Cowley's hand shook with excitement as he lifted the whiskey to his lips. 7.55. He lifted his elbow, surreptitiously sniffed his armpit. Fine. He'd splashed on enough Brut there and down his crotch to kill any odour his ancient body could possibly come up with. This was going to be his Big Moment.

He rubbed his hands together gleefully together - then noticed the big, ugly brown liver-spots on them which people over 30 always start to get - but a look in the mirror reassured him that he was looking his best, spruce and dapper, his sparse sandy hair smoothed down with a generous lashing of Vaseline, remembering to pull up his sagging bottom lip, the one that always hung loose, giving him that vacant expression. He practised kissing motions, admiring his technique, though it was rusty now. The doorbell rang. Heart pounding, he rushed to answer it.

There she was, built like a battleship, in a tweed suit, her broad face arranged in a meant-to-be-sexy grin that showed off her teeth, yellowed and spaced like tombstones in a neglected graveyard. He felt his heart miss a beat.

"Miss Walsh."

"Mr. Cowley," she acknowledge with a little flirtatious wink, and stepped

He followed her with an eager step, panting rapidly with excitement, though he maintained his air of the perfect host.

"Get a whisky down ye, lass," he hinted suggestively, winking lewdly, "lubricate the tissues, if ye ken what I mean."

She grinned coyly at him. "You randy old goat," she said tenderly. "Why don't we get straight down to - er - business, George."

And then they were in each other's arms, and it was all too wonderful to bear: their lips drew apart with a moist sucking sound, and Cowley finally wrenched off his glasses in a gesture of uncontrollable lust.

"Miss Walsh - "

"George - "

They undressed in a flurry of excitement, combinations, longjohns, thermal vests, trusses flying everywhere. Miss Walsh lay on the camp bed and admired her new lover's body; particularly impressed with the blue-veined legs, the knobbly knees, the scrawny thighs, the wrinkled belly; but entranced more than anything by the leathery yellowed scrotum that bounced fetchingly around before her eyes, a perfect background to set off the 2 inches of maleness that dangled on top of it.

Which rubbery semi-hardness was soon buried in saggy-damp folds, bringing them both to intolerable heights of ecstasy, as pantingly they achieved a sweaty fumbling climax.

"Ahhh, Mis Walsh..."

"George..."

He gazed adoringly at the wrinkled, sweaty face of his paramour.

"You're a remarkable woman, Miss Walsh."

She twinkled roguishly at him. "I - was."

George Cowley took out his teeth and dunked them in the waiting jar of Steradent. They each took a Sleepeze, and settled down for the night.

He slept first, exhausted by the effort, so Miss Walsh had the tender joy of holding her lover while he snored, looking into his slackjawed face, achingly vulnerable in sleep; until she too toppled into the arms of Morpheus, who staggered under her weight and dropped her unheeded onto the ground.

-- THE END --