(Copyright 2001 Al Aronowitz)



[Tsaurah Litzky is a poet and writer of fiction, non fiction and erotica. Her work has appeared in Best American Erotica 95, 97, 99, 2001 and will be included in BAE 2002. She has also been published in Penthouse, LONGSHOT, The Unbearables, Crimes of the Beats, Appearances, Downtown Poets, The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, Pink Pages, Beet and many other books and periodicals. Her poetry books include Kamikaze Lover (Appearances 1999) and the just published Good Bye Beautiful Mother (Low Tech Press 2001). Formerly a columnist for the now defunct New York arts weekly Downtown, she now teaches erotic writing and literature at the New School University. ]

Kathy comes to visit after a month spent in Amsterdam. She brings me a pair of shiny, red rubber panties with no crotch. She tells me that there is a big demand for old lady porn in the sex shops over there.

"What do you mean, old lady porn," I ask her, "porn for old ladies?? but I "m only pulling her chain because I know what she means, I've visited the Sultry Senior Sluts site on the web several times.

"No, No," she says, and she passes the lit joint back across the table to me, "pictures of old ladies completely starkers or in negligees or bare ass to the camera, bent over, their faces smiling out between their open legs or even just the classic---plain spread pussy, you know." 

She spreads her thighs wide to illustrate and hooks one long, elegant leather panted leg over the arm of her chair.                                                                                                                                                                                                                

"When I visited Amsterdam three years ago, " she goes on, "You'd find a few old lady mags on a rack way in the back with the esoteric stuff like Busty Bearded Beauties but now they are on the racks in the front of the store, or stacked on the counter by the cash register next to the bestsellers like Buns of Glory and Lesbian Love Triangle."

"How old are these women?? I ask her,  "In their sixties? That 's not so old," I say.  I?m just pushing fifty.

"No, no they're really up there," she says, 'seventy, maybe even eighty,"

"Why this sudden rage for over the hill dames in Tulipland?? I want to know.

"Maybe it's because Queen Beatrix just turned eighty, the Dutch utterly idolize their Queen and they are such loyal people," she says, "or maybe it's because it's so way out there, one of the last taboos, like fixating on your grandma."

I take a long drag as I digest this information.

"You mean," I say as I pass the J. back to her, "in Holland fucking your brother isn't naughty anymore??

 "You're a laugh riot," she says. "But anyhow, now in Amsterdam, when you go to a club, you see all these old ladies out partying and getting chatted up by young studs."

"Maybe I'll move there," I say.

After she leaves I go back to my writing but I can't concentrate. Visions of skanky legged old women in fishnets and garters float through my brain. When I was at the Tunnel last month an old lady was getting a whipping. She looked at least seventy, her face criss-crossed with deep lines and her blue hair pulled back in a pony tail. She was wearing only a black satin bustier and red spike heels. She was being flogged with a braided cat o? nine tails by a pretty, big titted blond wench in a maid's outfit. With every stroke of the whip, loose flesh on the old woman's thighs jiggled but otherwise she had a fine, robust Reubenesque figure. She still looked good. Her mouth was open, she was smiling and panting at the same time, her face suffused with ecstasy. There were three or four guys in leather jodhpurs or studded jeans standing around with their cocks out wanking away. Looking at her, I wondered what I'd be doing for pleasure in fifteen years.

The memory of the woman, the smell of sweat and leather, the dimly lit, smoky club, peopled with shifting, moving forms, had gotten me excited, My own rank smell wafted up between my legs. I went to my lingerie drawer where I keep my two battery operated vibrators; the ribbed purple plastic one I named Glory of God and the long, thin, green one named Lionheart after the love of my life. I decided that Lionheart would pilot me this time, but even after I was all lubed up and we were flying into the clouds, the vision of the blue haired lady flickered and burned behind my eyes.

The next day as I drink my morning coffee I am still thinking about old lady porn, there must be old man porn too but I have never seen any. I have never even been to bed with any old men.  Actually, I never had been to bed with anyone older than forty-nine and that was Louis Lanza and I was twenty. He would stand beside the bed drinking Old Crow from the bottle looking at me naked until he was ready to thrust his meaty tool between my thighs. I wonder if he's still alive somewhere, maybe snoozing in a wheel chair in a nursing home, dreaming about my little pink legs waving in the air. I have nothing against old guys but I never seem to meet one. My last affair was with a guy who was thirty-two.

I dress and prepare to take the subway to Manhattan I have to go to the Strand and pick up some books for the erotic literature class I teach. On the #4 train there is a heavy set, graying older guy sitting across from me. He looks like Jean Gabin in Wages of Fear. I wonder if he is wearing a peach color lace bra and panties beneath his business suit. His thighs are so beefy that they strain against the fabric of his pants, maybe he has a big, beefy set of balls to match, so big they can be seen peeping out beneath the elastic of his panties. I decide to wink at him as I got off the train at Fourteenth Street. He pulls his head back as if I'd slapped him.

Once inside the Strand I make a beeline for the Erotica section, a meager two shelves below a bargain counter in the very back of the store. There was the usual:  Story of O, Frank Harris's My Life and Loves, Lolita, Candy, Vox but I am looking for---and can't find---a cut rate Macho Sluts. Still it is nice to be kneeling here under the counter in this dark, grotto of truth speaking books. I want to open my mouth and stroke the spine of each book with my tongue but I do not. I remember I want to check the art section for an Egon Scheile book. I stand up quickly and bump into someone. I have butted a bald, stout old guy with a scraggly, gray beard and mustache .He has an arm load of books, the top one is How I Became One of the Invisible.

 "I?m sorry," I say.

'that's O. k.," the man answers.

As I turn away, he says," Wait, could it be, could it be, Colette, is that you??

"Well yeah," I say, "but do I know you??

"I know I've changed but you, you're still a knockout. I'd recognize you anywhere," he says.

I don't know who this old geezer is, but I'm beginning to like him. I take a closer look.  There is something about the way his big ears stand out like the handles of a cup that is familiar. Under the wispy mustache, his lips are full and purple as if filled with dark blood. This mouth I know. It belongs to Charlie Cummings. This mouth had been everywhere on my body. His

'He had a long, pink, dick
and as it got big and hard
it used to curve'

tongue has been inside my every orifice. He would even pull it out of my mouth and snake it into my nostril and root around. I was still a college girl when he, a photographer fifteen years my senior, picked me up in the biography section of the Grand Army Plaza Library. He extracted a promise of fidelity from me and pledged eternal love, but six months after we met, I found out he was balling his ex-wife Sally on the nights he said he was going to see his headshrinker.

He had a long, pink, dick and as it got big and hard it used to curve. It would peak out at me rising from the sandy, blonde thicket of his pubic hair, like a worm emerging from its lair. I liked to lift my head as he loomed above me and watch it crawl between my thighs.  I remembered my rage when I found out about him and Sally. I wanted to cut that worm off. I wanted to bury it beneath a tree in Prospect Park so it could burrow its way to hell.

"Are your O.k."? he said.

"Charlie,? I answered, coming back to the now, "it's been such a long time. How are you doing? "

I wasn't about to tell him I'd been visualizing his amputated cock.

"Very good, working hard," he said, I have a studio up in Inwood now. I ran into Harriet at a Dave Van Ronk concert. She told me you'd become a writer. You look great!"

You, I thought, you look like you been spending your days in porno theaters.

"Come have a coffee with me," he said, "we have a lot of catching up to do."

"Why, why do we have to catch up at all," I say back.

I am surprised at my nasty tone.  Could I still be carrying a grudge after so many years? Maybe I was just becoming bitter. I remembered the bearded man I met at Tonic last week. He was wearing a thick, gold marriage band.

"Hi? he said, and then with no further preliminaries,  "Aren't you going to invite me over to your place, we could have some fun,?

"But you're married," I sputtered out.

"Ah come on," he said, "You're older, take it when you can get it, you should know the score."

"Go home to your wife, poor woman," I told him,

Now Charley was looking at me imploringly.

"I've thought of you so often over the years," he said, "Oh come on, It's just coffee."

I noticed he had what looked like a piece of spinach or perhaps it was seaweed stuck between his two front teeth. His personal hygiene had never been the best.

"No, no, I don't think so," I said.

For a second he looked hurt, then he bounced back. He smiled and pulled his wallet out of the jeans pocket.

"At least take my card,? he said, "give me a call. I know you must think about me sometimes too."

He always was a cocky bastard. I took the card automatically.

"Well it was wonderful seeing you," he said and he turned quickly on his heel and went towards the cashier.

When I got home I found a message on my answering machine from my editor Clothilde at Open Door magazine saying the last story that I sent her lacked punch. No wonder, I thought, as I listened to her message, I haven't got laid for six months. I'm beginning to feel like a fraud, a sex writer who doesn't have sex. Maybe I should call up Charlie, maybe he was sent to inspire me. I had a vision of his long, pink, cock again, this time it was pointing straight up, a thick finger beckoning me: "Come here, little girl."

I should wait, not do anything rash. I should allow myself to relax, calm down. I drank a water glass full of scotch and retired to my bed with the Glory of God rather than Lionheart. I wanted to relate to the cosmos and not be reminded of an old love. Even though the glory of God was granted to me, not once but twice I couldn't help missing--- even as I was coming---the real thing, the feeling of skin on skin, the soft, hot, tissue of life. I knew, as I was drifting off into the dream world, that tomorrow I would call Charlie.

I phoned him at noon. He sounded surprised when he heard my voice. That made me happy, maybe he wasn't that so sure of himself after all.

"I was really hoping you would phone," he said, "I was thinking of you all last night."

"What were you thinking?? I wanted to know.

" I was thinking how sweet you have always been and what an idiot I was."

"Yes, I know, " I said, "you were an idiot."

I didn't want to make it too easy for him.

"Look how about coming up here for dinner tonight. I want you to see what I?m working on."

"I "m busy tonight," I told him.

"Well how about tomorrow then?? he asked.

"OK,? I said to him and I wrote down his address.

I had to change to the local at 72nd street for the long ride up to his place at the very top of Manhattan. At 125th street the subway went above ground, the buildings I could see out the window looked ancient, foreign and baroque Around me in the subway car people were speaking foreign languages, Spanish, Russian, Arabic.  I could have been in Constantinople. I felt like I was entering a strange, exotic new world.

Following Charlie's instructions I got off at 207th street and walked north up Tenth Avenue. I could see the low hills of the Bronx rising across the river just two blocks away. I found the address and entered his building, an ancient colossus that had seen better days. Climbing the six flights of stairs to his top floor apartment, I smelled different food smells on every landing, curry, onions, ribs, frying fish.

He flung open the door as soon as I knocked. He was wearing clean jeans and a clean white shirt, His scraggly beard and mustache had been neatly trimmed. He smiled wide and I could see that his teeth had been cleaned too.

"Come in, come in, "he said, and then 'thank you," as he took the bag I offered him.

 "It's sake," I told him.

"I just love sake, somehow you always do the right thing,?

"You're buttering me up before I'm even in the door, Charlie," I told him, "You haven't changed."

I walked into a large spacious room with windows on two sides. The walls were a pale blue color.

"I was so lucky. Women who looked to be my age and older women way up into their seventies, and eighties. The women

'It occurred to me that with him I wouldn't feel the need to pluck out my white pubic hairs'

were all smiling or laughing, the photos were beautifully lit, you could see every line, circles under the eyes, but all the women looked beautiful, rich, alive. I call it Real Women, Charley, said, "In this youth worshiping culture, I'm a freak, I think women are so beautiful when the lives they have lived shows on their face, of course I have to say I still find young women beautiful too."

It occurred to me that with him I wouldn't feel the need to pluck out my white pubic hairs. I did not share this thought with him.

What I said was, "You're just a hound, Charlie, you always were."

"Except, I've learned my lesson," he answered, " I can only handle one at a time."

"You always knew what to say, Charlie, but I don't believe everything the way I used to."

He looked down, suddenly shamefaced.

"I?m really sorry," he said, "you know people can change. Anyhow, these women all live in this neighborhood. The pictures are for a show next month in Atlanta."

"It's great, very positive, so full of joy and life," I said.

He was so pleased, his face lit up with pleasure.

"I?m working harder now than ever. I feel the pressure of time and all that, but you know it's not bad, it's good. And how about you, you always wanted to write and you found your way, I'm delighted, you must tell me all about it over dinner. Everything is ready."

He led me into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and seated me ceremoniously. A big pot of fish stew on a hot plate was already on the table. He poured us full glasses of sake and then he ladled generous portions of stew into white porcelain bowls. The stew was fragrant and delicious.  He told me about the last show he'd had. It was in Cuba and, how poor the country was, how he always paid more than the asking price when he bought something.  He wanted to know if memories of our trysts had inspired me in my erotic writings.

I said I barely remembered.

He said I still sounded angry and he could understand that. He was just so happy I wasn't still too pissed off to come up to dinner.

As he was clearing the table I couldn't help noticing that despite his girth his haunches seemed solid and firm.

"How old are you now?? I asked him, "You're not in bad shape for a veritable geezer."

'seventy,? he answered, "And besides, I don't get older I get better, just like you."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," I told him, but I was lying, his charm was getting to me.

"Let's go sit on that couch in my studio and have an after dinner brandy," he said. "Go sit down, I'll bring the drinks in." 

I went into the other room and sat on the lumpy, old blue sofa. The setting sun streaming through the windows made the smiling faces shine. I knew he was going to make a move on me and I felt frightened. I felt like getting up and dashing out the door but the smiling women whispered to me. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, they said. What could possibly happen to you that hasn't happened before, I told myself.  But then I thought about how I couldn't stand to be hurt again. I was only a few feet from the door, I could whisk away so quickly he wouldn't hear me but then, he came into the room holding the brandy snifters and it was too late.

He handed me mine, sat down on the couch leaving some space between us. He took a big gulp of his brandy.

'this brandy smells too good to be gulped down," I said.

"I know," he answered, "but I'm nervous. I think you're terrific, please believe I'm so sorry for what happened long ago and maybe," he said slowly, shyly turning his face towards me, " we could really cook now."

Now it was I who took a big swallow of brandy.

"I don't know if I'm still angry, I'm frightened," I said. I didn't tell him that I didn't find his balding head or his bulky body exciting. I gulped down the rest of the brandy and looked into Charlie's eyes, they were as clear as a boy's.  I looked down at his large, calloused hands. They were beautifully shaped.

'?Er, ah?? I started to say, still feeling ambivalent, hedging for time, then I belched my brandy breath right in his face. He must have taken that for a come-hither sign because he leaned over and kissed me with real passion. His mouth was hungry, fresh as the mouth of a young Kerouac, bold as the mouth of a young Neal Cassady. His tongue was deep inside my mouth and I felt myself responding, felt myself getting wet between my legs. And then, just like Joey Gavino used to do behind the handball court in tenth grade, Charlie put his hand into my skirt, inside the elastic of my panties, reaching down to put two thick fingers inside my cunt so he was kissing me and finger fucking me at the same time. With his other hand he cupped my breast and his fingers pulled steadily at my nipple. I got so wet it was amazing his hand didn't just float right out of me, but he held on, pulling me deeper and deeper into an ocean of pleasure until I came, melting around his fingers.

"OK?? he asked, "Are you OK??

"I?m great," I said, then he kissed me sweetly and covered me with his body like a big warm blanket. I could feel the weight of his heavy belly spreading over me and I didn't mind. I wanted to feel him skin to skin, so I pulled my jersey and bra off over my head and flung them on the floor and then I unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off. His once generous chest hair was sparse and white, only a few tufts remained around his nipples. I used to love the thick mat on his chest and would tug at it with my teeth playfully when we fucked. My face must have registered my disappointment because he said, "Everything changes, " and tried a laugh but instead a weak "heh, heh, heh, heh? came out.

"But as life goes on we must deal with changes," he went on.

The last thing I wanted right then was to get involved in a philosophical conversation.

"Oh you, why don't you just shut up and suck my tittie," I said.

This time he did laugh and then he fastened his thick lips to my nipple and sucked. Having my nipples sucked has always driven me wild, the nerves in my nipples must be attached to my clit. Hot, rolling waves of pleasure rippled down from my breast soaking my pussy. I wanted him inside me. I was a liquid pool quivering for him. I wanted to be his briny nest.

I pushed my skirt and panties down mid thigh in obvious invitation but he just kept sucking away. He had turned into one big suck machine. Since he didn't take the hint my hands went for his fly and I zipped down. To my surprise he pushed my hand away.

"What 's the matter," I said, "What's wrong??

He disentangled himself from me and sat up. His lower lip was trembling and he looked like he was going to cry.

"What is it, what's the matter?? I wanted to know.

 "I, uh, uh, I "'s so, so, so "..I don't know what it is".. but I have to tell you, I??

"What is it?? I yelled, "do you have a disease or something??

"No, it's not something like that, exactly but it's just".." he mumbled, "Oh what the hell," he went on.

"Oh just look?"

He pulled his pants and briefs down to his knees. His cock was all curled up like a sleeping snail. With all the making out we?d

'He put his a finger down inside his leg behind his scrotum and he made a pushing, in-out, in-out motion'

been doing, I was surprised it wasn't at all hard.

"I have this condition, "he said, "it happens when men get older. The valves in your balls weaken so, you don't get erect"."

He put his a finger down inside his leg behind his scrotum and he made a pushing, in-out, in-out motion. Suddenly his cock perked up. It swelled, stretched right out before my eyes. It grew into that long, old worm I remembered. I jumped back startled.

"Jesus Christ, what was that?? I exclaimed. I had just entered the twilight zone.

"I know it's a shock," he said, "but I got an implant, a little pump, surgically inserted inside my thigh that does the work my valves can't do anymore, I still feel like a young man, I "m not ready to hang up my spurs. Now it will be hard for at least at hour."

"ER, well, wow, ER".." I said nonplussed. I had certainly never seen anything like this before. This WAS something new.

I reached out and touched it gingerly like it was an alien creature but beneath my fingers it felt like good, old, hot hard cock. I squeezed it and it remained firm in my hand?

"Can you ... come?? I asked him.

"Oh, sure, absolutely, just like before, and if I don't want to come after a half hour or so, I just squeeze it again, and see, " he said reaching between his legs again, I can make it go down."

He made the pushing motion and his erection subsided. "Anyhow, I can go for hours, that is if I don't throw my back out."

He was smiling now. Oh no, I thought, was this guy falling apart.

"What, you have a bad back too?? I asked him.

"No, no," he said, "I was just making a joke."

"Very funny," I said, but I was feeling calmer, that old saying came floating into my mind, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

"But you can really go for hours?? I asked him.

"With you," he answered, "I could go for days, weeks, centuries."

He was really one amazing guy. I wanted him for a friend, a partner, an ally. I decided I would make him my guide into this brave new world of geezer love. I pulled my panties and skirt all the way off and kicked them across the floor.

"Get out of your pants and push that button some more," I said, as I lay back on the couch, spreading my thighs..

He stood up with a wonderful smile on face. His pants and boxers fell to his ankles. He stepped out of them, kicked off the black oriental slippers he wore, then he took a step towards me. His belly sagged over on his crotch, the extra flesh on his chest made it look like he had small breasts. His scrawny legs were marred with brown age spots. He put his hand down the side of his inner thigh and squeezed his magic button. Instantly the cock stood up, grew to twice its size. I saw this chubby old geezer coming towards me. I made myself put my hands under my ass to lift my pussy up to welcome him. As he slid his astonishing cock into me I closed my eyes and tried to pretend he was the great God Pan, his chubby belly holding the sex secrets of centuries. . .  ##



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