It was late afternoon. Mabel was lonely in spite of having spent three hours playing Bingo with a dozen other widows in the downstairs activity room. Mabel’s thoughts turn to the last time she had been with a man: October 14, 1982. She simply wanted to reach out and touch someone.
Suddenly there was a knock at her door. Mabel opened it tentatively, yet expectantly. She gasped. There standing in the hallway was the Maytag repairman, the loneliest guy in town. He looked just like Fabio, except he had a gut. And his hair was thinning. And he wore bifocals. And a really big pipe wrench dangled from his belt.
“My name’s Charlie.” Then, upon seeing Mabel stare at his pipe wrench, he coyly added, “Don’t leave home without it!”
Their eyes met, transfixed for three or four seconds, but it might as well have been an eternity, except they shouldn’t waste time because either one of them could die any moment of a stroke. The next minutes were a whirlwind. Before she knew it, Mabel was standing there in her briefs made from cotton, the fabric of our lives. And her Cross-Your-Heart brassiere that lifted and separated. Charlie had difficulty with the bra, but finally removed it with some wire cutters. He caressed the nape of Mabel’s neck and said, “Someone’s put a tiger in your tank!”
“I bring good things to life,” cooed Mabel, with a slight whistling sound because of ill-fitting dentures. Then she flipped over and Charlie peeled off her panties, revealing an ample derriere that resembled two basketball-sized snow cones.
Overcome with raw passion, Charlie’s loins ached as he reached for a can of Crisco that just happened to be sitting on the living room floor. “Cooks who know trust Crisco,” whispered Charlie as he rubbed a glob of grease between his hands and smeared it on Mabel’s bounteous bottom.
“Think outside the bun,” gasped Mabel. “And then head for the border,” she giggled, realizing she had just used two tag lines from the same company. Before you could say “Call your doctor if an erection lasts more than four hours,” Mabel and Charlie became intertwined in a way two bodies were not meant to be, made possible by the Crisco, but discouraged by leading orthopedic surgeons specializing in geriatrics. Finally, both spent, Charlie and Mabel let out simultaneous sighs, untangled slippery arms and thighs, and then lit cigarettes – Lucky Strikes, LSMFT, confident they had played a part in creating a new writing genre.