Karl watched our daughter from the bedroom window: his brilliant mind almost gone, dissipating steadily as she grew up and he aged. Unable to watch her youth any longer, he lay naked, impotent, on his royal blue satin sheeted bed in his royal blue bedroom.
His harlot appeared and crouched between his legs at the end of the bed. Stripped down to my red and black floral lace see-through brassiere and transparent floral briefs, I looked every bit as sexy as I did on the night we first made love.
‘She’ll soon be ready,’ he said, his voice inflected with stilted Germanic tones of mild excitement.
‘She is ready,’ I said, refreshing his messed up memory cells, ‘Neve’s a young woman now.’
‘She reminds me of you when you were young, Nessie.’
I felt hurt, being compared to my young girl, ‘Why, that’s unfair, darling. Don’t I love you good?’
He shrugged his shoulders playing me for his amusement. He loved me when I spoke like a whore.
‘Well, don’t I, baby, love you good?’
I stared into the proverbial looking glass. At the age of fifty-three, I still looked phenomenal: his perfect beautiful wife. Perfect wavy oaken hair which I was busily tying back off my face for him, the way he liked me most: full of face. Perfect pallid, creamy blemish-free skin: no moles, spots, abrasions, not even stretch marks. Fine brown hairs growing over my upper lip, sprouting out of my armpits. Full, round breasts, flat abs, muscled arms, sturdy thighs. My only tell-tale signs of getting old were my annoying wrinkled welts of tiredness bagging under my eyes, and my sagging buttocks.
Which were a lot less than I could say for him.
He’d retained a quiff of grey hair on his unshaven egg-shaped head, I considered. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose flat, broad, too big. His teeth were yellowed, jagged with decay. The bristles round his flaking ever-sore lips and chin made him unpleasant to kiss these days. His once athletic torso had gone to fat and my baby’s penis had shrivelled into a little stump through age and abuse.
Otherwise, my husband wasn’t in a terribly bad condition for seventy-three.
I unclipped my bra and took it off. My breasts felt soft and heavy, perfect for mothering him.
Karl started to cry, like the baby boy I’d always wished for, ‘I love you so much, Nessie. It’s just that I fear growing older, seeing our fine girl, so young, healthy, strong and beautiful, these days.’
I sat on the end of the bed and pulled off my panties, ‘You’re only as old as you feel, honey. All you have to do to stay young is dream.’
If only getting old were that simple for you, I reflected, but I kept my personal opinion to myself.
He asked me if I would let him touch my scar. I edged up the bed, climbing onto his hairless chest so that he could feel me. He ran his fingers along the faint buff scar on my abdomen, feeling my body harden and tense, watching my cheeks colour, smelling my musk, enjoying the sensation of my arousal.
‘I gave you that scar, Nessie,’ he said, proudly, his face turning flaming red with the effort of me.
‘You did and I gave myself to you in a way that no woman had ever given herself to a man before.’
I paused so that he could take in the enormity of what I’d given to him: my genes. I was our first experiment, an experiment which culminated in Neve, our first being. It was my gift of life, a gift of perfect life that prompted us to conduct further genetic research on other, promiscuous, women.
‘I’m far too tired for sex these days, Nessie,’ he complained, ‘I can’t seem to get an erection. You should take a younger lover. I’d completely understand it if you did. He could come to the house and stay in the guest room for you to play with as and when you wish while I cook us all supper and dish us out the sherbets.’
Close to tears, intensely moved by my husband’s selfless generosity, I took his smooth hands off my belly, clutching them to my breasts, and said, ‘I would never do that to you, baby. It’s you I want to love. Now lie back, close your eyes and dream of how I used to ride you reverse cowgirl every night when you were young.’
Naturally, like all rapidly fading old men who are soon to reach their expiry date, he did precisely as he was told. He was crying. I hate to see a grown man cry, especially Karl. I turned around so that I couldn’t see his face and squatted on his ravaged body with his flaccid penis nestled between my buttocks, rubbing myself on him forcibly. In the forlorn hope that I might find a kind of loving.
