The Old Man and the Beach

She paused and wiped tears from her eyes, sniffled, then continued, "I figure that if teaching French ever goes south, I'll just get out Bob's tools-I wouldn't let Mom sell them or give them away after he died-and fire up his old work van and rebrand myself as The Unclogging Lady or somesuch and go to work as a plumber. I bet I could do it, too. Got any leaking drains or clogged toilets you need fixed, Professor?"

"Not at present. But I'll keep you in mind next time I do."

"You do that. But now I'm feeling it's time to pay more attention to my plumbing. Let's see if we can get your roto-rooter up to reaming out my pipes!"

So it was time for another round of fuck..fuck..suck..suck...nip..lick...squeeze...poke...prod...tug..twist... et cetera, until we collapsed, laughing hysterically, for another intermission.

And so forth, repeatedly, with as many sexual variations as my knees could stand-Ambrosia was indefatigable and insatiable--until we broke for refueling and fixed dinner (reheated left-over lasagna, salad, and ice cream). I drank milk (I'm a dairyaholic) and Ambrosia, OJ of course.

After supper we washed dishes again (I wanted to impress Ambrosia with my fine housekeeping skills.) and chatted some more.

"Nice place you've got here, Professor. I was kind of expecting a scuzzy bachelor pad but it's really quite neat and clean and orderly. You're an impressively non-typical male. "

"Thank you." I didn't mention that I had spent almost all day Saturday uncluttering, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, washing, wiping and generally trying to rehabilitate the bachelor pad my place had devolved into since Veronica's passing. And I was certainly going to keep Ambrosia away from the basement laundry room with its mountains of undone dirty clothing, blankets, towels, et cetera-some of which I was considering just throwing sway since they were starting to mold. Impressive male? Ha! But I wasn't going to confess my true slovenliness.

She continued, "You remind me in some ways of an older, leaner, more intellectual and talkative version of Bob. He was something of a neatnik too-more of a househubby than my mom was a housekeeper...though she worked at housework, too. But Bob took the lead.." Was that why she was attracted to me-I reminded her of her dad? Wouldn't that be incest?

But I resolved then and there to decontaminate the laundry room the next week and try not to let my home

degenerate again-at least not so far.

Then, of course, with our fuel tanks refilled and equipment rested, we went at it again. But Marcus had done just about all he could manage in one day, and after a round or two Ambrosia extricated a couple of impressive dildos from her handbag that she had carried under her raincoat and had me use them on her-and she on me. I was going to have a sore ass for a while.

Then as it approached midnight Ambrosia yawned and declared she really had to go home and get some shut-eye, she had a class in the morning at the insane hour of seven-thirty with a really sadistic French lit professor and... And I replied what a coincidence; on Tuesday I had a seven-thirty class to teach with a whole bunch of really cantankerous students that I was going to have to terrify into learning chemistry. And we both laughed and necked and petted for a while longer, then Ambrosia redonned her sweats and I mine and we went out to my car-good thing it was parked in an enclosed attached garage-and I smuggled her back to her apartment, a shabby "economy model" in the student ghetto near the university campus. I didn't doubt that indefatigable Miss Goodworthy would mark my departure and return-the woman seemed never to sleep or blink-but doubted she could make anything salacious of it (though I did have Ambrosia lie down on the seat until we were at least a block away).. Whew.

Chapter Thirteen

I was afraid I would have a hard time sleeping that night-but I didn't. I lost consciousness as soon as my head hit the pillow and it was a good thing I had set two alarm clocks-one by my bed and one out in the hallway where I'd have to get up to silence the darn thing.

Another good thing was that it was Monday morning so I didn't have to get up so early. I almost broke the clock near my bed slapping at it-and it might have been squalling for several minutes before I reached it. But the one in the hallway just wouldn't shut up and finally I all but fell out of bed and staggered in to turn it off. Monday was a tough day to get through. And I didn't even go to Sunbody.

On Tuesday I felt a bit revived, but still had a hard time getting up-though for some reason Marcus got up before I did. Sweet dreams I suppose... But in 7:30 chemistry, there She was, sitting in the front row, looking as chipper as ever, clad in her usual tank top and shorts., notebook out, ready to take notes.

Well, if she could function, so could I. And I gamely made my way through my lecture (on redox reactions) and a rather cool demo (at least I thought it was cool): making powdered metallic copper by mixing a solution containing sugar with Benedict's Solution (a deep blue solution of copper sulfate and other chemicals) then cooking it. The bright blue mixture abruptly shifts to green then yellow then to colorless as orange copper powder settles to the bottom of the beaker or test tube-if sugar is present. The more sugar the more copper sludge and the paler the residual liquid. After analyzing my prepared solutions of sugar and a sugar-free negative control I asked for student volunteers to supply samples of snack foods or whatever to test whether or not they had free sugars in them. Most did-though one "sugar-free" gum stick really didn't (but one "sugarless" soda pop did!). I think it entertained the students-at least better than my going on about electron spin pairs might have.

And that afternoon a certain pert, tall, olive-skinned Italian (?)-Polish student showed up to my office during my office hours. I was a bit concerned how things might go, but aside from an inside joke about her dreams, she was the epitome of decorum and propriety. And so was I-aside from Marcus getting excited, but he stayed inside my pants and hidden behind my desk. I wondered if Ma'mselle La Chatte was reacting similarly, but even had Miss Goodworthy been sitting beside us, she would have noticed nothing untoward in our behavior. So I tried to demystify Ambrosia about trading electrons between atoms, thus changing their electrical charges and chemical behavior-but not their elemental identities. Got all that? A lot of students struggle with the idea. Then she left, giving me a covert wink and blowing a kiss as she did so. And that was that-for the time being.

Thursday morning I gave an examination in class. More of the same, though I groaned silently thinking of all the grading I would have to do that evening. Ambrosia finished early, along with a few other students who had shown superior (or clueless) performance in the class, turned in her exam-with another wink-and left. Idly I perused her test booklet (three pages stapled together with spaces left for problem-solving and answers)-and a statement on Page Three that each student was required to sign that they had neither received from nor extended help to another student on the exam. I doubted it totally squelched cheating, but it probably helped. I hoped. Next to her signature Ambrosia had drawn a surprisingly accurate sketch of female genitalia, with an arrow to the clit and a statement, "Mademoiselle La Chatte is lonely. Sunday?" I hastily closed her exam before anyone else could view it-but not before Marcus responded. It was going to be a l-o-n-g three days to Sunday.

But the week passed; I got my grading done-Ambrosia got an 88, a B+, on the exam-and I took two-thirds of my decomposing laundry to the trash and washed the rest, and scrupulously house-cleaned...and laid in a supply of Cialis® and Viagra®...and eschewed relieving Marcus of his tension-I wanted him well-loaded and rested for the next Sunday.

Chapter Fourteen

And Sunday eventually arrived and I was antsier than a cat on a hot tin... Wait, I've used that overused metaphor before. Well...than a sixty-nine year-old geezer having a torrid affair with a super-horny twenty-three year-old... That didn't make logical sense, but who cares? I didn't; all I cared was that the pizzamobile would arrive with my pizza (vegetarian option)-and delivery girl.

But the morning went by...with no pizza...or delivery girl. But I paced the floor anxiously, clad in my bathrobe-and nothing else, pausing maybe every three minutes to peer out the window at the sun-bathed street. And wondering how Ambrosia would disguise herself-no rain or raincoat or umbrella that day. The waiting was killing me. I was old enough that a heart attack wasn't unlikely...

Suddenly there came a sharp rapping-from somewhere in the back of my house. What the...? Then the rapping again...louder. Then almost a banging. I made my way to the rear entryway next to my back door. A shadowy figure was standing there, dimly visible through the small window. ???

"Who are you...and what do you want?" I croaked. I wondered where I had left my shotgun. Visions of urban home invasions arose...

"Pizza delivery!" came a muffled girl's voice. Ambrosia?? What the heck was she doing at my BACK door? True I had told her about Miss Goodworthy but....

I opened the door and she quickly pushed past me. "Think she saw me?" she blurted out.

"Who?"

"Your snoopy old maid neighbor!"

"Well...umm...probably not at my back door. But how the heck did you get back there without coming to the front of my house first?" (There weren't any gates to my neighbors' yards and the alley that used to behind my yard got filled in long ago. Years ago there were gates to my neighbors' yards. In fact, before then, when my children were young and the neighborhood was swarming with kids, there were few fences. But that all changed when casually friendly neighbors got replaced by increasingly territorial yuppies and muppies so...)                           

"I cut through your neighbor's place-the one back of yours on the other side of your block-and climbed the fence. They sure have a mean dog!" She gestured towards a big tear on the back of one of her sweats' leggings. I felt faint.

They sure did. I had vaguely heard the barking and growling but it had meant nothing to me at the time. And they were probably the most aggressively territorial of all my near neighbors; I had had repeated disputes with them about tree limbs hanging over the fence or my trees casting shade on them or my fence not looking attractive enough, or our de facto boundary was three inches over on their land (a certified survey showed that the fence was actually en inches into MY land-but it cost hundreds of dollars), or...

But Ambrosia had made it safely...somehow...this time. Maybe they just happened not to be home. But I'd have to warn her for the future. But why hadn't she come in the pizzamobile? Even in sunlight, in her sweats she could probably have passed for a boy...at least at a hundred yards...

As if reading my mind, she said as she began to strip off her hooded sweats, "My girlfriend...the pizza driver...and I had a bit of a falling out. She wanted a lot more than a muffdive for payment this time and I wasn't willing to share you with her! Now get that bathrobe off, Professor, and let's get down to business!" Bigenerational Sex 101 was about to get underway. I definitely wanted a passing grade,

I untied my sash and began removing my robe, but I was puzzled, "Share me with her? But she's a...excuse me...a lez!"

Ambrosia turned to face me, naked, "Maybe she's a coming-out closet switch hitter. Or maybe I described you in too glowing of terms. Anyway...should we get started here or in the bedroom..or wherever? I'm hornier than a Texas longhorn!"

We "got started" in the bedroom, and continued in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, both the bathrooms, the sunroom, and...the laundry room-and repeats. It was strange diddling and being diddled on top of a washing machine while it was running, but..hey...the vibrations created unique sensations.

Finally, I-or at least my hips and knees-could take no more and we settled down in the "family room" on beanbag chairs for a "movie night"-after popping popcorn and making frostie drinks. It was only appropriate. I put on one of my favorites-the French classic duology: Jean de Florette / Manon des Sources (in French with English subtitles). Ambrosia was pleased that the movie was in French though she complained that some of the actors were speaking in a dialect-Provençal-that she didn't understand. "No pain, no gain." I pontificated-and she retorted by goosing Marcus-hard. I gasped and doubled over but she tittered, "Remember. No pain, no gain!" Then she soothed Marcus by massaging him as we watched the show.

The double feature was impressive with complex parallel yet interwoven plots, skillful acting, an awesome setting, and irony galore-but l-o-n-g, and we took multiple potty-and sex-breaks. Finally, as the witching hour once again approached I smuggled Ambrosia home again (I was sure that Mabel-Miss Goodworthy-would take note of the coincidence with the previous week...but that couldn't be helped). But I took note of Ambrosia's address and phone number and told her I would pick her up the next Sunday morning at her place and smuggle her into my attached garage-it had a remote-controlled door. It would save her the trouble of trying once again to sneak into my place—and evade hostile dogs. As well as give us more time together (leer). Or we could get together at her place. "No way!" she expostulated. Her roommates... So she begrudgingly agreed to my first proposal. Then we tongue-wrestled and deep-petted for a while, and she got out and I watched her until she disappeared into her second story door.

I decided to flip the Ever-Watchful Mrs. Goodworthy the bird as I drove past her guard tower; I was in a feisty mood.

It was now November and as most college teachers know, things were getting intense. It always seems that twelve weeks into a sixteen-week semester one realizes one has only covered one third of what one wanted to cover that term. So it's pedal to the metal and students groan and teachers curse the surge in grading and exams and lab reports and ... Having taught for over three decades I tried to obviate the late-semester hell crunch by front-loading assignments into September and October-much to the discontent of students who viewed those as Party Months. So my November crunch was not so bad as for many...but students...and I...were still procrastinators, so...

...I didn't get my housecleaning done that week as usual and I feared getting demerits from Ambrosia. But she didn't say anything-until I hauled her home Sunday evening. "Looks like you need to hire a new housekeeper." she commented as I dropped her off in front of her place.

"I'll run an ad in the 'Help Wanted' classifieds." I quipped sheepishly.

"You do that." directed Ambrosia. "I don't want to spread my twat on dirty sheets." I'd definitely get my house cleaned-no matter what.

Chapter Fifteen

Then things seemed to settle into a routine of sorts. Sunday nude sexathons; Monday through Friday the late semester frenzy of grading and cramming in assignments and dealing with students begging piteously for mercy when they finally realized they were weeks (or months) behind on assignments and there was no way they could catch up.. Saturdays shopping and house-cleaning and whatever.

...until the week of Thanksgiving came and Ambrosia went to spend it with her mother and siblings in Morley and I went to spend it with my youngest son and his family in Redding, in northern California. I carefully deflected questions about my love life-or lack thereof-but had a good time otherwise. Though grandkids can really wear an old man out. Almost as much as a twenty-three year old French-and-education major fifth year senior coed.

Ambrosia graduated in early-mid December at the university's Winter Commencement ceremonies-a much smaller event than the traditional one held in May-but equally efficacious for students who for one reason or another choose to or need to finish up their degrees at the end of Fall Semester rather than Spring. And the school required that each faculty member attend at least one of the two graduation ceremonies, clad in full academic monkey suit-ahem, regalia-but often had difficulty rounding up enough faculty "volunteers" for the December event. So no one at all complained when I offered to attend the Winter affair, clad in my black-and-gold Purdue robes (where I earned my Ph.D.). So I got to applaud as Ambrosia "walked" and picked up her fake diploma from the University President (the real one would be mailed to her later after her final grades were certified), and I spotted Amber, flanked by three mid- to late adolescent kids (Ambrosia's half-siblings?), in the audience. I was immersed in the separate section for black-and-all-sorts-of-colors-costumed faculty of course, and I doubt Amber would have recognized me even if she could have picked me out of the herd. Though I wondered if Ambrosia had even told her I would be there. I had asked her not to, and hoped she didn't. I really didn't care if I ever interacted with Amber again. I take that back...I hoped never to meet her again.

The rest of the day Ambrosia reportedly hung out with her mother and siblings doing whatever-I really didn't care as long as it was somewhere that I wasn't-but that evening I picked her up in front of her apartment and smuggled her back into my place. (She said her mother had to return home to prepare for school the next Monday-the high school where she worked didn't break for Christmas...oops...Winter...for almost ten days yet.)

That evening-night we had the wildest sexathon yet; we fucked, petted, sucked, licked, nipped and probed in ways and places I had never thought of...certainly in ways I wouldn't have considered possible for my geriatric anatomy. But we did-and I never enjoyed sex so much. Though I was sure I'd be sore for weeks afterwards. But that's what they invented ibuprofen, acetaminophen and hydrocortisone for. [Wink.]

Sunday-after we regained consciousness about noon-I took Ambrosia back to her place to begin packing up her stuff and cleaning her apartment. Her landlord was wasting no time in evicting students after the conclusion of the semester.

On Monday I turned in my final grades for the semester (Ambrosia earned a B+ in my class), straightened up my sorta'-office (as an Emeritus faculty member I got an office...but a downscale version of the ones given the regular faculty), and went home to straighten my place and do laundry. Our recreational activities of Saturday-Sunday had generated a mountain of soiled sheets, et cetera.

Chapter Sixteen

On Tuesday, Ambrosia moved in with me. Yeah, really. She was no longer a student and I could no longer be punished by the university for cohabiting with her. Of course I could still suffer the opprobrium of my neighbors and faculty colleagues, and decided not to flaunt our relationship in their faces. (Though I had no doubts the indefatigable Mrs. Goodworthy would soon spread the news.) But I didn't care. Once upon a time I might have cared-back in the days when our neighborhood was really a social community. But in recent years-decades really-it had devolved into a yuppie/muppie (middle-aged urban professional) "bedroom community" where folks barely knew one another's names unless they happened to be employed at the same place...even as home decor and landscaping became ever more elegant and elaborate in a sort of homeowners' arms race.