The Weely Visitor

The Weekly Visitor

She came to see him every week, on Wednesday, at two and stayed until six. She'd cook his dinner at five, wash the dishes, and she'd leave promptly at five fifty-nine and drive away in her old, blue Honda Accord. She would undress when she arrived and would stay nude until she left. They'd have sex from two thirty until four, every time. She would give him head, climb on top and ride him cowgirl so he didn't have to exert much energy, since at his age he was not in good enough shape to do much for himself.

She was a married woman with three nearly grown children, and her husband was a doctor, a pediatrician, and he usually got home at seven. She would have dinner ready for her husband and whatever kids were staying there with them at the time. She would once a week fix two dinners, on Wednesday, one for Charley and another for her husband and kids that were home.

It had been a year since she started going over to Charley's once a week, having sex with him, fixing his dinner, then going home. On the other nights of the week the Meals On Wheels people brought his food at five. It wasn't clear who they thought was cooking for him on Wednesday, but they knew he was being taken care of, they just didn't know to what extent.

Charley never knew why she started coming, why she would agree to have sex with him, or what he did to deserve such kindness. All he knew was that someone came to fuck him once a week, would blow him, and fuck his brains out. He did not know her name, and she called him Mr. C, but they didn't talk much, did not chat about politics, the weather, or sports.

He didn't know much about sports, or politics, and all he knew about the weather was what he could see out his bedroom window. What he did know was what game shows had been on that day and who had won, although he couldn't remember their names. He watched game shows all afternoon, everyday, except on Wednesdays when he was being serviced by the angel who came every week and cooked for him as well.

He did not know why she came, that an old friend of his had asked her to, paid her a small fee for her time, and made sure there were groceries to cook and kitchen supplies provided. He was unaware that the old friend was one who had worked with him in Panama when Charley was a foreman for the company and had saved his young friend's job and perhaps his life by testifying on the witness stand that the young worker was innocent of what he was charged with.

A woman had been raped and beaten and Charley took the stand in his young friend's behalf. The young man, Jacob, had been falsely accused and Charley stood up for him when no one else would. The young man accused was black and the others were afraid to get involved. Charley was the only one who would risk repercussions. The young man never forgot what Charley had done.

When he heard Charley was in poor health and not able to get out, he arranged for the woman to give the old man what he couldn't get for himself. She had, when she was young, worked the docks in Panama as a hooker, and had moved to the states, married the doctor, and became a mother, working as a nurse, then coming to take care of Charley.

She knew Charley from the days in Panama and when she heard he was homebound she volunteered to help. Jacob had run into her at the local farmer's market and they talked about old times, the people they knew, and Jacob told her about Charley.

"I wish there was something I could do," she said. Her name is Brenda, but she went by Claire in Panama. Jacob told her he thought there was something she could do. He proposed she cook for him. "I could do more than cook," she said. "I can give a man what other women won't," she said. "I remember Charley and what he did for you," she said. "He is a rare friend. I would like to give him what I have to offer. My husband does not know about my past, but I still have something to give and Charley deserves to have a woman once in awhile. I will do that," she said with conviction.

"I will pay for the groceries," Jacob said, "and for your time." She said that wasn't necessary, but he said she should consider it as part of the deal.

"Okay," she said. "I guess I am still a working girl in my heart. You can take the girl out of the streets, but you can't take the streets out of the girl," she said. "I will give him a good time once a week. I promise."

"You are a princess," Jacob said. "Charle will be so grateful. He probably won't remember you, but that's not important. The main thing is he gets what a man needs."

She decided not to tell him her name. If he didn't remember, that was fine. She wanted to make his life better now. She had not worked the streets since her days in Panama, but she was willing to do what she could to make him happy.

Charley was thirty five when he worked on the canal in Panama, and she was still in her teens, so even though it had been many years, she was still young enough to be a vital and attractive woman, especially to him. Even in her fifties, she had a firm and attractive body, and had kept herself active and in shape. She was what most people would call a beautiful woman, and her hair had not turned white and her skin was still creamy and tan. Her life had been far easier as the wife of a doctor in the United States and the mother of active children, than it had been as a sex worker in the labor towns of Panama City.

She had worked as a nurse as her children grew up, and was able to work only part time when they were in school. She had a few affairs in her early years, and her sex life kept her vivacious and feeling the desire for sex. She felt sex was her personal salvation and felt no guilt about her affairs. She loved her husband, but she compartmentalized and kept them separate, feeling they were her private business. He had his hobbies, and she had her affairs.

The first day she was there with Charley she told him friends got together and bought her for him. He didn't recognize her, since his vision was not all that good anymore. She told him she was there to cook and make him feel like a man again, whatever he needed for that. He listened, watched her undress, and smiled the whole time. She asked him if there was something special he'd like. For awhile he just looked at her, savoring the sight of her.

"It is all special," he said when she stood in front of him nude, letting him take her in, admiring her nakedness. After their first time together they stretched out wrapped up like a bundle of warm flesh. "You make an old man very happy," he said. She stayed naked as she prepared his meal and he watched her cook and clean and stand naked at the sink.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked one day in the beginning.

"I don't think so," she said with a certainty that convinced him.

"Have you ever been to Colorado?" he said. "I used to work in Colorado. Or Alaska?" He didn't go back far enough, to Panama City, however, his memory had faded that much.

"I look like a lot of people," she said, turning to face him, looking lovely, delicious, and amazing standing before him naked.

"I guess so," he said, unable to place her, but he watched her from the couch as she prepared his meal naked. "All the people you look like are pretty nice looking people," he said with a broad smile. She smiled and thanked him.

The second day she came, he came out to the couch before she got there. She had said she would be back on Wednesday at two, and he could not wait for Wednesday to arrive.

"You can call me Sally," she said. "If you want something, or for me to do something, just say, "'Sally will you please,' because pleasing you is what they pay me for."

He liked that someone was paying her to please him. No one had ever paid for someone to please him before. Never in his life. On Wednesday he'd wait for her, eagerly, his heart pounding while he anticipated her light knock at the door, then not waiting for an answer the door would open and she would say, "Good morning, Sunshine. How are you this morning?"

Then she would close the door and begin taking off her clothes. "You are looking sexy today," she'd say. He didn't mind that it wasn't true. Just to hear it made his heart soar. "Do you feel like chicken today?" she'd say. Or lasagna? Or fish? It didn't matter. He always did. Especially, he always felt like having her in his bed.

She would come to the bed, or to the couch if he made it there with his cane, and she would sit with him and tell him he looked good that day, then she would pull back the sheets or the blanket on the couch and try to get him aroused. He very rarely could get a full erection, and then for not very long, but she would always pretend that it was a long, stiff, horse cock and she would handled it with love, giving him what he hadn't had for years.

He never had an orgasm, but it wasn't necessary. Just to have his cock touched, kissed, sucked on, and handled was enough. She would stuff it into her like a wet rag and would ride him like he was a wild bronc, instead of a tired old man who couldn't keep it hard for a whole minute. He would smile, although it was hard to tell between that and a grimace, but he felt like he was fucking just like in the old days in Panama City, when he was little more than a young dude with wide shoulders and a broad and strong back.

Miss Sally had given him back some of that youthful energy and spirit and she did it lovingly. Her weekly visits did more for old Charley than all the medicine in his bathroom cabinet. She put fire in his wire and pink in his old, wrinkled cheeks. She made him eager for each week to come, and she showed him that life could still be lived with vigor. She not only cooked for him, but she heated far more than just his dinner. She gave him enough to make him eager for each Wednesday to come.

The last time she came was on February 10, 2010. On that next Monday, Charley's heart gave out, and he died that morning, on his sofa, in front of the television, an arms reach from a plate of cookies. Neighbors saw the Meals On Wheels driver at the door at four, and someone checked on Charley. He was on the couch, with a blanket over him, and the tv on to a game show. The sound was up, a tray on the coffee table with a plate of cookies within reach, and Charley staring at the ceiling, but the visitor had done her job. Charley died a happy man.