" she offered.

They were all wearing shirts and Khakis. The shirts were formfitting to reveal the shape of their guts and the fat on their chest. They seemed to think it fashionable to create that fat spilling over the edge of the pants look. Fred was the most likely candidate. He was a trim, old man with salt'n'pepper hair. He had a quickness about him how the sly smirk jumped to his lips and how he quickly started flirting with me, calling me "gorgeous." I would label him "well-aged swagger." Getting tussled around by him could be fun.

The other two guys quickly joined the brawl over me in a dick-measuring competition. Roger talked about how he ran a video rental store. Alan bragged how he was a merchandise procurer for Macy's. Did they realize that their boring jobs weren't any turn-on for me at all. But I loved it how guys got all tense. And anything one guy said, the other guys measured themselves up against it. Predictably, Roger told a story about how he tried water skiing in Mexico. Alan bragged about how he almost fell out of a hot air balloon. But Fred was the one who lobbed the bombs directly at me. He'd look at where my boobs were touching each other, let his eyes slowly wander up my chest, luxuriate on my neck, paint a dirty fantasy in his mind while his eyes hung out at my lips. And finally when he met my eyes with a deep stare, he'd suggest that I must have one stud of a boyfriend. This man spoke of danger and the drive to pull the trigger on me. Yet he also kept his tone of voice warm and amicable like banter so that the dick swinging guys didn't even pick up on it.

"Oh, I love the single life," I told him with a smile. I could tell that his heart made a big pound. I could tell that being hit on so directly startled him and shook the cobwebs of the flirting box in his brain. But for now, he simply looked down at his house shoes, probably for ten minutes. I was really giving those guys a completely unprecedented event in their lives.

When I bought Park Avenue, the nurse came back to the entrance of the room. She was with a manager-type guy who had no hair. They kept looking at me and whispering in low tones. The nurse seemed up in arms. The manager type looked very happy and eager. I suspect that she saw the trouble I was bringing and he saw free labor. Their discussion ended with her storming away kind of upset and him stepping forward to me with a smile.

The manager turned out to be the director. He profusely apologized for not being able to pay me. When I agreed to come back for four hours every week, he smiled like a boy who had stolen his brother's chocolate and thought he was going to get away with it.

The nurse's name turned out to be Amanda. She also turned out not to be a nurse but something else that Amanda found very important to differentiate. We ended up in a truce. She gave me all of her shitwork. And her practical sense made her realize that she was getting a deal out of going along with it. She complained to the director once about me smoking weed on the job, but he told her something about being accepting of Gen Z culture. Greta was really easy for me to handle Greta drove Amanda crazy with her complaints. I'd simply light up and kept looking at her eyes. Her eyes were kind of like Tom and Jerry, always bouncing around. I couldn't help but giggle. Greta eventually got so pissed off that she asked for the joint from me. Amanda was mad when she found us smoking, but Amanda opened the window and waved for the air to go out. Thinking it over Amanda, realized that the new Greta was much preferably to the old Greta. Amanda had a very practical side to her.

But I was at the place for a purpose. Once I had gotten my in with everyone, I made a move on Fred. I challenged him to a game of tennis in the city park. I had picked the corner court. The ground had big holes in it. It was a bit separate from the other courts. There was a big lilac bush that had grown onto the court, which provided privacy. Skaters sometimes hung out here. The public restroom that often housed homeless blocked the view from the park.

Fred showed up in a sparkly new track suite - mostly white with some baby blue highlights. His hair glistened from the gel. He held out an artisan coffee cup. His demeanor was extra gentleman-like. He knew that this was a date. He treated it like a date. His eyes were locked on my eyes, trying hard not to stare at my body. He was trying real hard to be on his best behavior, like he was auditioning for my graces. I kind of liked it. I smirked at how he complimented that my eyes were even more beautiful in the sunlight. When I turned, his hand impulsively slapped me on the butt as I walked away from him to my side of the net.

I had prepared to seduce him as well. I was wearing a skimpy tennis skirt. Each step created a wave in the fabric that licked at the bottom of my butt cheeks. I put a nice sideways say into my hips to give the skirt hem nice random ripples to give his eyes a workout to look for my thong. I gave him plenty of brown, bubblelicious, bare-skin bum to look at. And if he should glimpse my thong, I made sure that he knew he had succeeded by contrasting the white skirt with a vividly purple thong.

For the top, I was wearing a snug crop top from combed jersey cotton. The soft cotton was sure to move around and stretch a lot to give him all kinds of views on my titties as I'd lean forward to let him glimpse deep, jump high to make them bounce hard, and wring my body for hard hits to make the fabric shift around my braless nipples.

But things didn't work out that way. I leaned forward to ready myself to receive the serve and also let my titties hang down to create that beautiful dropped shape as well as the deep tunnel between them for him to gaze into. He gave me a look warm serve. He thanked me for the exercise. What the heck? He always had his eyes on me and now he talked about how good exercise was.

When we picked up the balls, I put one in between my boobs and made sure to throw him that one. He smiled and thanked me for the ball without any dirty glow in his eyes. He seemed pale.

I tried again by going for a water break. When we were next to each other, I rested my hand on his shoulder to stand on one foot and adjust the other foot. I leaned my body against his and especially pressed my boobs against his chest. He stood patiently. I've never met a guy whom I couldn't give a boner with that move. He looked pale and talked about the importance of not too much and not too little sodium in one's diet.

My seduction effort was a complete bust. We split roughly evenly who won sets. He let me win the final one to be a good sportsman. He walked away not only with his body but also with my belief that I was an absolute crack bomb for old people.

A few days later, I stumbled on something in a medical chart. It said "ED." I was slowly learning all the medical jargon. I asked Amanda about it. She shook her head and said, "Erectile Dysfunction." With that new knowledge, I looked up Fred's chart and he had ED. Probably, once he had a real chance at bagging me, he knew that he'd only embarrass himself. Poor guy!

However, this new knowledge set me on a new path. I started reading medical charts vivaciously now. The drawers with the binders were near the reception desk. I'd start reading through them one by one. Obviously, I was looking for a chart with M for male and no ED. And as I got more premeditated about my lust crime, it dawned on me that D for dementia would be useful as well. Dan Watson's chart piqued my curiosity. He was seriously old with 84, had no ED, and a heavy case of dementia.

To meet him, I delivered his dinner to his room. He was semi-bedridden. He spent a lot of his time in bed, but he'd also roam around the room. After knocking on his door, I walked in with the tray. He was lying on his bed. His face was furrowed. He was a serious dinosaur. He was the peak of my fascination of very old age and sex. I would almost describe him as a carcass. He was so bony. His movements were so awkward. Having sex with him seemed like crossing a seriously forbidden zone. I placed his tray down and helped him to sit up.

"Mr. Watson, how are we feeling today?" I asked him with all the politeness of a young woman addressing an elder from a different time period.

He turned to me, turned the other way to lower the volume on his radio, and turned back to me. "Lovely, my dear!" he replied. He had modesty and kindness about him. His head shook a little bit as he talked. Yep, he was old, seriously old.

Over the next weeks, we got to know each other. I slowly groomed him for my devious ploy. He'd tell me how during World War II, he threw a grenade in Italy into a fascist bunker. He often told me the same story. He'd pause when he described the grass that his face was buried in when he threw himself to the ground after a sprint toward the bunker. The grass was a bit raspy and stringy. There was a scent of clover flowers to it. Two weeks later, he'd pause mid-conversation like something had entered his mind, "I have to tell you the most outrageous adventure that happened to me!" Then he'd tell me the story again.

Nobody would believe him if he told on me for what I was going to do to him. Amanda only gave me housekeeping tasks, nothing medical. However, I had watched her give patients a bath in their beds. So on a day when I new that there were two new nurses on shift, I took the patient washing cart and pushed it into Dan's room. I flicked on the "Do not disturb" light that would shine on the door way. The door had three lights on top. One was doctor present for anyone to quickly find the doctor. One was medical alarm for when Dan pressed the alarm button. One was "do not disturb" for procedures that required privacy. Once the light was flicked on, I knew that nobody would walk in.

I had to assure Dan that he already knew me. "Oh, right, I remembered," he said. I was never sure if he actually knew or was simply embarrassed not to know. He was standing in the window looking out at the street. When he recognized the bathing cart, he walked into the ensuite restroom. I followed him with the cart. His shaky fingers started unbuttoning his shirt buttons. I helped him slide the shirt back and pulled his undershirt over his head. His chest muscles were flabby. I looked at his body.

I crawled with excitement. I'm going to fuck that! He looked so alien! He looked so unsexy. I wanted to see his body get animated by sexual lust. I felt like a mad scientist in front of his latest creation about to push the on button anticipating full of curiosity and doubt what would happen. I kind of love the split reality moments. One moment you are in familiar reality. The next moment something completely unimaginable happens. That shift and that crack had me mesmerized.