Big Jack. That’s what they used to call my grandfather. He was a bear of a man, standing 6’3 with a voice that just commanded attention. His welcoming and friendly personality brought many a guest to our large Pentecostal church, where he held the title of Sunday School Superintendent. He was also my very first child molester.
I was eight years old when he passed away from a heart attack. My mother and her sisters doled out his most cherished items back to the original gifters. Although I was far too young to have purchased him anything for any holiday or special occasion, I was also included in this, all too, emotional family event.
It wasn’t until many years later that I finally realized the irony of the item given me to remember my perverted grandfather by. It was a long white t-shirt that held mounds of memories of sleepovers at my grandparent’s house in their big, soft, warm and cozy bed.
The thing was worn out; kinda holey. It was so long that it grazed my knees easily. On the front, was a picture of a jubilant old man, complete with balding head and rosey red cheeks, frolicking around blissfully in his own long white t-shirt. And, next to that adorable character… BIG, BOLD BLACK letters that spelled out, “Dirty Ole Men Need Love, Too!”
By the time I finally understood the irony and fate that brought me and that ratty ole t-shirt together… Well, I had to smile. I was just about always very well aware of the truth behind that statement. I mean, all men need lovin. That certainly includes all the dirty ole, pervy ones, too.
Dick is the owner of the little house I now, lovingly, refer to as “my home”. (It’s true. His first name is actually Dick.) Most evident from our first telephone conversation was Dick suffered from severe hearing loss. Even then, I was genuinely surprised to hear him announce that he was 84 years old. Mmmm, the possibilities…
Oh. Come on now, people! Surely you do not believe that I would even consider using my feminine wiles on some helpless elderly gentleman to better myself or my circumstances in any way!
Of course, YOU’D BETTER BELIEVE I HAD THOUGHT BOUT IT! But, then, immediately put it out of my head. Hey. This is where I live. And… I kinda like it here.
But… I can just see it now. A tender word. A warm hand on his knee. A completely accidental nip slip. Then… ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE! It’s a cane to the head, and suddenly, Spaz and I are out on our asses… Minus the over $1,500 it took to rent this well dressed cardboard box. It’s just too great a risk to take.
Although, Dick is such a likable, older fella. He took me out to Jerry’s Drive-Inn (a Pensacola must-see) to celebrate the signing of my new one year lease in his childhood home. So, I wasn’t too surprised when he offered up another meal only a month later to celebrate my birthday.
Look. I tried. I offered up one excuse after another. Three days ago, he finally cornered me. He called me up early in the morning (less than 1/4 of the way through my first cup of coffee) and informed me he was cummin to town that very day.
“Ready to enjoy that birthday dinner I’ve been promising you, young lady?”
What could I say? WHAT WOULD YOU SAY?? What I actually did say was something to the effect of, “You know, my hands have been hurting… I’ve worked all week… Not sure I’ll be at home…”.
Dick didn’t hear shit. Like always. (Why wouldn’t a deaf person just learn to text?) Despite what he may have heard, he arrived on my doorstep about 9 hours later, fully prepared for some good eating.
I envisioned my first trip as a passenger in this 84 year old man’s oversized Suburban down darkened Pensacola streets on our way to Jerry’s, and I immediately lost my appetite. It was obvious by the driving technique I witnessed from him, that he was confident of a heavenly afterlife. I, however, wasn’t so sure I wanted my own fate decided just yet. So, I suggested an Italian restaurant just around the corner.
We ordered. He began asking me, you know, general questions. “How’s work? How’s the puppy doing? Is everything around the house working alright?” My answers were slightly vague and uttered far too loudly for the quiet, deserted building, but just enough for him to seem to get the drift.
For some reason, Dick had always seemed a little too interested in my career. When confronted with the initial rental application, I told my prospective landlord that I was a Licensed Massage Therapist. (HEY! IT COULD BE TRUE!) Then, I had to inform him that I would be working part time from my home. His permission given, the house just seemed like fate.
Each and every time he has cum back to Pensacola to check on his properties, this man has inquired about my profession. On his last visit, he actually asked for my prices and availability. He even asked me if I actually owned a massage table.
Of course, I skirted this direct question with completely fabricated information about the importance of a stiff and sturdy surface to work on. I droned on and on for a few minutes about athletes and injuries and home health care. (Shit. Even I had no idea what I was talkin about.)
With a mouthful of Cupcake Moscato, he asks me if my professional table is set up at the house to accept new clients. I swallow (twice, as I recall), then begin to explain the woes of a part time therapist unable to afford her own table, forced to share necessary business equipment with someone else. Bad news. I didn’t have a table, and therefore, any following massage related questions would be circumvented.
“So, what kind of massages do you offer? That drive here sure has my back stiff as a board.”
(Thank God for that 8 inch Fettuccini noodle covered in Alfredo sauce that buffered my response by a good 20 seconds.) Once again, nonsense. Just plain nonsense. Complete nonsense just spewing all out of my mouth.
“You know, not that deep tissue thing. Just… well, lighter. Much lighter. Like a real gentle rub that relaxes your muscles. But, not everyone’s muscles. No. Probably wouldn’t help very much on that sore back, I’m afraid.”
I was just about to dive headfirst into a bowlful of guilt when these words halted my descent. “Darn. I was hoping you offered a sexy massage.”
WTF?? Did he know? Was this a trick? Oh, what was the proper response here?? The wine softened my initial alarm just long enough for me to mumble…”Dick, I think I know just what you’re in need of.”
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Wow! Ya’ll followed the whole thang! I’m so proud. Yet… I sense a bit of disappointment on your part.
No need to worry. Masterhead is back! And with plenty of fresh hot air to share with you, my wonderful friends. Your support does not go unnoticed.
So, stay tuned. There’s MUCH MORE DICK TO CUM.
Or will he??