Reclaiming Intimacy

Ellen

 

"Really, Mom. Where did you meet this guy?" Stacey asked, flipping the bacon for the third time. They'd fallen into the routine of Sunday brunch years ago, and the tradition stuck. This week was Stacey's turn to cook, and her mom liked her bacon extra crispy. "Pork needs to be thoroughly cooked," Mom always told her growing up. "Consuming undercooked pork puts you at risk for trichinosis. When your uncle Ethan was sixteen, he and his best friend Billy Baker got drunk and decided to cook up some bacon. Needless to say they were impatient and ate it limp. Boy, did they get sick!" At this point Mom always laughed, shaking her head at the memory. "Take my word for it, Stacey, bacon should be cooked until it shatters."

Ellen stirred her coffee and slipped onto a stool at the breakfast bar. The coleus she'd planted yesterday were so colorful: caramel and magenta, viridian and chartreuse. "Aren't they lovely?" she asked, wrapping her hands around the cream-colored mug. "I adore my coleus garden. Thank you for helping me plant it, honey."

Stacey turned to face her mother, hands on hips. "You're evading the question, Mom. Where did you meet this guy? What's his name? How old is he? What does he do for a living? Does he have any children? You didn't tell him where you live, did you?"

Ellen smiled. "We met online. His name--"

"Online?" Stacey asked, incredulous. "Are you telling me you're on some dating website for seniors? I think I've seen that commercial. What's it called, Our Time or something like that? Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Stop it, Stacey. I'm not a child. I understand you loved your father, and you miss him. I miss him, too, but I'm not getting any younger. I'm sixty years old, and I'm lonely. Your father and I were married for thirty-six years. He's been dead for six. Would you rather see me alone and unhappy?"

Stacey plopped onto the stool next to her mother and sighed. "I'm sorry. You're right. I just worry about you, that's all. I don't want to see you hurt. Besides, the idea of seeing you with someone other than Dad is a little weird, you know?"

"You think it's weird? How do you think it makes me feel to think about someone other than your dad touching me?"

"Whoa, who said anything about touching?" Stacey teased, reaching for her mom's hand. "Jesus, I feel like our roles are reversed. Now I know how you felt when I went on my first date." She paused, took a deep breath and said, "Okay, tell me about him."

"I'll tell you all about him over breakfast," she promised.

"Oh, shit!" Stacey leapt for the stove. "I burnt the bacon!"

"Just the way I like it." Ellen smiled.

 
 

Russell

 
Russell dabbed the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He loved mowing the lawn. "Nothing better than the smell of fresh-cut grass," he always said, and he meant it. Staying physically fit enabled him to do the things he loved to do, and pendulous jowels notwithstanding, he thought he looked pretty damn good for sixty-five. He hoped Ellen agreed.

He'd considered dinner and a movie, but the idea didn't appeal to him. Too mundane. No, he'd thought. I'll cook for her. I am a chef, after all. Something special--a classic French meal, complete with aperitif, wine, bread, and dessert. He'd spent the better part of a week preparing, and tonight was the night.

He glanced at his watch: 4:45 p.m. She'd arrive at 7:00. He had just enough time to shower. Although many of the preparations were done well in advance, the final touches would take two hours, and he wanted everything to be impeccable.

The white linen tablecloth draped over the dining room table added an air of elegance. The china was set, stemware in place, and silver ready to be used. Russell arranged yellow roses at the center of the table, scattering a few petals across the top to create the perfect ambiance. He'd read somewhere that yellow roses stand for new beginnings, and what was tonight if not that?

He'd never married. Food was his mistress, his life. He'd traveled the world preparing meals fit for a king: Dubai, India; Lyon, France; London, England; New York, New York; Anchorage, Alaska; Osaka, Japan; Bologna, Italy; Edam, The Netherlands. Retiring hadn't been easy, but he was tired. While the rest of the world longed to travel, he longed for what they took for granted: a place to call home, a family, the minutiae of everyday domesticity. He had no children to share the holidays with, no grandchildren scrambled onto his lap for bedtime stories, no woman snuggled next to him on lazy Sunday mornings. He mowed his lawn, paid his bills, and enjoyed catering the occasional private dinner party, but he longed for passion and intimacy. He longed for someone to share his life with. Perhaps Ellen was the one.

He buttoned his shirt and glanced at his watch. 6:55 p.m. Any minute now, he thought. I'm nervous as a schoolboy. His heart hammered in his chest. He inhaled as much air as his lungs would hold, exhaling deliberately, slowly, in an effort to calm himself.

The doorbell rang.
 
 

Le repas

 
"You look lovely," he said, taking her hand. She'd chosen a white spaghetti-strap summer dress, and three strands of cream-colored freshwater pearls adorned her décolletage.

"Thank you, Russell. You look very handsome tonight, and dinner smells delicious," Ellen said.

"I hope you brought your appetite," he said, handing her a glass of Dubonnet. "Tchin Tchin."

Ellen lifted the glass to her nose and sniffed. "Tchin tchin?"

"It means 'cheers'. It's a traditional French toast. Are you hungry?" he asked, lighting the candles.

"As a matter of fact, I haven't eaten since breakfast."

"In that case, shall we?" he asked, gesturing for her to take her seat. "Tonight's meal will be served in six courses, the first being hors d’oeuvres. Coquilles Saint-Jacques are scallops poached in white wine atop a purée of mushrooms. The sauce is rich and delicious, preferably served with a glass of sauvignon." Russell placed a plate containing one open scallop shell on a bed of coarse Himalayan rock salt in front of her and poured the wine.

"Oh, it's so beautiful! I can hardly bring myself to eat it."

Russell sat at the head of the table to Ellen's left and smiled. "When I did this for a living, this meal would cost you one hundred and seventy-five dollars per person, with wine pairings of course, plus tax and twenty percent gratuity. That's a hefty sum of money, but nothing compared to watching people consume everything placed in front of them. Seeing my customers enjoy their meal is the biggest and best compliment of all." Russell reached over the bread basket between them and took her spoon. "May I?"

Ellen nodded, opening her mouth. She closed her eyes as the silver touched her tongue, savoring the explosion of flavor. She washed it down with a swallow of wine and giggled, covering her mouth in embarrassment. "I enjoyed that very much. You're an amazing cook."

"Thank you," Russell said, thumbing away a spot of sauce at the corner of her mouth. "I'm glad you liked it."

Poisson

 
Russell placed the next course between them and offered her the pastry server. "I find serving fish with a pastry server works well. It prevents the fillet from falling apart, and it's quite good for scooping up the sauce. This is Sole Meunière, best served with a glass of Sancerre," he said, pouring the white wine. "But not too much wine. We still have four more courses with wine pairings to go."

"Russell," Ellen said, taking her first bite, "this is the most amazing meal I've ever had. It's absolutely delicious. Thank you."

"It was my pleasure, really. I can't tell you the last time I cooked an intimate dinner for two. I'm not sure I ever have, actually. Sad, isn't it?"

Ellen wiped her mouth with her napkin, hesitant to press the issue but wanting to know more. "You mentioned before that you've never been married," she said, sipping her wine. "Is it because you never found the right woman, or were you too busy for marriage?"

"A little of both, I suppose. I've worked in some of the finest restaurants in the world. I traveled a lot. When I was working, traveling, I was too busy to settle down, never in a place long enough to find anyone I was really interested in. Of course I dated off and on, was even in a few short-term relationships. At the time I told myself it wasn't fair to subject a woman to my lifestyle, but it really boiled down to my unwillingness to change. I loved what I was doing, and I wanted to continue doing it."

"I think it's wonderful that you were true to yourself. Not many people can say that," Ellen said, dropping her gaze. She was embarrassed, self-conscious, afraid she'd said too much. Russell reached for her hand. His touch was welcome, warm, and wonderful. "I married right out of high school. That's what girls did back then, got married and had babies. Our first child was born the day after I turned nineteen and died on my twentieth birthday. His name was Sean. He had the prettiest blonde hair, and the bluest eyes.... Our marriage was never the same after that, but divorce was out of the question. That's not how I was raised; I was raised to believe in better or worse, richer or poorer, sickness and health." Ellen sighed and took another sip of her wine. She wasn't a drinker, and the alcohol was beginning to go to her head. She felt fuzzy, light, uninhibited. "Five years passed before Stacey was born. She was an accident, but I thank God for her every day. I never had any more children after that, and although I loved Jack, we were never really close."

"Did he give you a good life?" Russell asked. "I mean, the marriage may not have been exactly what you expected, but were you happy?" He was appalled to have asked such a personal question, but he couldn't help himself. There was something about her. He felt completely at ease with her, as if they'd known each other for years. "I'm sorry, Ellen. That's none of my business. I just--"

"No," she said, squeezing his hand. "It's okay. I want to talk about it. With you. I'd like to talk about it with you."

Russell nodded and leaned back in his chair, anxious to hear what she had to say.

"I wouldn't say I was happy, necessarily, but I wasn't unhappy either. Blissfully indifferent? Apathetic? I don't know how to describe it. We just kind of existed, you know? Jack was a good man, and he was never unkind, but he was reserved and stoic. Our life together was all we knew, so we carried on in our discontented detachment toward each other. I never considered getting out--not seriously, anyway, but I always wanted more. I longed for intimacy. I craved passion." She blushed, lowering her head. I should stop drinking, she thought. I should stop drinking before I say or do something I'll regret tomorrow. She took another sip of wine. "Something between us died with Sean. I'd like to say I tried to get it back, that he tried, but neither of us did. Not really. We watched our marriage being lowered into the ground and buried along with our son, and we did nothing to stop it."

They sat holding each other's hands, he looking at her, she avoiding looking at him. She took another sip of wine.

"I'm so sorry, Ellen," he said. "About Sean, about Jack. I'm sure there's nothing I can say to ease that pain, and I have no idea what the future holds for us, where we go from here, but I would like to get to know you better."

Ellen looked into his eyes, seeing the empathy there. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

Magret de Canard

 
"This is Magret de Canard--roasted breast of duck with galette de pomme de terre, also known as a potato cake garnish. As you can see, the duck is quite rare, but duck breast must be bloody for it to be good. Add a splash of red Bordeaux," Russell said, pouring two fingers into her glass, "and voilà! Course number three is served."

"Oh my goodness, where will I put all this food?" Ellen laughed. "You're something else. How long did it take you to prepare this meal?"

Russell slipped into his chair and smiled. "Do you like it?" he asked, shaking out his napkin over his lap.

"I've never seen anything like it. It's incredible. I feel like queen for a day. I just don't want to miss anything."

"Small portion sizes, my dear. That is the key. A few bites of each course, a few sips of wine, and suddenly dinner becomes a celebration, an event. It's a time to laugh and enjoy conversation. Food can also be sensual; it stimulates and heightens the body's senses. Aroma, texture, flavor, its aesthetic appeal, the sounds generated as one eats. Does the plate sizzle? Is the selection crunchy? Some foods squeak when you bite into them or explode in your mouth. Meals should be an experience, Ellen, yet the majority of people simply shovel food down their gullets without even tasting it."

Ellen looked at him, this strange, exotic man she happened to meet online. Where had he come from? How was it possible he'd spent his life alone? "I bet you left behind a trail of broken hearts," she said. "You're very passionate about what you do, and you do it well. You know you're good at it. I can imagine more than one young girl found that combination quite irresistible."

He blushed. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I get carried away. Forgive me."

"You misunderstand me, Russell," she said, covering his hand with her own. She liked his hands. They were large, the grip strong and rough to the touch. Masculine hands calloused from years of hard work. "That was a compliment. I'm intrigued. I think you are a most interesting man, and I can't wait to see what you have in store for the fourth course."

Salade Périgourdine

 
"Traditionally the salad is served after the main course, either with or before the cheese plate. Tonight we'll be eating Salade Périgourdine with gesier de canard, the preserved duck giblets from our main course, before the cheese plate."

"Duck giblets?" Ellen asked. "Can't say I've ever tried them."

"Oh, you're missing out. I can see the incredulity on your face, but fear not, milady. You will love this salad."

Ellen smiled. "Okay, I'll take your word for it."

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

She looked at him. He held their salad bowls, awaiting her answer before placing them on the table. She sighed, the last of her inhibitions exhaled in one slow breath. She allowed herself to hope. Please, please, she thought. Don't let him be too good to be true. "Yes," she said. "I do trust you."

"Good," he said, smiling. "Prendre plaisir." 

Plateau à fromage

 
"Here we have a variety of delectable French cheeses: Etorki, Brie, Roquefort, Saint Albray, Camembert, Gourmandise, entre deux Cantal. I've been saving this bottle of Chateau Lafite-Rothschild for a special occasion. Vintage two thousand and five. It was a gift from Jacques Chirac after the G8 Summit of oh-six."

"The President of France? That Jacques Chirac?" Ellen asked, stunned.

"The very same," Russell confirmed, handing her a glass. "I guess he liked my cooking."

Ellen didn't know what to say. She was speechless, so she took the proffered glass and sipped. "It's delicious."

Russell tipped a mouthful, closed his eyes, and rolled the garnet-colored liquid across his taste buds. She watched him in silence, aroused by his sensuality. The alcohol warmed her, made her feel sexy and beautiful. Daring. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him softly. His lips parted, and she tasted the wine on his tongue.

"Delicious," he agreed.

Crème Brulée

 
"It's so pretty," Ellen said as Russell placed a delicate dessert plate in front of her. "What is it?"

"The pièce de résistance: Butterscotch Crème Brûlée with Caramel Corn, served with a demitasse of freshly-brewed café," he said, spooning a bite into his mouth. "It's sweet, slightly salty when paired with a piece of the caramel corn, rich and creamy on your tongue."

All the wine had made her tipsy, and she giggled.

"What?"

"You have some ... just there," she pointed. "You dropped a bit on your shirt." She stepped forward to wipe it off, placing a hand on his chest to steady herself.

"Whoa there," he said, reaching for her, his arms circling her waist to prevent her from falling. He was breathing heavily now, and he leaned to whisper in her ear. "I want you, Ellen. I want to make love to you."

His breath was warm and intoxicating. She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against his chest. "I'm scared, Russell. Look at me, trembling like some foolish schoolgirl. It's been so long--"

"Shh," he said, brushing his lips against her neck. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I've wanted to touch you all evening. We can go as slow as you'd like. I have all the time in the world."

She turned as if to go, but he held her by the shoulders, his hands gentle yet firm. He stroked her collarbones, caressed the swell of her breasts. "Let me make love to you," he breathed into her hair, pulling her closer.

His erection pressed into the small of her back and she gasped. She felt weak, her resistance gone. He slipped a finger under the strap of her dress, easing it off her right shoulder. "Lay with me, Ellen. I want to see your body," he said, slipping the strap off her left shoulder and inching her dress down, exposing her breasts. "I want to taste you," he said, his fingertips gliding ever so lightly across her nipples. "I want to breathe you in," he said, cupping her breasts in his hands. "I want to kiss every inch of you. I want to hear what you sound like in the throes of passion."

She turned to him, breathless, and held his face in her hands. "Where's your bedroom?"

La petite mort

 
The sheets were cool and crisp against her skin, and she covered herself with her hands as he slipped the dress down over her hips. A lone candle burned on the bedside table, the shadows flickering and dancing across his face as his hungry eyes took her in.

"Please," she whispered, "Blow out the candle. I can't bear to be exposed like this."

"You are beautiful," he said. "Delicious." He kissed her chin, her neck. His arms slipped under her, lifting her body as he took her nipple between his lips.

Ellen gasped, arching her back, encouraging him to take more of her into his mouth. He moaned, suckling her deeper, harder, teasing her with his tongue as he slipped a hand beneath the waistband of her panties, his fingers parting her there to ease their passage.

"Oh!" she cried out, her embarrassment forgotten as she raked her fingers through his hair. "Take them off, take them off!" She raised her hips off the bed and he slipped the panties over them. She fumbled with his belt. "Goddamned belt," she muttered. "Who the hell wears belts anymore, anyway? Help me out here."

Russell laughed, and they stopped. She gaped at him, mortified. His hand was sandwiched between her thighs, hers clenched either side of his waistband in an effort to get his pants off. She burst out laughing.

"Oh, for the love of Pete! What are we, a couple of teenagers? Russell, would you be so kind as to remove your trousers for me, please? I seem to be having some technical difficulties accessing your cock."

Russell guffawed at this unexpected retort and did as he was told.

"Now," he said, lying next to her and pulling her to him. "Can we start over?"

She stroked his chest, her hand caressing his torso, his belly, her fingers brushing through his pubic hair before taking him firmly in her hand. "Yes," she said. "I would like that very much."



3,446 words (according to Microsoft Word)
Written for

Sensual Moments, Vol. 9  (18+) New year new prompt: stop by and say hello and share your sexy stories. Write on! #1774778 by SinfulAngel39

Author's Note: When I decided to enter this contest, I had no idea what I was going to write about. I like to find photos for my stories, and many times the photos themselves give me the story idea. That was the case with this photo. I was drawn to it immediately. It's rare to see elderly people in professional photography, especially professional photography depicting erotic, sensual situations.

Having spoken to many seniors who have found love later in life, and having witnessed my own father-in-law go through the death of his wife after fifty-one years of marriage, then watching him find someone else and remarry seven years later, I've seen firsthand the impact a romantic relationship can have on someone who is in the autumn of life. They joke that there's "no time to waste with prittle-prattle" and that "time is of the essence." Many times they have very brief courtships and marry within weeks or months of meeting, and they speak excitedly about once again engaging in sexual intimacy. "She's a passionate woman," one man said, and they openly discuss their encounters with anyone who is willing to listen. Sometimes the encounters are awkward, sometimes they're passionate and short-lived, sometimes they begin but the participants are physically incapable of consummating the act, but in all cases one common theme remains: everyone, regardless of age, has an innate need to be loved, and we all crave intimacy, passion, and the touch of another. We are sexual beings, and we remain that way until we die.

I hope I've done their experiences justice here.

Thank you for reading.