Fifty Sex


Chapter 1


Vernon Rhodes was sat in the middle of town, enjoying the May sunshine. In a day’s time, it was the anniversary of Ann’s death; he was almost twelve months a widower. Was anniversary the right word, he wondered, didn’t it usually refer to a happy event? Vernon remembered a TV programme about the anniversary of the Twin Towers. So yes, it was the eve of the anniversary of Ann’s death.

He and Ann were the same age, 52, and yet despite his excessive drinking, despite him smoking up until she was diagnosed, he’d survived her. The fair fairy must have taken a day off, he concluded.

Even in her last minutes, he thought back with sadness and pride, she’d tried to give him confidence. He could see her now, a twinkle still in her eyes looking directly at him through the tubes.

“Vernon,” she’d said, “remember that no one can ever take away your memories. Only you can do that.”

Vernon had wanted to add that there was also the issue of cell degeneration, but had thought better of it.

So why, he thought, was he sullying these memories now, her memory? Life, he guessed was not just funny, but also downright unfunny too.

He’d always put his longevity down to two things. Firstly a healthy breakfast of oats, blueberries and nuts; and secondly because he had no feelings in the sexual department. He’d never stressed over sowing his seed, he’d never felt pressurised to meet his biological obligations.

Vernon looked at the women around him, young and strangely right up to his age, skimping around in revealing tops and bottoms. More to the point, he thought as a bouncy, wiggling young thing walked by: he was noticing them, he was interested.

Why had he, Mister unfeeling asexual man, started to have thoughts and urges that up until a month ago, would have been alien to him? His system was in shock and his brain couldn’t keep up. Throughout his adult life, he’d admired the sexually active, respected their ability to perform at will. But only in a detached sort of way, more curious certainly than envious.

Now he felt sympathy towards them. These testosterone filled carbon forms. What they must have to go through each and every day, he thought? At least up until recently he’d avoided all that nonsense, and been able to get on with his life, without these silly thoughts getting in the way.

He knew this wasn’t always the case. In the far recesses of his mind he could remember looking at girls, even wanting girls. He could remember as a teenager, masturbating over girlie mags, and even, with embarrassment at the thought now, the lingerie section of his mother’s catalogues. He’d even, god forbid, had sex with girls, but only four before Ann. Maybe five if Charlotte counted, but that was a fifty / fifty. She carried a bit of weight, and to this day he didn’t know whether he’d rubbed between her flab or managed to get right in.

Then at some time in his twenties the feelings went, her beautiful body had no effect. Vernon realised back then of course that he had to keep Ann, why wouldn’t he? She was gorgeous and he loved her. So, after initially pretending headaches, feigning tiredness and getting drunk, he’d made a plan.

In his head he’d rationalised that if he could manage it once a week, then that would suffice. Not as often as she would have liked, but quite adequate, he’d thought. He knew she sorted herself out anyway. She had a collection of dildos and other things so if the average was twice a week, she was getting enough. Plus he’d read somewhere that for some women, sex was all about closeness and intimacy, so he made sure he cuddled her lots. Not ideal, he knew, still he had to do what he had to do, there was no way he was losing Ann. Except now he had, and his world was in a state of turmoil.

He looked around the town square, and at the female form in all its glory, bumps and curves were everywhere, he saw. Tormenting him. His inner conversations were driving him mad. Look, don’t look, it does no harm, whoops she’s staring back, she looks good, shit now that is ugly. Nice tattoos.

Would these women be offended or upset, he wondered, if they knew what he was thinking?
Or was it the role of the female to be admired and the man to admire? Maybe not, he decided, judging by the reaction of that lady last week.

All he was doing was walking through the town on his way to the post office. The queue was enormous when he got there, and so he decided to stroll along, and yes despite her protestations, it really was aimless. Aimless did mean though that he kept pace with her, about three yards behind. Was it is his fault that her rear was so shapely he couldn’t take his eyes off it? And surely it could be argued she was inviting stares, what with her knickers pulled half way up her back for all to see. What a silly woman. Stopping and turning that quickly was sure to cause an accident anyway, so it could never be seen as his fault that he went walking into her. And what was he meant to do with his hands under such circumstances?

He was quite certain she didn’t get a good look at him, fortunately because he managed to jump quickly into a taxi and get home. They never see the problems they create, Vernon thought later as he made his way to the next town, to visit the post office there. At least there were no queues, so that was a bonus.

He looked over at another man sat on a bench opposite. What was he thinking about? Suckling a nice pair of breasts, taking that blond doggy fashion? Or some other mundane aspect of life, his work, home, sport, other pastime. You never know, he decided, what goes on in people’s minds. He was unsure half the time what went on in his own head.

Oh the irony, he thought. Previously he’d had to pretend he was interested, now it was taking all his energy to pretend he wasn’t.

In one short space of time, he’d turned from a pillar of society, to nothing more than a dirty old man. He could see the headline in the Langley Gazette: Middle age man in shock horror, eyeing up semi naked young women story.

He visualised a news reporter talking to his neighbours, asking about him. “Oh yes,” they’d say, “he seemed like a normal nice guy, a perfect neighbour, kept himself to himself, always said hello.”

Why is it that after some maniac does something, then neighbours always describe him as a nice quiet guy? Shouldn’t the police question householders, and if they get three ‘nice, quiet, guy who always says hello’ responses about a neighbour, then they should investigate?

But to be fair, he decided, he wasn’t a maniac, he wasn’t actually going to do anything. He was only looking, nothing more than an innocent pleasure. Well except for that incident on the bus, he remembered, where he managed to manoeuvre himself close to a twenty something low cut top, boob thrusting forward lady. Fortunately, he’d seen sense and moved away after one brush. Although in truth, her look of surprise persuaded him to move away. Quite quickly in fact, and also get off the bus before it escalated. Three miles from home as well. But the upshot was, Vernon concluded, no breast was hurt in the cheap thrill moment of it all.

These were, he thought, minor incidents of no consequence, but there was only one thing to do to stop this nonsense. Bollockus emptious needious he thought for no reason.

If not then he’d get a slap at some point, or even worse arrested.

And that was the reason he’d made his way into town, or rather the result of his situation had brought him to town. He shook the supermarket plastic bag to make sure the brown paper package was still inside.

He wondered what Ann would now think, as a camel toe in tight leggings passed by. He knew she would be highly amused by it all.

Can you be in love with someone, and not make love? He’d asked himself that years before, then decided to go to the doctor’s. All for Ann’s sake of course, he wasn’t at all bothered by it. Yes ejaculation felt good, the actual point of release was a fantastic feeling, he’d always thought. If it was just that then he could cope, he knew. But it was all the messing about beforehand. The kissing, the touching. Fingers aching, bodily fluids everywhere, so unseemly.

The doctor confirmed what he already knew. Low testosterone. Injections followed that made no difference, eating lots of red meat had no effect. Finally, he was prescribed the blue pills.

He remembered the pill incident on that first weekend. Ann had found it hilarious, he recalled. She spent the Saturday grabbing him, pulling at him, sitting on his lap. But eventually the laughing stopped, and so on the Sunday, they went to the local hospital. Recognising the receptionist as the daughter of a friend, they about-turned and walked out, almost ran, giggling like school kids.

Anne had told him it didn’t matter, at least he wouldn’t fall out of bed, and if he lay on his back, she might climb on every hour or so.

And yet now what a turnaround. His every thought centred on sex, his every look was at a breast, a bum, an exposed leg. Very very confusing Vernon thought, but he couldn’t make it go away. Football, family, work, all the things that had once totally occupied his mind, were now distant memories, shoved to one side as sex sex sex took over. Release. That was all he needed.

Masturbation was out as that gave him headache, a condition called Coital Cephalalgia the doctor had told him. Trying saying that when you’re feeling randy, he’d said to Anne.

“What an arse,” he declared, feeling for the bag again, scared it would open up and show the world what an idiot he was.

Earlier that morning, the postman had brought the package to his door.

It had begun the day before. He’d received a SPAM email, promising the latest and most exciting sexual aids. A rather strange play on words, Vernon had thought, and out of curiosity he’d clicked on an image of a voluptuous busty young lady.

The same cartoon wonderwoman lookalike greeted him on the screen with her specials of the day, nipple clamps and an anal plug. Vernon Googled them, and it confirmed to him his asexual past had probably been for the best.

He clicked on ‘male sexual aids’, and for a moment paused, realising how irresponsible this was, replying to such an email. But his full testicles were craving for release and drove him on despite all the warnings coming from the right hand side of his head. Or was it the left? No matter, he’d decided as a montage of rubber dolls appeared on his screen. Did they chafe, he’d wondered?

Then he saw the perfect solution.

A plastic mould of a female bikini area, promising guaranteed pleasure, complete with natural sensations. There was the headache issue, he realised, but if it really was lifelike, then maybe he would be alright. Worth a chance at least, he decided, anything to get back to normal. His normal.

He had to choose between smooth inside or ribbed. Bloody hell, he’d thought, what sort of question was that? He tried to remember what Ann was like, and opted for smooth. It felt the right option, smooth sounded good and he paid extra for next day delivery. Other ‘openings’ were available, Vernon noted.

He took it from the postman, yes sheepishly, but Vernon was thankful that the guy didn’t look up at him once. Sign here, no ‘please’. Signed, no ‘thank you’. Did the guy know, had they x rayed it at the depot and they were all laughing at him? It was a good job Vixen the Vibrating Vagina had no feelings.

He took the package with him to the kitchen while he made a coffee, keeping an eye on it just in case. He made a mental note to disinfect the worktop later.

Coffee in hand, he took the still unopened package into the room under the stairs, his office come boxroom.

With the contents laid out on the desk, Vernon picked up a remote control and inserted a battery.

There was also a sample lubricant sachet. They think of everything, he thought, impressed. The last thing you want is a willing partner and no lubrication, he concluded.

Vernon found the softness of the material very erotic, and just running his hands over it made him stir a little. He said ‘Hello’ to the lifelike vibrating pussy, with 3 function control, and gently put his lubricated finger inside. It felt very tight, yet warm and inviting. Sweat appeared on his brow.

Vernon stared at it, wondering how he should proceed. Obviously there would be no foreplay, no intimacy. He guessed she would have to forego the meal or cinema, the tentative kiss. Who said romance was dead, he’d thought.

Vernon tried for an erection without success, so he closed his eyes and fantasised.

Finally there was a twitch, and he attempted to put Vixen over his penis.

He’d been right, it was tight, and as he wasn’t hard enough, he couldn’t get in.

Vernon stood up, a semi erection bouncing unconvincingly against the desk, and he placed Vixen at the side of his laptop. Entering from behind seemed appropriate, he’d decided. Not too intimate and quite pornstarish, all he needed was a mullet and moustache, he’d thought.

It was still tight, Vernon felt, and decided one strong thrust should do it.

Then disaster. Vixen fell down the back of the desk, amongst all the various wires, leads, and bits of rubbish there. Not quite how to treat a date, he’d smiled. Then he watched as slowly the coffee mug teetered on the edge of the desk and also fell down the back, covering Vixen in sticky liquid

Breathless, he managed to get his finger inside to coax Vixen back up, feeling it squelch as some coffee had dribbled in. Why was that turning him on, he’d wondered?

His pulse was racing, and his heart was beating out of his skin. He sat down and imagined what it would look like if he’d had a heart attack. Him exhausted, his finger inside a fake vagina.

Vixen needed to go he knew. Whatever amorous intentions there might have been, were now gone. So he packaged her up, then realised that getting rid wouldn’t be that easy. The sex shop didn’t accept used returns, and he could hardly advertise it on Ebay. His own bin was out of the question, and so here he was, sat on a bench down town, waiting for a quiet moment to surreptitiously get rid of it. The problem was the weather. The sun had brought everyone out, and quiet it wasn’t.


Now that plan had failed, he had one last option to try: Wet dreams like an adolescent teenager.

His plan was to watch a sex video before bed, get his juices flowing and let nature take its course. The testicles had to empty, the urges had to go, he needed to get his life back and concentrate on more important things such as football. Oh and his kids.

But before he could move on, he’d wondered about Ann. Whilst he hadn’t given a second thought to shagging a latex vibrating vagina in the house, masturbating over porn was well, just not right. It affected his sensitivities, her watching him pleasure himself over other women. He couldn’t continue with Ann still in the house.

He touched the plastic container in his breast pocket. Some of Anne’s ashes, taken from the urn on the mantelpiece at home.

And so to the satisfaction of his children, he’d finally agreed to scatter Ann. Put her to rest. On the anniversary of her death.

He looked around the town, and tried to focus on something other than exposed female flesh.

God in Heaven, he muttered under his breath. Now that was a sight for sore eyes. He stared at a man walking at the other side of the pedestrian walkway. Jim Leach. Was it? It had to be, he didn’t look a day older than when he’d last seen him. Over what, 30 years ago?

Jim Leach, Ann’s previous boyfriend.


Jim had developed very wide peripheral vision, a skill extremely useful, if not necessary with his hobby. Not that the label ‘hobby’ quite fitted, he knew, but it didn’t matter. It was just something he did, driven by something he couldn’t describe. Hobby was as good a term as anything. Plus it made it seem quite ordinary.

Also extremely useful, Jim could sense when someone was looking at him.

This someone today, was Vernon fucking Rhodes.

And what he saw, Jim didn’t like.

The bastard was still tall, still well built, still had a full head of dark hair, still had that noble look about him, he observed with disappointment. Fortunately, there were signs of ageing on his face, he discovered with satisfaction after a long sideways stare.

It was supposed to be Jim’s last day in Langley. After finding out he was a year too late, he’d decided to leave, this time for good.

It was over, finally. And in a way, instead of sadness, he felt relief. He could look forward to a future free of recriminations, a future free from further thoughts of a reconciliation. He knew she would not now welcome him back with open arms, she would never ever be able to admit that her life had been a sham, she would not now look in Jim’s eyes and tell him that she should have stayed with him.

But leaving might have to wait a while, he decided, now that he’d seen Rhodes.

Maybe he might stay, create a little bother, a little upset.


Vernon watched Jim disappear round a corner. Time had been kind to Jim, Vernon saw. A fresh complexion, still the boyish good looks, slim. Below average height. But he remembered the eyes, that look. A shiver went down his spine. He’d never asked Ann about Jim, luckily he’d disappeared after they got engaged.

But wasn’t this a strange coincidence?

Vernon decided it was no good, he would have to take the package with him and find another way to dispose of it.