The Old Guitar

Everybody was fed up with the pandemic. Even those of us who had not gotten sick had had our lives upended. Everything was closed, nobody could work, kids couldn't go to school. You couldn't go to a restaurant, a bar, you had to stand six feet apart to talk to somebody. Friendships were deteriorating, people were losing their fucking minds. Gaining weight, killing each other, drugs and alcohol were over the top.

I was sitting at the kitchen table going through email. It was a chilly winter day, windy; the sun was out but it brought no relief. I could feel the cold coming through the wall at my back. The neighborhood listserve was its usual barrel of laughs. Somebody had seen a fox in their yard and there were more than seventy comments, about evenly balanced between terror that your German shepherd was at risk if you let him outside and people pointing out that foxes are part of nature, and were here first, and don't actually hurt pets. About every two weeks this same argument broke out - and you should have seen them when somebody saw a coyote!

I scrolled down to the free stuff. I keep an eye on these things. Today there was an unusual object, a kind of wooden guitar stand. It looked like an antique, maybe cherry wood, hand-tooled. It was free, and had just been posted an hour earlier, so it was probably still available. This looked like something my buddy Lumpy the bass player could use, so I texted the seller. The reply was, "It will be on the porch, come get it," with an address.

My wife agreed it looked good so I grabbed my keys and jacket. "Don't forget a mask," she called out as I shut the door behind me.

The GPS brought me around to a clean suburban neighborhood on the other side of the creek, houses a few hundred thousand dollars more than mine. "Your destination is on the left," the phone said, and I did not see the guitar stand so I went up a block to turn around and came back to the address.

Wouldn't that be fucked-up if they gave it away already, in the ten minutes since they told me to come get it? I parked my little red sports car in front of the house, pulled on my cloth mask, and got out. They had a "Black Lives Matter" sign in the yard and a little library box at the sidewalk, but I did not see the wooden stand. I was going to knock on the door and ask but as I got near the door I saw it, on the front porch. I didn't want to look like I was stealing it, so I knocked lightly on the door to tell the people I was taking their stand.

There was no response, so I picked up the thing and started walking. Then the door opened. "Oh hi," I said, "We had messaged earlier, I was just picking up your guitar stand."

"Oh, good," a woman's voice said through the screen. The door opened and she stepped out. "We just have so much junk, you know, we have to get rid of stuff sometimes."

"Perfect," I said, "I know a guy looking for something exactly like this."

The woman was not a real head-turner, you might say. She was a little younger than me, with a kind of attractive streak of white in her black hair. She was wearing a sort of housedress or nightgown thing, pale blue with dark blue flowers, I guess, some kind of pattern, and was holding a mask to her face - it had straps to hook over the ears but she did not have it hooked. Obviously she doesn't wear it in the house by herself. One of the funny things about the pandemic was clothes. Sales of work clothing had plummeted, sales of sweat pants hit historic highs. Nobody changed clothes from day to day - why would you? And the funniest thing of all was bras. Women everywhere, staying in the house all day, had rebelled against their bras. Nobody wore them, except for the occasional Zoom meeting where somebody could tell, or the rare trip to the grocery store. And often not even then, bless their hearts.

The woman asked me, "Are you a musician?"

"Yes, actually I am," I said. "But it's not for me."

"I see, yeah you said that," she said. "Well it's a pretty good stand. It's different." Chatty broad, okay, everybody's lonely these days. I'd been feeling a little stir-crazy myself. "We have a lot of instruments in the house," she said. "We collect them, but we don't play them." She laughed apologetically. As she talked I could see her breasts swaying under the fabric of the gown she was wearing. Her garment, whatever you call it, was nothing sexy, really, just a polyester thing like you might find at Target. The fabric was pleated like a paper fan and as she held her mask to her face with one hand the folds swirled around her in an ethereal way, rocking slowly with her breasts, like waves out on the ocean. "We have an old guitar," she said, "From the sixties. I don't know if it's any good."

A word of explanation for the uninitiated. It is an actual fact that across America there are incredible, and often incredibly valuable, old guitars under beds and in closets. Some kid got it in high school when he wanted to be Buddy Holly or Elvis or the Beatles, and then he went off to college and got a job, a family, and this beautiful, great-sounding, valuable guitar is sitting there taking up space, nearly forgotten. Just like new, hardly played, rusty old strings. So when she said this my ears perked up. "Is it electric, or acoustic?" I asked.

"I guess it's electric," she said, "I don't know how to play it. Would you like to see it?"

The answer to that question was obviously yes.

She stood there a second, looking me over suspiciously, then shrugged. "You look like I can trust you," he said. "My husband is in Oregon. Come on in." She opened the door and went inside first.

The house looked like I imagine all the houses on this block look inside. Pictures were hung straight, the seascape behind the couch. Decorative plates, framed family photos, a piano in the living room. There were a couple of violins and a ukulele hanging on the wall, tilted to carefully measured casual-looking angles. "Don't mind the mess," she said, as any wife on this block would say in her spotless house. "I was not expecting company." She led me back down a hallway. "It's in his room, I guess he got this when he was a teenager. I never saw him play it."

The husband's room was also immaculate, with an antique dresser that had more framed family photos on it. I couldn't really imagine living here, it was way too tidy for me. I figured his socks were all sorted and neat in an upper drawer, underwear in another. She pushed the door open and waved me in. "We have separate rooms," she said. "Probably for ten years now."

"I see," I said.

"Is that too much information?" Detecting that I was not offended, she went on, obviously glad to have someone to talk to. "I never would have imagined it. Maury used to be quite the frisky young man, I could hardly keep up with him."

She was standing beside the bed, still holding the cloth mask to her face - I don't know why she didn't hook it over her ears - and a sunbeam was shining through the window behind her. The nightgown she was wearing was a filmy veil over her body, which was now entirely revealed by the sunbeam piercing through the pliant fabric. The silhouette of her flesh moving underneath her garment was strangely romantic, sort of innocent, very sexy. I'm sure she was unaware of the effect the sun was having.

"Well, age is hard on all of us," I said. "We can't stay young forever."

Her eyes looked toward me but through me, into the distance behind me, into the passed time behind both of us. "Yeah, he was so disappointed when he wasn't able to, you know, oh I'll say it, get it up any more. I was disappointed too." Random strands of hair caught the light around her head, like a halo. The whole picture was kind of dreamlike; it was like something in a Bible-school pamphlet, but sexy, if you know what I mean.

"But Maury is a good man," she said. "I can tell you this, you won't tell anybody. After his, uh, dingaling didn't work any more, Maury got some books and read up on what to do. You know, marriage books. And I will tell you, he became quite the expert. We didn't even miss his, uh performing. I mean, he learned how to perform differently."

Speaking of which, this was beginning to stiffen my own junk in my jeans. The lady was thinking out loud, remembering, telling stories from her life. She was a barefoot Biblical sex-angel in a diaphanous gown in a sunbeam, alone in her husband's bedroom, in a quiet, empty house, with me, remembering great sex.

"An expert?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," she giggled like a girl. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but you're a musician, you've probably been around the block a time or two, am I right?"

"Yes, you could say so."

"Okay, I can tell you, but don't tell anybody else. I guess I just get lonely with this lockdown and everything and nobody to talk to, but you seem okay. I trust you for some reason. Maury got these books and he learned about, I guess I can say it, oral sex. He learned how to give pleasure to a woman with his mouth. Oh, I shouldn't have said anything, that's too much, isn't it. You're thinking this lady is crazy, aren't you."

"Oh, no," I said, smiling. "I think that's cool. Not everyone is quite so honest but it's refreshing, and actually interesting. So he got good at it, huh?" Leading her down a path.

"Real good," she said "I mean, day and night, you couldn't keep Maury's face out of my panties. I was having ten or twenty orgasms every day. Every day. I was in heaven."

"That is excellent," I said. "That is so great that he figured out how to solve his problem."

"Yes," she said. "But, you know, good things don't last forever."

"What happened?"

"I don't know," she said. "I guess he just lost interest. I don't know what happened. It's been years now."

My cock was stiff in my pants. It was a good feeling. The pandemic was, if anything, boring, and it was kind of fun listening to this lady sharing her salacious personal secrets. And I think she was having a little naughty fun sharing these stories with a strange man.

"But you wanted to see that guitar," she said, suddenly. "It's under here."

She got on her knees rather slowly, holding the side of the bed. She laughed. "I don't bend like I used to." She put her head to the floor to reach under the bed. Her ass was up in the air, and her robe, it turned out, had a slit in the back that tended to fall open. At first the fabric opened a little over her calves, but as she crouched to look under the bed the gown slowly slipped away to each side. Her thighs emerged into the reflected sunlight of the room, and they were surprisingly smooth and firm. I could make out the contours of her hamstrings, and the fabric continued to slip. I stood behind her and watched as the gap widened, higher on her legs, as she stretched her arm to reach under the bed. The malfunctioning housedress revealed the firm topography on each side where her butt-cheeks met her thighs, and then the bottom of her ass, and soon I was staring down at the lower half of her naked body, highlighted by a heavenly sunbeam.

She had the ass of a twenty-year old, taut and round and smooth. From my angle behind her I could see the petite little cookie of her asshole, and below that, a modest growth of fur and the dainty lips of her pussy. I shook my head, unseen, and smiled while she dug under the bed.

I am, to this day, pretty sure she did not intend to put on a show for me. I think she had long ago stopped thinking of herself as "sexy" or attractive in any way, nothing any man would want to look at. She was just trying to reach the guitar under the bed. "Can you help me?" she called, her voice muffled by the bedding.

I have a philosophy about opportunity. I feel that fate is a more active force in our lives than we normally recognize. Things don't happen by accident; there is hand behind it, guiding us. Life is an accumulation of experiences, and when you die you move on to the next phase, and that depends on what you have actually done in this life. The point is not to "be good," the point is to experience everything, taste every flavor, see every sight, and let things affect you, let them move you and shape your spirit. I was here to pick up a guitar stand but fate had offered me something more. I had a decision to make but really, people, what would you do?

I got on the floor beside her and looked under the bed. I could see the outline of a tweed Fender case, I was guessing he had an old Strat under there, maybe even a Broadcaster. I shifted, inching closer to her until my body touched hers, arms touching, hips pushed together, as we both reached under the bed.

She turned her face to look at mine, under there, holding her mask over her mouth and nose with her free hand. I know she felt the electricity. "I'm sorry about this," she said in a small voice.

I laughed. "It is not a problem. Here, let me help you a little more." By now I was pressed pretty hard against her. I could smell her breathing, and her body. It was quite intimate under there and we both knew we had broken out of charted territory. I reached over and touched her arm with my fingers - that lingering touch was clearly not an accident, and she did not pull away. Those moments of ambiguity, of shifting gears, can be risky or confusing. I did not want any trouble and hoped I was reading the signs right, but I had the distinct feeling she was thinking, in the back of her mind, along the same lines. My hand ran along her upper arm, to her back, and then I slowly extracted my head and shoulders from the darkness under the bed. My hand followed my body's movement, trailing down her ribs to her back until it reached her exposed bottom and stroked it gently. I took a tender handful of butt and squeezed playfully. "You don't mind, do you?" I asked her.

I heard her breath catch. She did not move, or say anything. I stroked her bottom, letting my fingers slip over her exposed anus, touching the region around it lightly. My fingertips migrated to the lips of her pussy, barely making contact with the feathery layer of fur.

I pressed a little and my fingertip entered the opening of her vagina. Just the tip. She was already getting wet.

She pulled her head out from under the bed and rested her face on the carpet for a few seconds, leaving her ass up in the air. "I didn't realize I was exposed like that," she said.

"It was a beautiful sight," I said. "I couldn't resist." I continued to stroke her underside. She was on her knees with her bottom up, with my fingers on it. Her face lay on her arm, beside the bed, eyes closed. One hand continued to hold that stupid mask over her mouth and nose.

"I admit, that feels good," she said.

"I'll tell you what," I said. "Why don't you get up her on the bed and I'll try doing what Maury was so good at."

"Eating me?"

I laughed. "Yeah. We'll look at the guitar later."

"Oh, I couldn't," she said. "I don't know you. It's been so long. I wouldn't even know what to do."

"You don't have to do anything," I said. "Just lay there. Come on." I sat up and offered her a hand and she took it. I patted the duvet on Maury's perfectly-made bed. "Up," I said. "It will be okay. Nobody will ever know but us."

She stood up and faced me, glowing. "But I, I'm not dressed for this," she said, and I could see her struggling for something to say. "I mean, I didn't know you were, I didn't know you would want to..."

I patted the bed again. "Head on the pillows," I said. "First, let's get rid of this." I took the nightgown at the sides, above her hips, and pulled it upward, revealing her naked body. She was a true treasure with fine tight skin, she was narrow at the waist with heavy but firm breasts that - as I already knew - swayed when she moved. She was not so young but her body revealed a fresh and youthful innocence. I bet she was a busty waif of a hippie girl, back in the day, and she still carried the spirit of it under her Target housedress. Somehow she kept the mask on her face while I pulled her clothing over her head. I stepped back and looked her over. "You are beautiful," I said. She looked away, blushing. "Now. Lay down. Get comfortable. I have to get home and don't have very long," I told her. "My wife is not in Oregon."

She lay back on the bed with her knees together. I reached down with two hands and pulled her feet apart. After all this time she realized she was still holding the cloth mask to her face, and she looped it over her ears as she laid back, freeing her hands. "This is unexpected," she muttered, distractedly.

"Yes, it is," I said. I pushed my mask down to my chin and lay on my stomach between her legs, with my hands on her inner thighs. I began by licking carefully around the outside of her outer labia. She had a warm aroma, not soapy or perfume-y but clean and musky and natural. I lapped along her labia for a minute, letting her relax and get used to me being there, then ran my tongue up the crevice between her cute little pink lips. Her hands came to the back of my head, just as I bet they used to do with Maury, and she shifted her hips forward to meet me.

I proceeded with a quick series of flicks starting near her vagina and moving forward until I was licking a long, languid path from her vaginal opening to just below the bump of her clitoris, which now was hard and pink, like a marble under her skin. Finally a long lap completed the trip, I licked the head of her clitoris and then took it between my lips. She jerked and pulled hard on the back of my head, guiding me, showing me what she wanted. I sucked harder, pulling her engorged flesh into my mouth and popping it out rhythmically, and after a few of those the explosion hit her. I felt her thighs tighten against my ears, squeezing my head, and she was trembling, shivering, and vocalizing loudly. These were not words, not even linguistic sounds, just moans and shouts as she erupted with an orgasm. I lightened my touch as the waves subsided, and then playfully attacked her clitoris again, hard. I sucked it into my mouth and she shouted, "Oh my god," and began convulsing as another tsunami rolled through her.

I gave her a break, moving down on her. I pointed my tongue and poked it into her vagina, licking the inside sensuously. I heard her moan, and her grip on my head tightened again as she pulled me in. "Oh my god," she said again. "Keep doing that. Oh my god." I fucked her with my tongue, narrowing it and pushing it deep into her, repeatedly, establishing a rhythm until her hips broke forward, slamming me in the face, and she came again. My hands on her thighs enabled me to stay with her, riding her pussy with my mouth while she bucked and shrieked.

She did need to catch her breath after that, so I nibbled on her outer labia, letting my tongue slip into her vaginal fold occasionally, until I felt her arousal begin to build again. Then a long lick from her vagina to her clit, followed by a hard tongue-lashing of her erect pearl, brought her to a monstrous orgasm. At the end of this one I could hear her weeping, and her hands on my head had a sentimental touch. I lapped generally for a few seconds then returned to her clitoris for another series of orgasms.

Finally she'd had enough. "That's it," she said. "Stop, you're going to kill me." She was laughing merrily. I lifted my head to see her looking happily down at me. "You're good at that," she said. "But really. I can't survive any more of it." She stroked my hair, smiling at me.

"Okay," I said. "Well I should get home before anybody gets suspicious." I replaced my mask over my mouth and nose.

"Sure," she said, still smiling. "Well you'll have to stop by again sometime."

"Sure," I said, knowing I never would. I stood up.

"Hey," she said. "How about a blow job before you go?"

"Oh, no, that's fine," I said.

"No, I mean it. I have not sucked a dick in years. You would be doing a lady a favor. Here, whip it out - I know it's hard already."