New Phase 9: The Second Half.        

Westlake Village, California

January 5, 2011

5:15PM

“Hey, Marcie…” hobbling on one foot “...think I need some balance, baby.”

Marsha still beautiful, at least in my eyes. The white chocolate and crushed macadamia nut maharajah laced half cookie adding to her, at least in my eyes, ageless beauty.

“Think I need some balance, baby.”

Knowing me. Knowing that even at age seventy-seven, knowing me.

Truth be told! Loving her husband. Glad to still be desired. Glad to still be ‘wanted’.

Truth also be told! From any distance of ten feet or further, reaming desirable, Marsha Lipensky is still followed by the eyes of younger men. Older men?

To older men, distance doesn’t matter.

“Okay...” Seventy-five year old Marsha said “...it’s okay.”

As I gently took hold of her soft right breast.

Strictly for balance, of course.

6:05 PM

Sitting in his self assigned place at the table. Looking ahead to the far end of the long room, to his right the solitary side of the large glass slider leading to the outside deck and Westlake Lake, Mitchell’s back about five feet from the inside eastern wall.

Marsha’s practical place at the table, her back to the accessibility of the range, refrigerator and sink, Mitchell sitting to her right, Marsha faced the deck and the lake.

Marsha served dinner of a salad, mashed potatoes with gravy, and liver and onions – I really like Marsha’s liver and onions cooked along with strips of thick cut bacon.

Dinner finished.

“Want me to help you back?”     

Grinning evilly. “Even if I still need some balance?”   

“Not unless you want to do the dishes.” Marsha threatened.

“Nah, think I’ll try on my own. But if I fall, you’ll come and pick me up, huh?”

Standing. “Sure I will…” at the sink, a soapy sponge in Marsha’s hand “...after I do the dishes.”

“You’re all heart!”

Nodding her head over her left shoulder. “Use the walker!”

“Fucking thing makes me feel like an old man.”

“You are an old man! Use the damn walker!”

“Oh…” pretending to pout “...o-kay.”

Reaching to his right, to the ‘walker’ that he’d parked alongside the solitary glass door that afternoon.

“Long as you’re up, might as well get into you pajamas also.”

“Oh…” still pretending to pout “...o-kay.”

6:18 PM  

Sitting for about fifteen minutes with my right knee  cocked beneath the desk, with my left leg, once again in severe distress, held as rigidly forward as possible,

Severe distress? 

In severe distress again?

Surprisingly, I seemed to have forgotten the pain, along with the time as I wrote, until…

“ ‘Mitchell’…” Marsha yelled from the kitchen “...what the hell are you doing?”

What the hell am I doing? I thought.     

 Don’t know how it is with other wan’a’be authors that love to write? Or maybe have nothing else to do but write.

As for me, when I drop my ass onto my chair and put my fingers onto the keyboard, sometimes… hell, more often than not I forget the time and can sit for hours – or so long as my bladder allows, and at my age, sometimes that isn’t too long – but I can sit and type and correct and embellish and correct with one word leading to another word as lines form and sentences come to life and — except for those other times when I sit with nothing coming to propel me from my brain freeze, but even then – I forget time.

6:41 PM

“ ‘Mitchell’…” Marsha yelled from the kitchen “...what the hell are you doing?”

What the hell am I doing, I thought.    

Working on the same novel I’ve been working on for years and don’t even care if I ever it finish it, because I’ve been told that the writing is the fun part and what comes next is the hard part. Because if I ever do finish my semi-fictional, factional novel, what then? Look for a publisher? And if I do not find a publisher, what then?

I write because it gives me, so I think, something useful to do and, hopefully, keeping my mind working— looking for words to form lines to make sentences to become a paragraph, and if I keep doing this, my thought is that if I force my mind to create…

My theory is that if I force my mind to keep working it will keep me from Alzheimer's.

I write because it makes me feel useful.

I write to keep my mind active.

Fame?

Too old now to become a famous author. No longer even care!

Money?

Money no problem!

Marcie and I have no financial problems.

Fortune?

My fortune is …

6:41 PM

“ ‘Mitchell’…” Marsha yelled from the kitchen “...what the hell are you doing?”

My fortune is the woman in the kitchen yelling at me.

“Uh, nothing.” I called back.

Angrily coming to me. “You’re supposed to be sitting with your leg elevated with a…”

Actually, the heating pad feels better than that old bag of refrozen peas.

You’re supposed to be sitting with your leg elevated with a heating pad!” Marsha scolded.

“Okay!” Taking a moment to type my last thought before it floated from my mind.

“Okay, already.” Taping the ‘Save Document’ button…

“ ‘Turn it off’! You’ve got to keep that leg elevated.”

“Okay!” Tapping the ‘Shut Down’ key, then swiveling my seat, attempting to straighten my legs then stand…

Not wanting to be overly dramatic now, and definitely not using literary license here, but, “Oh, my God!” a lightning bolt of unbearable pain shooting through my knee and up my spine. “Oh, my God!” I repeated as, attempting to stand, my left knee simply would not obey, and if not for the fact that I was gripping the back of my chair with one hand as Marsha held onto my other arm, I’d surely have fallen flat on my face.

As my recliner was on wheels, with the help of the rolling chair and Marsha, hopping slowly om my right leg, I was able to make it to the sofa.

“That stuff still working?”

My mind still on what I had been writing, forgetting for a moment. “Stuff?”

“Yeah, that cookie.”

“Cookie?”  

Knowing I was still in a world of pain — wondering, though, I’m sure, if I was pulling her leg, which I was.

Stopping and looking at my face. “Those cookies that Sy brought over before. Maybe...” she said “...you should eat the other half.”

“No. Think for now I’d better try another ‘Vicodine’.”

My left leg held stiffly straight, forcing myself from the sofa and grabbing hold of the back of my chair as, propelling the chair towards the kitchen by use of my right foot.

“Where the ‘hell’ are you going!?”

“Iyou having to do ‘everything’ for me! hate being so fucking useless! I’m going to get a Vicodine.”

Grabbing the back of the chair, supporting me as she hauled the chair backwards, towards the sofa, then kicked it away.

“You set your saggy ass right there, mister, I’ll get your pills!”

7:27 PM

Reclining on the sofa, my back leaning onto the right side cushioned armrest, my left leg flat out onto the sofa’s cushion.

Turning from the last of the evening news. “That pill helping any?” Marsha asked from the far, left end of the sofa.

Attempting to lift my leg. Pain shooting upward. “No...” I said “...not in the slightest.”

Rising, “I’ll get the cookie.”

“Know what, baby?”

Turning. “Yeah?” Marsha looked at me.

“Bring me a whole one, and a glass of seltzer.”

Which she did. And ate the remaining half of the first white chocolate and crushed macadamia nut maharajah laced half cookie herself...

9:40 PM

From her far end of the sofa, Marsha Lipensky absently watched whatever was on television feeling; in one sense more relaxed than she’d felt since she had — though she did not really mind it, and was actually glad to be able to be of such assistance to her husband during this waiting period, and wanted to be as much help to him as needed after the surgery.

Sitting on the far end of the sofa absently watching whatever was on television Marsha Lipensky felt more relaxed at this time than…? Also, Marsha Lipensky, sensing an unusual wetness within her vagina, Marsha Lipensky felt hornier now than she had been since…? Couldn’t remember.

Looking to her right.

Somewhat leaning against the far right padded armrest, her husband’s right leg midway off the sofa, his left leg outstretched onto the sofa causing a slight gap in the fly of his pyjamas.

I’ve seen his cock a million times, so why am I… Marsha thought, as she tilted her head downward but, his penis between his upper thighs, the opening of the slit in the slit in the pyjamas too narrow…

What the hell am I doing? Why’my so fuckin’ hot?

In her pyjamas also. Slipping her right hand through the waistband and beneath the panties she always wore to bed, and further onto her still somewhat hairy vulva, Marsha’s first two fingers parting the moist, overlapping lips… Holy shit! Removing her hand both fingers shiny wet with bodily reading fluid.

Slickly replacing her two fingers with slight masturbatory movements, her other hand reaching through the fly of her husband’s pyjamas…

Not fully awake. Not fully asleep. On that extremely comfortable midway plateau…

“Ummm.” Awaken as Marsha’s hand, encircling the soft, pliable cylinder of flesh, urged it through the slit of his pyjamas where it lay warmly within the palm of her hand.

The husband and wife’s eyes touching as the white chocolate and crushed macadamia nut maharajah laced half cookies apparently doing it’s job…

At least in Marsha Lipensky’s case, sexual desire being Maharajahs secondary job.

“Baby…” Marsha said, pulling the pyjama top over her head and off, fully exposing her hanging —at least in her husbands eyes, beautiful seventy-five year old tits.

“Baby…” Marsha said “...I’m so fucking hot.”

Realising—through the tempearly dull pain, suddenly realising he was horny, too.

“Me, too, baby… Don’t know what to do about it, but I’m so fucking hot, too.”

“I want to suck your cock!”

“Gi’me a blow-job?”

The soft, pliable cylinder of flesh held within the palm of Marsha’s hand no longer sort, nor pliable, however was pleasurably still held within the clenched fist of her hand.

“Yeah, baby. That’s what I want to do! Give my baby a blow-job.”

“Me, too, baby! I want to eat your pussy but…” motioning to his left knee.

“Yeah, I know. You mind?”

“ ‘Mind’ what?”

“Suck your cock.”

Do I mind if she sucks my cock? What a question!

Laughing. “Do I mind if you suck my cock? No, baby…” no longer resting within the palm of Marsha’s hand, now stiffly at attention. “...don’t mind at all!”

Left leg stretched forward on the sofa. Right leg off the sofa, bare foot flat on the floor.

Slithering his body a bit further. Though dulled by maharajah, the movement causing a subsided stab of pain within his knee.

Standing. “Figured a way, baby.” Pushing the pyjama bottoms and panties down her legs and off her feet. “Lift your hip,” she told Mitchell as she slowly pulled the bottoms to his knees. “Slide down.” helping him move even lower on the sofa.

At Marsha’s age, this a difficult task.

However, where there’s a will, there’s a way.

Standing closely alongside the sofa, holding her husband’s head within both hands as, moving it upward and to the side just enough to be able straddle it between her upper thighs while still being able to bend forward enough to take his penis into her mouth as she positioned her vagina over his mouth.

American ingenuity!

American ingenuity… with the help of white chocolate and crushed macadamia nut maharajah laced cookies.

10:35 PM

Sexually sated, and still under the influence of maharajah, falling asleep on the sofa, Marsha covered Mitchell then, repositioning herself on the far end, husband and wife slept through the night.

Next: Phase 10: Milt & Me