Wedding Day No 12

What is it about a wedding?

I wasn't drunk but I might have had trouble with a breathalyzer. It was around 10 o'clock and the wedding reception was starting to wind down. The raw energy of the Chicken Dance-YMCA-Hokie Pokie medley had been used up, and even the kids were pretty much done running around. Groups had formed and I was plotting my graceful exit when I saw a friendly face approaching.

Jennifer is my ex's step-sister, brought to the marriage by her father with his new wife. In a way, she reminded me of myself, working her way through her third marriage and, to all appearances, enjoying her weekend away from responsibility. We had chatted a bit during the rehearsal practice, the rehearsal, and the rehearsal dinner, and I remembered that I liked her more than most of the members of my ex's family.

"Help a girl to escape?" she asked, and I was surprised at the heavy sheen of sweat on her face that smeared the mascara around her eyes.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

She smiled wanly and said, "A bit overheated, now let's say goodnight and get me the fuck out of here."

I laughed, took her hand, and led her to the crowd around the bride, my son's new wife, and groom, my son.

I won't deny that on some atavistic level I enjoyed the glare my ex threw my way as Jennifer and I walked past her, hand in hand.

I caught my son's eye and he came over, dragging Meg, his bride, away from the crew surrounding them.

"Thanks for coming, Dad," he said, wrapping me in a bear hug.

"Wouldn't have missed it," I said, patting his back.

"Thanks for coming, Aunt Jen," he said to Jennifer.

Well, you can fill in the next couple of minutes while we offered congratulations and unwelcome advice.

Finally free, we left, heading for the parking lot.

We barely cleared the door when she leaned against the building, bent at the waist, and started doing something with her hair.

When she stood and met my eyes she grinned. The wig was in her hand and her head was as smooth as a grape. Well, almost as smooth as a grape but I could see a light dusting of very fine hair in the bright overhead lights.

"That fucking thing is so hot I thought I was going to have a fucking heat stroke," she said, holding the wig up and glaring at it.

"What's this?" I asked, closing the distance between us and lightly brushing her smooth scalp with my fingertips, "A fashion statement or something else?"

She smiled at me, making me think of one of those words you see written sometimes but never use in normal conversation. She smiled at me wanly.

"I got the tit cancer," she said, giving a nervous little chuckle, "Cost me a tit, my hair, and Kevin's interest."

The chuckle was full of nerves, and her eyes were starting to well up so I took her in my arms and held her, comforting her, a sensual embrace without being sexual.

"Well," I said, hands light on her back in that way you do to sympathize, "I never thought Kevin was the sharpest knife in the drawer."

She laughed at that, a real laugh, not something forced to hide nerves.

"Take me somewhere and feed me," she said, smiling and surprising me by reaching behind my head and pulling me down for a kiss, a real man-woman kiss, not just a little brother-in-law - sister-in-law peck, "Wedding cake didn't really fill me up."

"Oh, thank you, God," she said as I walked her to my midlife crisis, the little Fiat 124 Spider purchased as my 50th birthday present to myself and lovingly restored and refurbished over the past 25 years until now it was, literally, a much better car than it had been when new. "Please tell me we can put the top down."

I laughed, opened the door, noted that she knew how to enter the very low car - butt in the seat first and then pivot the legs in - and trotted around to the driver-side door. In the driver's seat, I started the engine, giving things a moment to warm up, and worked the two little levers before pushing the top up and back.

"Your wish is my command," I said.

She giggled and said, "Be careful, Phillip. I'm pretty full of wishes right now."

"Your wish is my command," I repeated, meeting her eyes with what I hoped was a "suggestive" look.

She giggled and said, "I wish I wasn't starving to death."

I laughed, put the little car in reverse, got pointed at the street, and headed out.

The 124 is pretty old school so talking required shouting. She rubbed her hands across her smooth scalp and seemed to visibly cool off in the speed-induced breeze. We weren't going particularly fast, about 55 to 60 miles per hour, but the small car is very low and tightly sprung so it seemed more like a hundred.

I drove to the next town north, hoping the diner I had discovered two decades ago was still there.

It was.

I parked and walked her into the diner, looking for all the world like something caught in a time warp from the 1950s, or maybe the set of

Back to the Future

. We sat at a booth and the waitress was prompt. Jennifer ordered the "Lumberjack Breakfast" with a chocolate shake. I ordered a French Dip and a vanilla malt.

And we talked.

I have always found Jennifer to be an interesting person. She got pregnant at 17, married and had a baby before she was 18, had two more children before her husband got killed on his motorcycle, and struggled for the next two decades including a brief rebound marriage before marrying Kevin, a second time around for both of them.

We had, in other words, a lot in common.

For the next hour, she talked, and I listened.

In so many ways she was a cliche, but I still empathized with her. The kids were gone. Her oldest, a daughter, had followed the family script and got knocked up at 16. She was living in Germany with her soldier husband. The middle kid, a son, had finished college and was teaching at a small town in Oklahoma. The youngest, another son, had dropped out of college and was working as a mechanic in a motorcycle shop.

So I told her of my own kids - the daughter knocked up her sophomore year in college and the son, well, she had just been at his wedding so she was up to date on that. Actually, she was pretty current on my family since she and the ex still talked regularly.

She obviously needed to talk about more intimate things, though, so I shut up and let her go.

The cancer had been spotted as part of a regular mammogram, something she had put off for several years since she didn't have insurance. By the time it was spotted, it was aggressive and had spread. Then came a radical mastectomy, radiation, and follow-up course of chemo that she had barely finished in time to make, as she put it, "my favorite nephew's wedding."

"But Kevin doesn't seem to be interested in a half-woman," she said, her eyes carefully examining the last French fry she was getting ready to eat.

I reached across and covered her free hand with mine.

"I revise my evaluation of Kevin," I said, "He's a fucking idiot."

"You're sweet," she said, "but I understand."

"I revise my evaluation of you, then, Jen," I said.

"What do you mean?" she asked, meeting my eyes for one of the few times since we had started talking about more serious things.

"Then you're a fucking idiot too," I said.

"Phillip," she started but I reached across the table and touched her lips, cutting her off.

"Jen," I said, leaning forward, not needing to fake my earnestness, "You are cute as a button, sexy as a callgirl on the prowl, and so perfectly feminine you exude femaleness." I chuckled and added, "If it's not a word, it should be."

She started to speak and I touched her lips again.

"And undeniably desirable," I finished my litany. "Jennifer, there's more to a woman than two tits and I'll be happy to show you just how much I mean that if you come back to the Airbnb with me."

She was staring at me, eyes big, and I held her gaze.

"You're serious?" she asked.

I grinned then, that boyish grin I used to practice in the mirror a half-century ago.

"Try me," I said.

"But listen," I said, covering her hand again, "there's no hurry. We're going to finish our meal and these delicious shakes, take it easy driving home, and yes, I'm going to tease you, baldy, and when we get back to town you tell me to take you to my Airbnb or to the hotel."

I did the finger-touching-the-lips thing again when she started to speak.

"But, Jennifer, make no mistake," I said, "I'm serious."

She smiled, caught my hand and held it away from her lips, and said, softly but very clearly, "Yes."

She laughed when I jumped up and went to the cash register.

"You said no hurry," she said and stopped to suck on the straw, working the thick milkshake up, "and I'm holding you to that."

We fell back into a casual conversation, two old friends catching up and, of course, talking about the wedding. She had a thing about making fun of skinny girls and my tastes had always run to bigger women so we picked apart several of the girls there although we had several laughs at her niece (my ex-niece? How do you handle those relationship things after divorce) who had been such a prissy, churchy teenager, so tall and thin, who looked to be pushing the 300-pound mark pretty damn hard these days and had worn a top that exposed, we agreed, a full foot of cleavage.

Finally, the "Lumberjack Breakfast" and the French Dip were gone. I did make a point of asking how she ate like that and kept skinny to which she joked about the "Chemo Diet, all the rage these days" making me feel like an insensitive idiot, and the final dregs of her shake and my malt had been sucked noisily from the bottom of the glass. It was time to go.

As we moved toward the door I kept my hand low on the small of her back, claiming her in the way my cousin taught me back in the dark ages when he was the only significant male influence in my life.

At the car, she turned and put her hands on my shoulders.

"Thank you, Phillip," she said, "You've given me a wonderful compliment but you don't have to go through with it."

I slapped her, not hard but definitely a slap, and then kissed her, hard, holding her to me until I felt her start to return the kiss.

I broke the kiss, nuzzled her neck, and said, "You said 'yes,' Jen, and you're puttin' out or you will forever be branded a tease."

She smiled then, ignoring the red handprint on her cheek.

"God, Phillip, I wish you had come to me when my idiot sister kicked you out," she said, "I'd have never let you go."

She kissed me then, a hard kiss, almost a desperate kiss, a full-on "fuck me" kiss.

A damn good kiss.

This time she broke the kiss, smiled, and said, "Okay, I'm puttin' out."

Standing there in the colored lights from the Diner's neon I brushed my hand across her smooth head.

"God made a few perfect heads," I said, passing along a joke a bald friend told me years ago, "the rest he covered with hair. I love your new look," I went on, "but it's a bit fuzzy. Just so you know, when we get to my place I'd like to shave you smooth again."

And of all the things we'd said this very interesting evening, that's the one that brought tears to her eyes.

I held her as she cried herself out, finding the fresh wetness on my chest erotic.

Finally, she smiled up at me through eyes with tears overflowing, touched my cheek very lightly, giggled, and said, "Work your evil ways with me, Phillip, I'm due."

I kissed her on the top of her bald head, helped her into the car, and said, "Can't wait."

On the way home she turned on the fancy Kenwood aftermarket radio, found music, and began singing along with something I didn't recognize by somebody named

Pink

if that makes any sense. Her voice was a husky contralto with gravel in the low notes. I liked it and I liked that she was enjoying herself.

She seemed to know every damn song that played.

At my little Airbnb rental, I stopped to put the top up on the little car before walking her up to the door, my hand again low on her back, right about where I remembered a tramp stamp tattoo from our days boating when I had been married to her sister.

Inside, I said, "I have beer and, well, beer. What would you like."

She giggled and said, "I'd like a beer please."

I got her a beer, made sure she was comfortable on the couch, and said, "Hold that thought."

I went into the bathroom and started the water running to get hot. While it was running I shook a Cialis pill from my little bottle, thought about it, shook out a second, and washed them down with now-warm water from the tap. By the time I found a small towel the water was running hot and I soaked it thoroughly, wrung it out, soaked it again, and wrung it again.

In the front room, she had found the music selection on the cable TV and some twangy country and western stuff was playing softly as she watched me approach. I moved past her, around the couch, and laid the hot towel on her head, making her giggle.

"Five minutes and you'll be ready for a touch-up," I said.

She giggled again.

"Touch up?" she asked.

"Jen," I said, moving around and getting to my knees in front of her. I took her hands in mine and went on, "I think you're a doll just like that, without the stupid wig. And I'm going to make the point that I like what I'm seeing."

She smiled, took a drink of her beer, and said, "You are SO weird."

"No," I said, "I'm normal. A little surgery or the loss of a little hair doesn't alter how cute and desirable I think you are."

"Weird," she said, taking another drink.

"Normal," I said, standing, moving to sit beside her, and kissing her gently on the cheek.

"Okay," I said, standing, "Come on, let's get you touched up so I can start making some serious love to you."

She took a deep breath, finished her beer, and sat it on the coffee table with the audible little clang that an empty can makes, and stood.

"Weird," she said for the third time.

"Normal," I said for the third time.

I had to chuckle as she walked, very straight-backed like a model, the towel on her head staying in place without her touching it.

I folded another towel and laid it across the toilet seat for a cushion, then held her hand as she sat, back straight, almost prim.

I shook my Gillette shaving gel, squirted a healthy dollop into my palm, patted it with my finger, watched it change from blue gel to an almost white foam, and began smoothing it onto her head. I covered every square inch where the fine down of her returning hair showed. I did the two-fingers-under-the-chin thing, making her look up at me, and gently brushed more of the foam onto her eyebrows, or at least the area where her eyebrows would return someday.

I made a show of replacing my

Harry's

five-blade razor's blade pack and then started shaving her head.

Among the most intimate events of my life, this ranks right up there near the top. I would take a quick triple-stroke with the razor, rinse the blades in running water, smile, kiss her quickly, and do it again. To shave my face and make sure the lines of my goatee are sharp takes me about three minutes. Shaving her head took over a half hour, and I enjoyed every second of it.

When her head was as smooth as the proverbial baby's butt I wiped the residual foam off.

I touched up her eyebrows in two quick strokes and then washed her face.

She still had some residual makeup on so I soaped a washcloth and cleaned her face thoroughly.

Finally done, I had her stand and look in the mirror.

"Oh, God," she said, "I look like a bald hag."

I laughed and wrapped my arms around her from behind so that my belly touched her back as we looked into the mirror cheek-to-cheek.

"You look like a mature woman who is so damn sexy and desirable that I can't keep my hands off of her," I said, matching deed to word and running my hands up her belly to cup her breasts, the left oddly hard under my hand, the cosmetic bra filling out her figure, while the right was soft.

"God help me," she breathed, "Right now I can believe you."

"Good," I said, nuzzling the back of her neck and kissing the back of her freshly smooth scalp, "Because it's true."

I took her hand and led her into the bedroom.

When I turned her to face me and my fingers went to the top button of her blouse her eyes got big and I felt sudden tension in her body.

"You're not going to turn into a tease, are you?" I asked.

She giggled then, threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me.

I thought there was desperation and, yes, fear, in that kiss, but there was no hint of unwillingness.

"Phillip," she said after the kiss was broken, "I haven't been touched by a man in over a year. Forgive a few nerves."

This time she held still as I unbuttoned that top button, the one right at her throat, and continued to hold still as I kissed to soft little wattle under her chin.

At the second button, I kissed the hard skin at the top of her sternum.

The third button revealed the top of her bra, soft skin peeking out above the right cup, but the left cup was shaped subtly differently and was lying hard against her chest.

I kissed the skin above the right cup and the skin around the left.

The fourth button revealed the very pale skin below her bra, drawing soft kisses.

I gently pulled the blouse free from her skirt and quickly unbuttoned the rest of the buttons, got the ones on her wrists undone, tiny buttons hard to do with arthritic fingers, and slipped the blouse off of her arms.

Standing in her skirt, heels, and bra she looked precisely like what she is, a 50-something gramma with three kids and, well, I have kind of lost track of how many grandkids. Her age showed in that little wattle under her chin and that circle of very soft, very wrinkled skin above her panty line where those kids had stretched the skin and the next 30 years had softened the supporting tissues.

The bra was obviously a cosmetic mastectomy bra, slightly tan flesh color, with a lacy right cup and a very opaque left. The straps were wide, I thought to ease the pressure of supporting the heavy cosmetic left breast.

I kissed her shoulders, my fingers fumbling for the button at her hip that would free her skirt.

With the button loose I only needed to work the zipper down about three clicks and I felt the skirt start to slip past her hips. I let it fall.

Standing in the cosmetic bra, panties, and moderately high-heeled shoes I thought she looked stunning.

Oh, don't get me wrong. She's not a beauty. I wasn't looking at Sophia Loren standing on the boat in her bikini dripping water. She was, as the saying goes, what she was, which is to say a reasonably cute 50-something woman in her underwear. With her face scrubbed clean of makeup, the sprinkle of freckles across her nose showed up clearly. She's one of those round-faced women whose eyes have little pouches under them, and the dark eyes smiled at me.

"Just a dumpy old broad," she said.

I slapped her for the second time that night.

"QUIT," I said, putting all the snap in my voice I could manage, "putting yourself down, Jen."

Her palm lay on her cheek where I slapped her, but she was smiling.

"Damn," she said, quietly, "what next? Gonna spank me?"

I smiled and closed the distance between us, took her in my arms, and started covering her face with kisses.

She tensed, instantly, her entire body going rigid when my fingers found the four hooks at the back of her bra and started undoing them. I leaned back and saw her eyes wide, frightened. Her arms were clamped against her sides, holding the bra in place.

I held her eyes with mine, smiling, as I worked the straps over her shoulders and down, moving slowly, gently, as if I was going to put a harness on a frightened horse or a collar on a feral dog.

She held her arms rigid, barely breathing.

"Relax, Jen," I said, "show me."

Her eyes overflowed and tears ran down her cheeks. She said nothing, just relaxed her arms.