As a hopeful teenager, a mouthy young man with a gaunt posture and restless hands, and eyes that never fixed themselves in one spot, Sean pursued the cheerleaders in his grade because they were so much more open and seductive---and how their hips could move!---than the nerdy brains and the silent bookworms, and in his twenties he kept his standards very high to avoid ending up with someone whose face he couldn't fall for at every moment; and in the next decade he watched hopefully in the distance for the first round of divorcees, though fewer of them could offer the skin tone he wanted so desperately, while the bookworms had blossomed into beautiful and successful women who said, "Cheerleaders, ahem, cheerleaders, Sean" as they laughed past him at the class reunion; so he sailed into middle age determined to snare the mature type who could also juice herself at a moment's notice ("as the twentysomethings can always do!"), only to spend his seventies surrounded by women in the same room of the County Rest Home as he, including a newly widowed, bright-eyed classmate who said, "Sean, I wish I'd have gotten to know you better back in high school," at which the old man smiled, thought a moment, and then looked past her to a slouching former cheerleader on the other end of the room, who was wetting herself in his--- his!--- presence, and staring at his restless eyes vacantly as her pungent, salty smell hit the nurses' aides, those sexy young things.
Copyright ©2000 Mike Marcoe. All Rights Reserved.
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