	"Who are -you-?"
	"Angie" answered the young woman.
	"Yes," the old man, in bed, returned his helpless gaze to the ceiling, "but why are you here?"
	"I'm a visiting nurse."
	With the effort of an old bedridden man, Morris Morris lifted his head from the pillow. "Visiting nurse?" he muttered. "You're just a teenager. Don't look a day older. How could you be a nurse?"
	"You know," Angie smiled, "people always say that about me."
	"That you look so young?"
	"I guess they just expect me to look older."
	The old man watched the young woman as she inspected his pillbox. She was wearing a short jean skirt and sleeveless button down top. Her lips were narrow but youthfully rounded. She bent over the table to order the pills. "Saturday, Sunday, Monday..." she muttered to herself. She glanced back at Morris. The old man quickly turned away. She smiled, such a warm and kind smile that Morris was flustered.
	"It's OK," she said, softly, "you can look."
	Morris stared at the ceiling. "You're not my visiting nurse. You don't dress like a visiting nurse. I would prefer it if you would leave."
	"Candy's sick, hon," she answered. "I'm filling in."
	"I'm sorry."
	"O, don't be sorry, hon," the young woman smiled. She walked to Morris's bedside. "I'm used to it."
	"No," Morris answered. "I don't mean that. I mean..."
	"I know what you mean," Angie answered. "It's perfectly normal." Then she reached under the bed. "It's a good thing a stopped by," she smiled, pulling out the bed pan.
	She turned and Morris watched her cross the room to the bathroom. She was beautiful. She was just a girl, but she was lovely. She was slender as a willow, and graceful. Her straight brown hair bobbed at her shoulders. He couldn't see her breasts. He heard the toilet flush and watched her return. Her breasts were young and firm - he though he could see her nipples through the thin gauze of her top.. He suddenly returned his gaze to the ceiling when she smiled at him. "You make me uncomfortable," he announced.
	"Don't be," she smiled and slipped the bed pan back in place. "I'm here to make you comfortable." She pulled back the white sheets that covered him. He tried to stop her but his arthritic hands were too slow, too stiff. "Oh my," she said. "I'll clean you right up."
	She turned back to the bathroom. He watched her. He watched her move: so graceful, so easily. She returned with a damp cloth. When she bent over him, he could see her nipple under her shirt. "Oh my," she said.
	He glanced downward. He was hard! His penis stood straight from his crotch, tall and swollen.
	Her eyes met his. "You're crying," she said.
	"I'm so ashamed." His voice shook.
	"Why?" she asked.
	"Because I'm a 93 year old man who can't wipe his own ass!" he shouted. His voice cracked.
	"You're beautiful," she returned.
	"Oh... Jesus Christ, I'm not beautiful," he spit. "What man wants to be told he's beautiful? Just wipe my ass and go!"
	"I can help you..."
	"You can't help me," he interrupted.
	"I'll go," the young woman sighed.
	Morris grabbed her wrist, hard, his breath shaking.
	Silence.
	"Is the door closed?"
	"Yes," she answered.
	"I... I'm ashamed."
	"Don't be."
	"How can you even look at me?"
	She smiled.
	"How old are you? Really?"
	"Older than you think," she answered.
	Another silence. Morris took a deep breath. "You know... people say that young people think their immortal. Well... everybody thinks their immortal. When you're 16 you think you'll be 16 forever. When you're 32 you think you'll be 32 forever. And hon, when you're 65, you think you'll be 65 forever. It never changes. Nobody thinks they'll end up like this. But they all do. Every last one. It's like God or something, maybe just an accident of chemistry puts you in the world and you're just falling, headlong, falling. And
sometimes if you don't look down you can trick yourself into thinking the ground's not coming. But it is and everyday, every hour, every god damn minute you're getting clos..." He groaned and closed his eyes.
	Her hand moved gently up the length of his cock, then down, slowly, gently, stretching his foreskin pleasurably, swelling the bulb of his cock. "Oh, dear God," he groaned. "That feels good. I..." He swallowed. "I haven't felt that in years. I didn't know it was possible, not since the diabetes."
	"Are you feeling better?"
	"Oh God yes," he groaned. "I just... you... you look so much like my wife when she was young."
	"Is she..."
	"She passed away years ago..." he said. "I haven't been with a woman since. I... what woman would be interested in me?" He groaned when she pulled down on his cock, hard. "A man takes pleasure in women. It doesn't have to be sex. But a man likes to know a woman notices him. Women are such beautiful creatures. Dear God, when I was a soldier, sometimes I made love every night. Every night was a different woman. I had two women. Two? Oh hell, who cares now. I had three women, Angie. Me. I could go all night. Life, you know? I don't regret a bit of it. I was just living. I was enjoying life. I never hurt anyone. We were -all- enjoying life. Nobody was ever hurting anyone else. We were just having fun, but there's always somebody trying to tell you its wrong. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't enjoy life. Just don't hurt anyone, then it's nobody's business what you do..."
	He arched, the pleasure building as she continued to stroke him. "Ummm...."
	"That's how I lived my life. I never let anything get in my way. But this..." He paused. "I'm sick of this. I'm sick of this!" He grunted out loud. A small spurt of semen slicked the young woman's hand and pooled at the base of his cock. But he hadn't cum. "Jesus," he panted. "I haven't felt that in years. You're a witch. You know, when I was 13, all I had to do was say the word "girl" and I had a brick in my pants. When you walked in here. When I watched you, it was like that..." He groaned again.
	"It's normal," Angie answered. "Your body knows what it needs."
	He watched her, lifting his head from the pillow as she lowered her head over his cock, and licked the cum from the round nub of his cock. He groaned again, loudly. He pushed his pelvis toward. She was so beautiful. He watched her lips, her perfect young lips, close around the end of his cock. She was sucking him.
	"You know," he groaned. "My wife would never... uhh... do that. The most risque thing she ever... ever did was get a tattoo... She was drunk..." He paused to watch her head move up and down. Her eyes were closed. He knew he would cum soon. "She was drunk... and she went to a tattoo parlor. She just wanted an angel on the small of her back. Angela Morris they were supposed to write; then a tattoo of an angel... But she was drunk and..." He laughed despite himself, despite the pleasure threatening to pulse in his groin. "They must have misunderstood her or maybe she was too drunk to talk. But they spelled her name wrong. What could she do? In those days you couldn't remove a tattoo..."
	The young woman lifted her head. He groaned. The head of his cock glistened.
	"What was her name?"
	"Angela."
	The young woman smiled. "You must have really loved her."
	"I did."
	Then the girl leaned forward, and they kissed. Her lips were smooth and moist. He couldn't return her kiss.
	"It's OK," she said. "You're huge. You're a big man."
	"I..." He faltered. "Why are you doing this? Do you run home and tell all your girlie friends about this?" He began to shake. "What are you? What kind of a little tramp... what are you doing?"
	She lifted the bottom of her skirt above her knees and put one knee on the mattress, then straddled him, letting her skirt fall. She put a finger on his lips. She waited, gazing at him.
	Silence.
	"I'm sorry..." he finally said, quietly. "Please..."
	She took his hands, threaded his fingers with her own, and slowly lowered herself. He couldn't see but he felt the lips of her sex pressed against the bulb of his cock, then give way. She gasped, loudly, but continued to lower herself. Her mouth opened and she glanced downward as more of him pushed upward inside her, opening her, filling her. Then she gazed at him, brows knitted as the lips of her opening stretched around base of his cock, the end of him somewhere in her slender waist.
	"It's huge," she gasped, breathing unsteadily.
	"Fuck it," he said, his own breath faltering.
	She smiled, a broad smile.
	"Go ahead," he growled. "Ride it. Fuck it."
	And she did. She began moving up and down, never taking her eyes from his. She exhaled with every deep impalement, her breath in time with her thrusts. "This is a baby maker," she gasped. "I can feel it deep... I can't think."
	"You know..." he groaned. "I think I made love six times with my wife. I... we had six children. After... after the sixth, she lost interest. She didn't want sex anymore. None of it. And you know..." He paused, gasping with pleasure. To feel a woman again! Like velvet! So soft! The warmth! Her grace! The heat of her around his penis! "You know... that was hard. But I loved her... I never cheated on her. Not once. Me! Me of all men. I never cheated on her..."
	"You... you must have..." She gasped. "Loved her very much."
	"I did."
	The young woman leaned forward as she continued to slide up and down the length of him, and she licked the moisture from his eyes. Then she sat back up and brought his hands to her breasts. She helped him to unbutton her top. His stiff and swollen joints moved awkwardly. Button by button her top opened and slipped to her sides. She was beautiful and slender. Her nipples were swollen and he thought he could almost see his own girth in her flat belly, above the waistband of her skirt.
	The bed whined. His hand had moved down to the controls. The top of the mattress slowly lifted him up. The young woman smiled and lowered her breasts to his mouth. He sucked and felt a small spasm. Wetness oozed from their joining. The pleasure of her almost overwhelmed him.
	"Yes," she said.
	Morris leaned his head back into the pillow and she straightened again. "Turn around," he said "And lift your skirt, I want to see your ass."
	She smiled again, the smile that made his cock ache. She lifted one knee, then the other, turned and never let his cock escape from her soft embrace. Tight. She glanced back at him and lifted her skirt. Now he could see. Her ass was beautiful.
	"Flawless," he groaned as he watched her slide up and down the length of him. Now he could see the lips of her sex stretched tightly round the stem. He was glistening with her wetness and some of his own cum. It had been so long.
	Her hips were so smooth. Her skin was so smooth. Her muscles were firm. Young. He groaned aloud. "Are you on the pill?" he asked.
	"Do I need to be?"
	"Oh yes," he growled.
	"I'm ready," she answered and she arched her back and opened her legs, still sliding up and down, slowly, deeply, pressing against him when she plunged (the whole of him inside her) rising until just the kiss of her lips closed at the tip of his cock, then opened again as she plunged. She exhaled. He groaned. He wanted to see more.
	 He reached, grasped her top at the shoulders. Clumsily, but he grasped them. She glanced back at him, gazing at him. He lowered her top, drunk with the sinuous indentation of her spine, the smooth muscles above and below her shoulder blades. The top fell to her waist - so narrow. Her eyes fluttered. "Are you going to come?" she whispered.
	He pulled the top down. "Oh dear God!" His voice cracked.
	"Yes." She said.
	He gazed at the tattoo. Angelus Mortis. And there, the angel holding a scythe. "It's you..."
	"It's time," she said.
	"You made me feel like a man again," he whispered.
	"You always were."
	"I missed you so much."
	"Let go."
	He shouted. And he did.

