a naughty true story to uplift Big Mo's spirits

[franksolich]

“Come on in here,” she said behind her back at the kitchen door, “and meet the man who should’ve been your father.”

I started; I wasn’t aware anyone had been with her.

Too late now; this young chick walked into the kitchen.  I was considerably heartened that she at least looked of legal age, over eighteen, but probably not by much.  Like her mother, she was a little bit taller than average for a woman her size, and slender.

- - - - - - - - - -

A few minutes earlier, when waking up, I’d thought I had the whole place to myself, despite that it was long after six a.m., when other people tend to be around, compelling one to maintain decorum.

But when watching the coffee brew, there’d been a tap on my shoulder, and suddenly whipping around, I faced someone from the long-ago past.

Many years ago, about the same time Big Mo was enjoying the unrestrained passions of her husband and the fruits of her fecundity, this surprise visitor and I had been youngsters in college who hung around a great deal with each other.

After college, we went our separate ways, but kept in touch, although usually only via Christmas cards.  We’d seen each other off-and-on, but this morning was the first time in a long time.

“It’s nice to see you again,” she said, looking me up-and-down.

“I learned what happened last week, and decided to come and see if you’re still okay.  Usually for most people, if not a life-ending experience, it’s definitely a life-changing experience.

“But you’ll look a lot better when you’re all healed up, the bruises from all the needles gone and your hair down there grown back.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I pointed out that from the previous Friday night continuing until late afternoon the following Monday, I’d worn nothing excepting lots of these little round sticky rubber things on which tubes and wires were attached.

“True, it was in a private room in intensive care, meaning the audience was severely limited, but still, it’s a good thing franksolich has never been especially inhibited.”

The young chick interrupted, “This is the old boyfriend who wrote you that poem?”

“I wasn’t her boyfriend,” I corrected her, “and she wasn’t my girlfriend.  We were just two people eminently comfortable giving each other much gratification, and did it as much as we could get away with it.

“But she did it with other people too,” I said, darkly.

“However, yeah, I wrote the poem.”

She kept looking at me.  “I’ve never seen a picture of you, and had no idea what you looked like…..until now…..but you don’t look anything like what I imagined the guy who wrote the poem’d look like.”

Hmmmmm, I said, forgetting my sense of awkwardness.  “What did you think the guy who wrote the poem, looked like?”

“Well, someone slighter, blond maybe, shy, and modestly winsome.  The sensitive, easy-to-hurt, sort.

“You’re no stud, no hunk, but you’re not a wimp either.

“I don’t know what it is you are,” she continued; “you’re definitely a man, and kickass cool, but at the same time you don’t appear threatening.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

Noticing an old stethoscope on the kitchen table—a real one, that had been dragged out after I came back from the hospital, so others could periodically check on me—she pointed to it, asking me, “Just out of curiosity, may I?”

I’d by now been used to people poking, probing, and listening to the internal organs, and nodded, yeah, sure.  She wasn’t anybody I knew, but she wasn’t a complete stranger, either, like some of these other people’d been.

She placed it all over on various parts, as she imagined medical professionals would do, but of course she really had no idea.  But by the time she’d gone from the base of the throat clear down the chest and abdomen to uncomfortably near the groin, I said, “Okay, unless you’re serious about us doing something, that’s enough of playing doctor.

“I had this sort of thing done to me all last weekend, nothing coming of it.”

“We have to go anyway,” her mother said, “but I needed to see how you were doing.”

I walked them to the front door, and sucked face with her, just like old times.   For a woman her age—and mine too--she hadn’t lost a thing despite the passage of years.

When out of earshot of her mother, the young chick suggested, “Well, when you’re all better, I’d like to get together with you, without mom, and we can play doctor and then we can play like you’re my dad.”