“What about we make an early night of it, Sid?” asked Freda, without much hope.
Sid looked briefly away from the television set and cocking one eye suspiciously asked, “What for, I’m not tired?”
“No, well, I just thought it’d be nice,” warbled Freda in what she hoped was a sultry manner, but hope had died even before it was properly born.
Sid had two standard answers to her requests, the one he’d just used, “I’m not tired,” or alternatively, “I’m too tired.”
“Na,” said Sid, slurping from his glass of ale and returning his gaze to the television set, “I’m watching the replay of the game.”
Making one last, but she knew vain endeavour, Freda tried wheedling. “Come on Sid, we haven’t done it for a long time.”
“My God, you’re not on about that again, are you? It’s disgusting at your age. What are you, a sex maniac?”
That speared Freda to the heart. “Sex maniac!” she exploded, “it’s two years since we did it and even then you didn’t make me come.”
Sid, secretly filled with guilt about his low level sexual performance, and knowing he couldn’t, as he put it, “get it up any more,” decided that attack was the best form of defence; “Why the bloody hell don’t you get someone else to fuck you and stop bothering me.”
In saying this he felt secure in the fact that Freda was fifty five years old and therefore, in his view, beyond getting a lover. “In any case,” he thought, “she’s always gone on about faithfulness to the marriage vows, so she’d never try it.”
As if to confirm his views Freda wailed, “How could you say such a thing to me, Sid, me that’s always been faithful?” She burst into tears.
“Aw, for God’s sake turn off the waterworks, Freda, I want to hear the commentary.”
“Eooow,” cried Freda, “I wish I could turn off the waterworks, every bloody tap in the house is dripping.”
“All right, all right,” yelled Sid, “when I’ve got time I’ll change the bloody washers, now let me watch this in peace.”
“You’re always saying, ‘When I’ve got time’,” retaliated Freda, starting her own offensive, “You’ve got nothing but time, and all you do is sit in front of that bloody thing or go to the pub, you bloody impotent sod.”
Hit on his raw spot Sid rose and yelled “One more word out of you, and I’ll…”
“You’ll what?”
Sid sat down again, recalling past physical confrontations with Freda in which he’d come off the worst. For all that Freda was really a tender soul, she was also a lusty woman, and this was precisely what had attracted Sid in his young and potent days. “I like ‘em big and buxom,” he used to tell anyone who’d listen.
It was his misfortune that over the forty years of their marriage as he diminished physically, Freda seemed to grow more vigorous, especially in the desires of the flesh department. This no doubt was in part because he had a sedentary job before he retired, and spent his leisure time in front of the television set. On the other hand, Freda maintained rude health through her vigorous house working and gardening, in which activities Sid never participated.
So it was that he had a fifty five year old wife who was still burning for his bedtime attentions, and he the possessor of an ever drooping manhood.
Unwilling to demean herself further before her incapable husband Freda, resigning to the realities of life, departed the room and made her way to the marital bed chamber. “Sod him,” she thought, as she relieved herself with the dildo, now her constant bedtime solace.
Some time later as she lay wakeful in the connubial bed she felt Sid drop in beside her, and after considerable snorting and grunting go to sleep to snore the night away.
In the deep watches of the night Freda considered Sid’s words, “Why don’t you bloody well get someone else to fuck you.” She realised that Sid only flung down the challenge because he thought it safe to do so, but she began to weigh her options.
“Is it possible for a fifty five year old woman to get herself a lover?” she wondered. Perhaps the only sort of men she could expect to be interested would be men of her own age, but even if she did attract such a man would he not, after the first flush of passion had died, also suffer from that dread disease, Penis Wilt.
She decided that what she needed was a hot young lover. “If I was rich,” she meditated, “I could buy myself a young paramour to make dalliance with,” but alas, Freda was not rich.
She began to consider her female assets. Thanks to her hairdresser her hair was still nut brown and only a couple of days ago she’d had her roots touched up. The years had put a few creases in her face; two grooves ran from her nose to the corners of her mouth; two more lines were etched between her eyebrows; her neck sagged a little, but she had no double chin; being of solid build she was not scrawny, and her breasts, large and firm in youth, had now surrendered to gravity and child bearing and hung somewhat low, although the brown nipples were still ripe.
Her hand wandered down to her belly and felt the folds that pregnancies had endowed her with, then reaching lower she slipped a finger into her vagina thinking, “What a pity it is that people don’t realise that this is still as active as it ever was.” Sure enough, even at that moment, it was crying out for the right to perform that pleasurable function for which nature had so cunningly designed it.
Her legs, certainly marked on the thighs with the residue of child bearing, nevertheless retained some of the excellence that had once been theirs in younger days.
She sighed and wondered how many other women of her age were lying in their beds yearning for a fulfilment that seemed beyond their reach. “If only I had a Fairy God Mother who would grant me a wish.”
Freda wondered what she would wish for. To be forty years younger? For Sid to be restored to potency? To be granted a fiery young lover who would ravish her to death? But there was no Fairy God Mother, so all Freda’s hankering seemed in vain.
Now perchance there is a “Divinity that shapes our ends,” and having shaped them may be open to persuasion to change His/Her/Its mind. In past ages, people had worshipped the gods of Fortune, Luck and Chance in the hope that these gods would favour them, and does not every gambler putting his or her coin into the poker machine in this age of scientific rationalism, unknowingly still worship at the feet of these gods?
The wheel of fortune spins, and be it chance or divine intervention; it sometimes stops at some point favourable to our hopes and desires. Thus did Chance stride across Freda’s path.
It happened next day that Sid departed, as was his custom, to the local hostelry to quaff some foaming ale, and converse with other intellectuals of his own ilk, while Freda, ever the horticulturist, was working in her front garden.
Having done some watering she was wrestling with the tap to try and stop it dripping, when Mrs. Sadie Bertram, her neighbour appeared. After making formal greeting, Freda, still engaged in combat with the tap, let forth the following execration; “The bloody thing, it won’t turn off properly; its like every tap in the bloody house, drip, drip, drip.”
“Can’t Sid put new washers on,” said Sadie, unknowingly tactless.
“Sid! Sid?” Exclaimed our heroine, “It’s as much as the lazy sod can do to lift a glass of ale to his lips.”
Sadie, wishing she hadn't mentioned Sid and washers, felt sorry for Freda. “What if my Thomas came round and did them for you, he’s good at that sort of thing and he’s home today.”
“Oh Sadie, would he?” said grateful Freda, “I’d give him something for it,” she said, doing a quick mental calculation of her narrow financial means.
“I’ll send him round,” Sadie promised, and disappeared into her house.
Shortly after Thomas, Sadie’s son and a well set-up youth, ever ripe for a new venture arrived in Freda’s front garden bearing a tool box. “Got dripping tap troubles have you, Freda?”
“I’ve got more than taps dripping,” thought Freda, but replied demurely, “Yes, I bought the washers some time ago, but don’t know how to fix them. If I watch you I might be able to do them myself in future.”
Thomas began to say, “What about…” Then recalling his mother’s warning not to mention Sid, went on indicating the garden tap, “I make a start on this one? I’ll have to turn the main off, so if you’ll need any water during the next hour you’d better draw some off.”
Freda hastened into the house and filled an electric kettle and a saucepan, “Just in case,” then rejoined Thomas in order to watch him changing the washers.
With apparent ease Thomas dismantled and reassembled one tap after another, with Freda looking on. When it came to the last offending dripper he said, “Why don’t you try this one.”
Freda took the wrench from him and applied it to the hexagon that upon being turned would reveal the inner life of the tap. Unfortunately it was one of those defiant taps that over the years seemed to have welded itself into an unbudgable unity.
Freda battled with it for a few moments, then Thomas said, “It’s one of those, is it,” and so saying, placed his hands over Freda’s to add additional force to the struggle.
Freda felt a little thrill of pleasure shiver though her. Thomas’ hands felt firm and warm, and their touch brought on a little ticking sensation in her clitoris.
“Ah, if only those hands would touch more of me,” she thought. She wondered how tenderly they might fondle her breasts; stroke her mons; and touch her ever moist sex organ. “Would his lips be warm and soft? Would his tongue explore her mouth? His penis could be small, medium or large; it wouldn’t matter, just so long as it…”
The recalcitrant tap yielded to their joint effort jerking them forward in its sudden capitulation. The abrupt surrender of the tap and the jerk forward brought the back of Thomas’ hand in contact with the wall behind the tap, with a consequents scraping of flesh and a minor abrasion.
Warm youthful blood oozed from the wound and Freda cried out, “Oh Thomas, you’ve hurt yourself.”
