“That” said Fiona Howe, “is the most misogynistic thing I have heard in a long long time. Do you actually know how old I am?”
I shuffled my feet in embarrassment and struggled for an answer.
“Well I thought erm maybe…”
“I am 72. Is that a problem for you?”
“Or maybe it is. You were thinking about how much older I am than you and thought that I might possibly be under seventy and that if I was you might ask me for sex. Is that right?”
There was no point lying. She had seen through me. She always did. I took a sip of the milky tea she had made me.
“And seventy is a magic number that makes a woman unfuckable but doesn’t make a man too old for sex. Is that what you think? Is that what all men think.?”
“Well yeah I …”
“If a man of 72 has sex with a younger woman that is fine isn’t it?”
“But the other way round you have a problem with?”
“I’m sorry. It was such a stupid thing to day.”
“It was. Offensive and misogynistic.”
“Sorry? Is that the best you can do? Sorry?”
I felt myself going red with shame. I shuffle my feet and looked at the floor.
“Look at me.”
I complied amazed at how quickly I had resumed the role of immature schoolboy in her presence. She has the same wavy short hair as 46 years ago, now silver grey, the same snub nose, her face, older obviously, was barely lined. She was beautiful, as she always had been.
“Would you like to fuck me?”
I nodded, feeling an utter fool.
“When was the last time I saw you?” Fiona asked.
“I think it would have been when I was 14, so 1974?”
“The year I left King Aethelraed’s High. The year I got married and what a disaster that was.”
“That final lesson you gave me 400 lines and the last time I saw you was we I came to the staffroom to hand them in.”
“So not a very happy memory of me then?”
“Well, actually, you set me lines quite regularly and I enjoyed them.”
“What did I make you write?”
“Discipline and obedience are the key to learning.”
“Well I always was inventive wasn’t ?” she laughed, “But you enjoyed writing them?That’s not really the idea. They were a punishment.”
“Yes I know but I liked being punished by you.”
“Well, I suppose I worshipped you really. I was the only boy who did. The girls all loved you didn’t they? Always complimenting you on your hair, and your clothes. And those beige boots you had. Every adolescent girl wants to wear boots doesn’t she , it’s like a sign that she is not a girl anymore. And I so wanted to compliment you too and openly adore you the way that girls did. But I was a boy. So I was naughty so that you would punish me with lines and I sat and wrote and worshipped you, in that lovely tartan skirt you had, in those boots. I’m sorry, you must think I am weird.”
“Not at all.”
She touched me gently on the arm.
“You had a crush on me that’s all. These things are quite normal.”
She looked at me tenderly and I felt a tear running down my cheek.
Fiona changed tone and said briskly.
“I think I would like you to fuck me, it’s been a while. Only the once though. I am very happy on my own and I don’t want you to think there could ever be anything between us.”
I stood there silent, looking into my mug. I hadn’t come looking for a relationship, I hadn’t come well I don’t know. I had found out that my class teacher from the Third Form had moved into a new house just a quarter of a mile way from where I lived and here I was, 60 and retired, turning a social call into a confession of a teenage crush, Fiona Howe could still make me feel hopelessly inadequate, hopelessly naive, just as she could have done 46 years ago. At 72 she excited me more than she did then. But I lacked the courage to tell her.
“And if I still had the boots?”
“I am Fiona, we are both adults aren’t we?”
“Fiona, could I see them?”
“You can take them away, get them reheeled, give them a good clean and bring them with you next time. If we are going to fuck I might as well wear them for you.”
I felt myself going bright red with embarrassment.
“I didn’t fantasise about you that way back then I mean….”
“It wouldn’t bother me if you did. I am sure you weren’t the only one. And isn’t that what what spotty faced hormonal boys do?”
“I suppose so.”
“I am going to back the boots in a bag, And there will be a envelope containing your task.”
“A task. Something I require you to do. The chance for you to show me how much you want me.”
I said nothing.
“Sit down and finish your tea. I will be back in a minute”
Arriving home I shut the front door behind me. I leaned back against the door, in the gloom of my hallway and breathed heavily. I unbuttoned my trousers and masturbated to her, coming quickly. Come spilled out over my hand and I rushed to the kitchen in a crouched gait to avoid getting stains over my trousers. I cleaned myself up with kitchen towel, thought again of the boots and masturbated again. I grabbed the bag, pulled out a boot and came over it before greedily licking it clean.
I took the other boot out of the bag. I put them on the table and looked at them closely. They were scuffed, the leather was dry and beginning to crack in places. Were they the actual boots? Or was this part of her game? I didn’t really care and they certainly looked like the boots I remembered, they had, too, a patina of age. Most important of all, she had worn them.I kissed each one gently and placed them back on the table. I opened the envelope and unfolded the paper on which she had written,
“Before your next visit I require 400 lines. These must be in blue ink and must be in your BEST HANDWRITING. You will write ‘I am a misogynistic arsehole who must learn to respect women.'”
I laid paper and four blue pens out on the table in front of the boots, which I kept in my eyeline as I wrote.
“I am a misogynistic arsehole who must learn to respect women.”
400 lines. Only 400? I was a little disappointed. For Fiona Howe I could write for ever.
A story for Masturbation Monday. Click on the badge to see what other awesome naughtiness has been posted.