The Old Man and the C

The old man stood in the shade of the church doorway, wiped his arm across his face, and let out a wheezy breath. It was coming up to noon, and the overhead sun glinted off the crushed cans of coke, and the empty wine bottles. The occasional flurry of wind stirred the scraps of paper, and drove the dust into unguarded eyes. A solitary mongrel lolloped across the square, scavenging amongst the detritus. It cocked its leg against a broken litter basket, then scooted into the nearest alleyway.

Further off he could hear noises, doors opening and shutting, people talking, their words muffled by the distance. The day was one of those hot ones that seemed to be coming with increasing regularity. The ones they warned you about. They told you not to go out in the hot ones unless you had to. And then not without a hat. But his particular pleasure had first been slaked in this very place.

Many years had passed since then. Wars had been fought and lost, and many of his fellow countrymen had died. Nowadays such pleasures were frowned upon, and actively discouraged. Nevertheless, some hidden impulse had drawn him back to indulge himself again. Crossing the street, the old man made his way to a discreet shopfront, and pressed on the adjacent bell. Somewhere deep inside a clapper sounded. He heard a parrot rattle its chain, spread its wings and utter an ear-piercing squawk. An inner door rasped on its hinges, and footsteps could be heard approaching.

He heard the bolt being withdrawn, and the door swung open. A young man stepped back respectfully and the old man entered, brushing past him. The old man glanced at the young one, and liked what he saw. The young one ushered him along the corridor and into the room that was reserved for special clients. It had been a long time since the old man had last graced it with his presence, but his name was legendary amongst the young devotees of the practice.

He sank into the chesterfield, and eased his trousers at the knee to maintain their crease. This was where he had first tasted the big one. In the years that followed he'd had more than his share of big ones, but the memory of the first big one could still bring tears to his eyes. He leant back for a moment, and shut his eyes the better to savour the memory. The young one reappeared bearing a cup of strong black coffee, which he sipped cautiously, savouring its flavour.

The old man had been parched outside, his tongue sticking to his mouth. Now his juices were beginning to flow, and he drew his tongue across his lips in anticipation. The young man produced a list of what was on offer, pictures and prices set out discreetly, like a menu at a five-star restaurant. The old man took his time, staring through rheumy eyes at the descriptions. But it made no difference at the end of the day. He wanted the same one as the first big one.

Having found it he was happy to pay the price that was required, and handed it over to the young man, who bowed in acquiescence and withdrew quietly. As he waited, he recalled how early success had brought him wealth, and the means to indulge his desire. He'd sat in this room many times, waiting for his choice to be brought to him, already prepared and ready for his enjoyment. At the height of his prosperity, he'd had money to burn, and could afford to indulge up to three times a day.

When he'd become aware of the dangers involved he'd tried to cut down for the sake of his health. But too late, the insidious disease was firmly lodged within his body. He'd spared no expense in securing the best treatment, but with only partial success, and as his health had diminished so had his wealth, leaving him now a shadow of his former self.

He was awakened from these reminiscences by the young one returning, bearing his choice which he laid before him, then stood discreetly to one side to ensure that the old man received satisfaction.

The big one was in front of him now. The tip was pointing at him. The old man reached out to it. He felt the skin pressed tight around the length of it. He rolled it carefully between his calloused hands, and was happy with the firmness of it.

He knew that big ones could be cut or uncut, but his first big one had been cut. Ever since then he had ordered that the big ones came to him cut. Lifting it to his lips, he drew his tongue along the slit, and revelled in the taste of it, and the powerful smell that it gave off.

He couldn't wait any longer. Taking the tip fully into his mouth, he licked until it gleamed. Then he sucked on it, and it all came flooding back to him. Visions flashed before him of firm young thighs, and hands pressing down on them. He groaned with longing, and his voice was husky when he spoke.

"Give me a cigar lighter and an ashtray, please, then leave me in peace to enjoy it."