By Graham Steiner, grschinon_at_hotmail_dot_co_dot_uk.
It must be 25 years ago that my parents and I uprooted from our native Yorkshire and settled in secluded Devon. The thing is, my father was not in as good health as he would have us believe − I knew he was suffering from heart problems, for example − and he needed to retreat from the bustle of Leeds and take things much easier.
We all enjoyed the open countryside and the chance to lead a healthy life that it offered us. The 2-acre plot of land we bought with the house allowed us to grow our own vegetables and also to have a few chickens for fresh eggs, which contain usually something like half the cholesterol of battery eggs. Anything with lower cholesterol was a good idea for Dad with his dodgy ticker.
Now, he settled into the life very easily. He always said that he felt great in the evening when he came in from the field, even if he was tired through exertion. But it was the exertion that led to his demise in the end. One October evening about 6 years after we settled in this house he didn't walk in through the back door. We became anxious when the light started to fail and went out to the field. In a part of it that was hidden from the house by a clump of trees, we found him lying on the ground. The autopsy confirmed that, as we suspected because he was already cold, he'd been dead for several hours already, and that the cause of death was heart failure.
Even though the nearest neighbours were about ½ mile away it was a close-knit community that welcomed newcomers who made best efforts to embrace the local lifestyle, and everyone was very supportive. We certainly needed the support during those trying times. One of Mum's friends at the pottery class she was following, Helen, also happened to be a widow and she mentioned en passant that there was a support group that she was introduced to when her husband died (of liver cancer). Mum didn't get in touch with the group straight away − she wanted to rely first and foremost on her family to help her grieve properly to start with, and then enlist the help of the support group to rebuild her life once that initial process was over.
It was a couple of years after Dad passed away that she plucked up enough courage to call Helen and ask for an introduction into the support group. The group had no particular name, it was just called the group, and it was made up of friends who met at the house of one of the members. The tradition when a new member joined was for the new member's first meeting to be at his or her home. The new recruit would be in familiar surroundings and therefore more at ease, and preparing a light snack for 8 or 10 people would give him or her something to do instead of sitting there worrying about the meeting to come.
The big day was a week later. By then I had graduated from medical school and was working as a nurse in the local hospital, so I took the day off to give Mum a helping hand, and she thought it appropriate to introduce the whole family (all two of us…) anyway. Three cars arrived almost at the same time carrying a total of 7 people. From oldest to youngest they were Hannah Greenpath, 76, whose husband passed away in a road accident 9 years ago, but who enjoyed the company of the group so much and appreciated what it did for her that she vowed to tag along as long as possible and give back what she could. Then there was Judy Hellemann (72), Sergey Kalinkov (68), Gene Harfield (61), Helen Bergman (58, Mum's pottery class friend), Andy Karnovitch (54) and by far the most tragic case of all of them, Fiona Marks who, at the age of 23, lost her husband in a burglary that went horribly wrong when the burglars stabbed him 38 times with a kitchen knife.
The evening went well. Some long-standing and deep friendships were forged. Above all, my mother learned that she was far from the only person on this planet in her situation and that many had even had a much harder time than she had. It was fairly plain to see that she was well on the mend thanks to these meetings so I decided to further my medical training and leave her room to breathe.
Fast forward to 5 years later and I had graduated first as a general practitioner and then as a gynaecologist. Although she'd moved on and no longer needed the group's support, Mum kept in touch with most of the members she'd met and did her part helping new widows and widowers herself. One group member she kept in very close contact with was Andy Karnovitch. In fact, come to think of it, I should have seen it on that very first evening now that I think of the looks they were exchanging.
So, it shouldn't have been such a surprise when Mum invited me over to her place for lunch one Sunday and it was Andy who greeted me at the door. The fact was that he'd moved in with Mum a month earlier and she'd only now decided that it was a solid enough relationship and that it was time to tell me. So there we are, Andy was my stepfather − or as good as.
Over the years that followed I got to know him very well and came to love him deeply. He obviously meant a lot to my mother and he never tried to be condescending or overly father-like with me. We both knew that he wasn't my father and that no amount of pretending could either change that (and it wasn't a good idea to anway) or bring my father back, so we both made an unspoken agreement that it was best simply to cut the crap and be just who we were. It was an arrangement that would prove to be extremely beneficial to both of us in the future.
He and my mother ended up marrying 2 years later. The marriage made sense, they both loved each other, it's just a shame that it was death that brought them together in the first place. Of course, the fact that I was a qualified doctor was always a help with Andy's bad back. He was 61 by now and had been a farm labourer most of his life, and his body had taken a beating despite his otherwise uncannily good health.
The turning point in my relationship with Andy was on his 64th birthday. Mum had decided to throw him a birthday party complete with the obvious song by the Beatles but he was really feeling locked up and needed to be loosened before he could even comtemplate doing anything other than go to bed.
"Why don't you ask Graham to give you a massage?" said Mum. "He's a doctor, you know. He can probably help you."
"Come on, Mum. You know I'm a gynaecologist not an osteopath. The parts I usually go prodding around at don't have much to do with Andy's problems!"
"Not directly, anyway." added Andy with a wry smile.
"Don't you want to try? You know better what you're doing than me. Surely it can't harm. Andy, don't you want him to have a go at least?"
"Actually, if you're willing I'd like that. It can but help, and I won't hold it against you if I'm not dancing around within 5 minutes."
"Well then," said Mum without leaving me a chance to reply. "You go and lie down and get your back seen to and I'll carry on with the preparations for this evening."
Andy led me into their bedroom, which used to be my bedroom in fact. I don't think Mum could bear the idea of accepting another man in the bed she used to share with Dad. Andy told me that there was some oil in the bathroom with which I could rub him down and that I ought to bring some paper towels with me to wipe the excess oil off his back afterwards.
He stripped his shirt off without taking his eyes off me and I could swear that there was a bulge in his pants. I didn't think anything of it at the time. In 3 years of nursing, ie: giving patients bed-baths and cleaning out bedpans, I'd seen more naked men and women than most people have in a lifetime and had become quite blasÚ about it.
He then unbuckled his belt and unfastened his button and zipper and lay face down on the bed.
"Okay then, let's see what you can do!"
"I'll do what I can, but don't complain if the cure isn't perfect. This isn't my speciality."
"Don't worry, I've already said that I wouldn't be a problem patient. Please do something this side of Christmas, though!" He then pulled his trousers and pants down and revealed a cute, sun-tanned butt. So he sunbathes or works in the nude…
I poured some oil into the palm of my hand and then rubbed both hands together in order to warm it. As soon as I started applying it to Andy's back he moaned. Not realising that he was moaning in pleasure, I eased off, but he asked me to rub him harder again. So I did, and he started his moaning again. This was turning into something mildly erotic and, much to my surprise, I was beginning to get a hard-on!
Sitting on the edge of the bed I could only rub him in one direction so I asked him if he could turn around 180░ so I could do the other side. "Don't bother with that," he replied. "Just get on the bed and straddle me so you can work your way up both sides of my spine at the same time."
"I don't know if that's quite appropriate and whether…"
"Nor do I," he cut me off. "Nor do I care that much because it sure as hell feels good!"
"Okay then, here goes."
I started off by resting my weight on his thighs, but that caused him a little pain and he asked me to move upwards. So there I was, rubbing my hands up Andy's back, with my crotch (and a raging hard-on) rubbing against his butt, and him groaning like a whore. I was dreading what my mother would think should she come in the bedroom and "interrupt" us.
The moaning subsided after a while and Andy said that he felt much better. I reached for the paper towels and wiped him down, whereupon he wriggled around to lie on his back, with me still in the same position on top of him, and he grabbed hold of me by the hips. "That really feels much better," he said. "Now come down here and give me a hug!"
Now, ordinarily, I'd draw the line at lying on a half-naked man rubbing his crotch against mine and asking me to lie down on him and hug him, but not this time. Andy was right about one thing at least, it did sure as hell feel good… When we disentangled and Andy got up to dress again, I noticed a damp stain on the bedclothes where he had been. Now I understood what all the moaning was about − I had unwittingly been bringing him to a climax…
From that point onwards I was the only one ever to massage his back. About a year later my mother had to leave town for a few days to help her sister out. My aunt and uncle were in the process of having the central heating overhauled in their home and my uncle tripped over some of the tools and broke his hip. He was rushed off to hospital and my aunt had to decide whether to continue with the work so that it could be done when Gerry returned from hospital, or whether they should postpone things until he was better. Everyone agreed that the first solution was the better of the two. After all, there was no point in having Gerry back home in a weakened condition if he was going to trip over the tools again and break the other hip. So Mum packed up with the intention of staying with Aunt Sally while the work was still in progress.
This meant that the next time I came to massage Andy's back, we were alone in the home.
So we pulled out all the stops.
When it came to the habitual massage (which Andy evidently enjoyed whether his vertebrae were fused together or not) things went a little differently. This time he led me into the bedroom by the hand. As usual, he proceeded to remove his shirt, but when he was about to unbuckle I stopped him and said "Why don't you let me take care of that?" It was clear to him that I knew what he wanted, and that I wanted pretty much the same thing in fact, so he let me take things from there. I kissed him on his 65-year-old pot-belly while caressing his butt and I could sense something expanding in his underwear. I unbuckled his belt and unfastened his trousers, and instead of letting him get on the bed like he usually did about then, I let them drop to the floor. He stepped out of them, standing there in nothing but his boxers. Boxers with a big bulge in the front.
They didn't stay on for long, either. I got up to stand in front of him and pulled him towards me. My hands went down his back and into his boxers and I pinched his buttocks playfully. He giggled like a little boy and unfastened my clothes while I let his boxers drop to his feet. He then pulled my pants down while sitting on the edge of the bed and then drew me towards him. He drove his nose straight into my crotch and slurped at my balls. The feeling of my cock against his unshaven cheek was out of this world!
"Why dont you get that oil now?" he asked. "And maybe we'll need a few extra paper towels this time."
I obeyed and was back in a shot. We didn't assume our usual positions straight away this time. Instead, Andy lay on his back waiting for me to get on top of him. Now, I've seen a few naked sexagenarian men in my life, including several who evidently liked having a bed-bath more than they cared to admit, but I don't think I've ever seen one in this good shape and this desireable. He was rock-hard and he was gorgeous. Drop dead gorgeous. What's more, I knew he was going to be all mine − and willingly − for the next few days. I kneeled beside the bed, rolled back his foreskin and gave the end of his cock a quick slurp and a nibble. The temptation to go right down on him and give him a good, hearty suck was too great, so what's a guy to do? I gave in, of course. He spread his legs wide when I started playing with his balls and prodding at his back door.
Not wanting him to come this early in the proceedings, I extracted his member from my throat and climbed on top of him. Andy is a little shorter than me so I got between his legs. Before I'd got anywhere near kissing him he'd grabbed my buttocks and was groaning and trying to pull me inside him. I'd never seen such strong desire in anyone, especially in someone his age. But I wasn't about to let preconceived ideas about the sexuality of older people get in the way of this special moment. I leaned forward, grabbed him by the shoulders and sank into a deep embrace that could have lasted forever for all I cared.
Andy then freed his left hand and reached for the oil on the bed-side table. With his other hand he gently pushed me away from him and then poured some of the oil on his hairy chest. He worked it in a little with his right hand while putting the bottle back on the bed-side table, then started massaging our erections with his oily hand, working some oil into them too.
Despite his oily chest he asked me to let him flip over. I rearranged my legs so that his were between them and he rolled over onto his stomach. I grabbed the bottle of oil, poured some on his back and started to work it in when he reached behind himself, pulled his butt-cheeks apart and said "You forgot to put some in there!" The oversight was quickly remedied, and before long I was working the oil into his skin under his shoulder-blades with my hands and into his butt-crack with my cock. Not much oil was really needed there because I was oozing large quantities of pre-cum by then.
It was he who wanted me inside him. He reached hold of my cock behind him and, before I thrusted forwards, placed it at his rear entrance. He was very relaxed and I slipped inside with very little effort while he groaned ecstatically. His body warmth around my whole manhood was almost unbearable it felt so good. He was moving his hips just enough to make me slide in and out of him without disturbing my position on him. He was masturbating me with his entire body. All I could do was continue the massage but using my torso instead of my hands, because they were wrapped around Andy now, one massaging his balls and the other moving up and down his wet and sticky, but still hard cock. Wet and sticky because he had already come − probably when I entered him. It all proved too much for me and my own orgasm came upon me totally unexpected. I groaned and thrust as deep as I could into him, and squirted my juice so far into him that it must have tickled the back of his throat.
With that, I collapsed on top of him, still inside him, and we both fell asleep in a hot, sweaty and oily mess.
I must have been tired, completely spent, because I awoke still on top of him but with him now on his back. Somehow he'd managed to roll over without waking me up. He was busy with the oil again, pouring it down my butt crack and onto his still stiff member and then rubbing it into one with the other. My own reaction was immediate, another hard-on. I arose in order to reposition myself and then lowered myself onto him slowly. It felt marvellous. I now understood why he moaned like he did when I entered him because I caught myself doing just that.
His eyes were closed and he was biting his lower lip. His hands were exploring as much of my body as they could reach, rubbing my calves and thighs and working their way up my torso and then down my arms to my hands, which were rubbing more oil into his chest. He got some of the new oil on his hands and went for my crotch again, working it into my cock and scrotum. I could see that the feel of another man's cock in his hands gave him immense pleasure because his thrusting accelerated and his groans intensified. With that, his massaging turned into more intense rubbing of my cock-head, which brought me to climax first. My orgasm was once again so powerful that I soaked the pillow and his face in my cum, and the contractions of my sphincter drove him wild. Had anyone else heard the noise he was making they would have surely thought that he was being assassinated, not getting laid! With a last ditch effort he arched his back (nothing wrong with it right now…) thrust as far into me as he could, pulled me down onto him by the hips and came with such force that I felt the jet inside me! He then lay on the bed with a peaceful look of satisfaction on his face, licking the few remaining drops of my cum from his lips.
After a while Andy's erection had died down and slipped out of me. He looked at me and simply said "Graham, honey, that was the best sex I've had in many a long year, if not the best ever. Do you know how long I've been waiting for this? 8 long years!"
I couldn't think what the occasion was to start with, and then the penny dropped. "That first meeting of my mother's with the group?"
"That's right. I knew I wanted you as soon as I saw you way back then."
"Are you trying to tell me that you married my mother in order to get closer to me?"
"No, not at all. Your mother's a wonderful woman and I do love her very much. That's why I married her. It doesn't alter the fact that I was strongly attracted to you the minute I clapped eyes on you. Just think what we'd have been able to do together all those years ago, when I was that much younger!"
"Don't worry about that, you have nothing to be ashamed of in that department."
"Well, it's true that your mother used to keep me in practice, but of late she's lost interest in sex. That's why what happened today was so powerful for me. I hadn't had real sex for three years, and this time it was with someone I'd been lusting after for nearly a decade."
He seemed happy enough. Most married men go on a guilt trip after their first gay sexual experience, but not Andy. Maybe this wasn't his first after all. Also, it was plain to see that he wasn't like most men anyway. There was without the shadow of a doubt something special about him, and the idea of having to part with him later was already weighing on me, so I decided to test the water. "We're going to have to wash those bedclothes," I said, "we can't expect you to sleep in a bed soaked in oil, sweat and cum, now, can we?"
"Can't expect you?" he queried. "Don't you mean us? Aren't you staying?"
"I would like to, if you'd like that."
"Of course I would! Help me to get these sheets and the pillow case into the wash then we can have a shower and go to the shops to get something to eat. I hope you can cook, by the way. I couldn't boil an egg without ruining the saucepan."
"You're in luck there. I can do traditional British and European stuff and quite a lot of Asian dishes. Did you have anything particular in mind?"
"Can you do Spanish?"
"How about gazpacho and various tapas followed by a paella?"
"My stomach's rumbling already!"
"Okay then. Done."
We put the dirty bedclothes into the washing machine and I made out a shopping list of the ingredients I'd need for that evening's menu while Andy was in the shower. Then I showered while Andy added to the list a few odds and ends that were needed around the house. We went shopping, I just about managed to cook the food from memory and we washed it down with a nice bottle of Rioja.
Fast forward several months.
The Summer after Mum went to stay with her sister Sally, she suffered a massive stroke which left her paralyzed from the neck downwards, and two days later her heart failed. Poor Andy was devastated. It was the second time he'd lost a wife and I really thought he wasn't going to get over it this time. He wept for 3 days solid. For two weeks he failed to return my calls, pretended nobody was home when I stopped by and barely acknowledged me at the funeral. Then one afternoon he turned up on my doorstep. He looked a mess. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, his hair was unkempt, he hadn't shaved since the day Mum died and he hadn't changed his clothes since the funeral either. He simply bowed his head and burst into tears again in the porch.
I managed to coax him indoors and shut the door behind him. He was obviously having a really rough time and I felt sorry for him despite my own grief. I pulled him close to me, kissed him on the cheek and rested his head on my shoulder. And then the floodgates opened. All he could do for the next five minutes was cry, hold me tight, cry some more, while all the time saying what sounded through the tears like "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"
We stood there for a full 15 minutes while Andy regained his composure. "I'm so sorry," he said again. "I had no right whatsoever to reject you like I did. Through my own feeling of selfish dejection I'd lost sight of the fact that Suzanne was your mother and that you had every bit as much right as I did, if not more, to try and move on. I'm so sorry!"
"Please don't worry about that, Andy. You coming here today has already helped more than you can imagine." I replied, pulling him close to me again and allowing myself to shed a tear of my own. Eventually I had to come round and think of my job. "Look, I have to go and do a stint at the hospital in a few minutes. I'm filling in for an obstetrician colleague who, ironic as it may seem, is on maternity leave." The comment made Andy smile and even laugh, so his sense of humour hadn't deserted him. He was on the mend. "Why don't you go and make us a cuppa while I get changed?" Give him something to do instead of stand there like a lemon feeling sorry for himself.
A mug of tea was waiting for me when I came downstairs again. "Thanks, that's great." Don't let him think you take it for granted. "Tell you what. Why don't you stay here for now? If you want it you'll find some beer in the fridge, wine in racks behind those doors next to it, or there are stiffer things in the living room. If you get hungry before I'm back home I always keep some prepared food in the freezer compartment for those days when I don't have time to do something myself."
He agreed gratefully and stayed on his best behaviour. He didn't drink himself silly and he did have something to eat. He'd even located the mains water stop-cock and fixed a leaky cold tap in the bathroom while I was out. This was a useful man to have around the house! He stayed with me that night but we didn't make love, we were just glad to have one another. He stayed the next night, too. And the one after…
Three months and Andy's 67th birthday party had to pass by before something clicked back into place. I returned from the hospital in the afternoon and instead of the quick peck on the lips he'd give me when I arrived, we locked in a full-blown French kiss. He led me to the bedroom and we made love for the rest of the day and for most of the night, completely forgetting about trivial things like dinner.
That was nearly 9 years ago. Andy is 75 years old now. He never left my side once after that day he turned up on my doorstep looking like a scarecrow. There was no way he could care for the land with Mum's house so we sold the place and most of the furniture in it, and Andy moved in here officially.
His health has declined slowly since then. He still has an amazing sexual appetite for a man his age, even if his body can't always keep up with his desires. His heart is fine, it's his back that's a real problem and instead of being almost purely recreational, our rubbing sessions do indeed grant him plenty of relief other than sexual.
Things aren't going to improve. From time to time he drops hints that I'm going to have to prepare myself for life without him one day, but I'd rather cross that bridge when I get to it and enjoy the time we are given together while it lasts. I'm sure I'll be able to count on the group when the time comes, but until then all my efforts will be aimed at making my stepfather's last years in this world as pleasant as possible.
He deserves it, and much more.