Collie Flowers was seventy-two years of age.
He thought he was young. He also thought he was lucky. When a person's seventy-two years of age, death could come in strange ways. A nosebleed could drain them of their one pint of blood. Some oldsters just simply rolled over on their stomachs in bed and exerted too much pressure on their hearts. Others simply had coronaries when they got excited – like at their birthday parties, or when someone remembers them and sends them a Valentine, or when they're thinking about what it felt like to fuck.
He was very lucky. Because he got to do what other old people only remember feebly, fucking.
Yes, he was very lucky.
Most seventy-two-year-olds have wrinkled skin, like parchment for flesh. Cullen did have a parched face, withered lips, sallow complexion and plenty of dead spots on the flesh of his cheeks.
But there was one place on his body that wasn't wrinkled. One special place tat was still as smooth as a cue ball.
That was his prick.
Cullen had always thought that somebody up there had always liked him because he was blessed with good health and a cock that should have looked more like an over baked worm than a hunk of bologna.
Now it was a hunk of bologna and it was in the mouth of Delilah Fitch, a ten-dollar hooker who always knocked a couple of bucks off the price of cocksucking because she liked old Cullen, which is what everybody in Weedley called Cullen Flowers.
So old Collie was flat on his back up on the training table, while Delilah was standing up on the bar of some dumbbells sucking his prick.
It usually took Collie about half an hour to come.
Delilah didn't mind, her mouth was used to sucking two or three different cocks for an hour and a halt depending on what she charged Weedley High School boys for a gang suck.
But now her mouth was moving up and down on Collie's cock.
And there were only ten minutes to go before she knew he'd come all over her face like the fountain of youth.
"Jesus! Delilah, you gotta sweet cocksucking mouth! Shit, you're worth the five bucks for sucking my prick!"
Delilah nodded her head. Moaned: "Urn-hum." Shit, what else could she say when her tonsils were being shoved around by a seventy-two-year-old prick.
Collie wished he were a bit younger so that he could give a couple of hip hunches to help his ejaculation along. But the arthritis and rheumatism that made his joints squeak like a rusty gate made him forget such thoughts. Besides, only the young guys, the ones who shot their wads after four strokes in Delilah's mouth, would do such a thing. Always hurrying, scurrying, rush-rush-rush.
Shit, life was meant to take it easy. Just like Collie, as he lay there thinking about bow wonderful his prick felt in a chick's mouth. Just laying there and enjoying the sounds of Delilah's spit-wet lips moving languidly up and down on his cock.
Slush. Suck. Slush. Suck.
Every once in a while Collie would lift his gray-haired head and take a gander at his prick. To see if it was still hard and smooth as a cue ball. To see if Delilah was still sucking on his prick.
That's how people find out they're old. When little nerve endings in their flesh give way and little sensory cells simply die. That's why Collie had checked to make sure that there was enough blood pumping into his cock to keep it erect so that Delilah would be sucking on a bar of steel instead of a piece of cooked macaroni.
Collie sighed. Felt a slight tingling in his balls.
"Aaaaaaah, Delilah! Icould go on forever!"
Delilah nodded. Said, "Urn-hum!"
But she really didn't want Collie to keep his hard-on forever. Shit, when she sucked a guy's prick for five bucks, she didn't expect him to take a lifetime to come. She decided to call it quits – by sucking faster and harder on Collie's prick until her head was a blur above his loins.
"Oooooohhhhh! Jesus! In the old days,I'd've filled your mouth with jizz by now!"
The tingling sensation in his balls slowly crept up to his cock. A pleasurable buzz surrounded the base of his prick, then moved on up until it made his cockhead quiver.
"Oh Lordy! My, my, my! Oh sweet mouth!"
And Delilah was putting everything she had into getting his seventy-two-year-old semen into her throat. Which meant her hands were on his balls, massaging them, fondling them, milking the sperm up into the shaft of his prick. Then her middle finger invaded his asshole, went past the hemorrhoids and prodded his prostate.
That did it.
Collie gasped. "oh Sweet Lordy! Oh Sweet Goodness! My,my, my! Here it comes, suger-babe!"
And sugar-babe was sucking the shit out of his prick.
The first spurt of semen came bursting out of his prick, smacked against her palate before gravity forced it down her throat.
Collie's eyes were bulging and his hoary-haired hands gripped the edges of the table as his jizz spewed out of his prick.
Another spurt. Then another.
"Oh, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy! Uuuummmmm! Swallow that sweet goodness! Come on, Pumpkin! Swallow that sugar from Daddy's prick!"
Pumpkin (Collie's favorite term of endearment) was pumping her mouth up and down on his prick, sucking in the spurts of sperm as they made a white mess of her mouth. Some of the mess dribbled off Pumpkin's lips and down her chin. But most of the mess headed for her belly.
Collie finished coming, finished hurling his balls of sweet goodness into her mouth. And Pumpkin's sweet mouth popped off his cock.
Pop. Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
Pumpkin's tongue moved windshield-wiper-like over her lips as she cleaned off her face.
Collie's body sagged against the trainer's table. He felt dead. But then again, when a person's seventy-two years of age they always feel dead. And sometimes the only times they know they're alive is when they see themselves breathing.
Collie could see himself breathing because she was looking into the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the opposite wall, watching his scrawny chest moving up and down, up and down as it simulated heaves of exhaustion.
Delilah tucked the five-dollar bill between her pumpkin-sized tits. Gave Collie's cock a friendly pat as it shriveled back into its nest of white hair.
"See ya next week, champ. Keep it up."
Then she was gone.
And Collie was alone.
Mane with his thoughts.
Lately his thoughts had been more of companionship than that fucked-up kid he was supposed to train. What the fuck was his name? Oh yeah, Buster Hyman, a palooka ranked thirty-fourth in the heavyweight world of padded fisticuffs.
Christ, Collie couldn't believe he had forgotten the bomber's name. Which was another sign of old age. Names and places and former girlfriends and boxers were like the start of Scrabble in his head. And it always took two or three minutes before his brain could connect this name with that face and that pair of tits with that pumpkin.
After two or three minutes, a name and a face came to Collie. The name was Kid Carlisle, a light-heavy under Collie's, care way back in '34. Pretty good fighter. Good left jab, punishing right hand. Really good kid.
Another minute, and Collie envisioned the Kid in the ring with Lightning Willie. A black kid out of Harlem with dynamite fists and TNT for brains. Collie felt bad because he had urged Kid Carlisle to go out there and fight like a man in the tenth round.
Which is what a trainer's supposed to do. Give encouragement. Say things like: "Get that motherfucker! Kill the mower fucker! what are you – a fucking pumpkin!"
Except the Kid's face looked like a beaten marshmallow. And he had tomatoes for eyes. And an eggplant for a nose. And three lips because the bottom one was spilt so bad.
But the Kid was no pumpkin. He was game.
Only Lightning Willie with the dynamite fists was more like the hunter stalking a three-legged rabbit for game.
Yeah, Collie felt bad about Kid Carlisle. His face had looked like a fucking fruit going into the tenth round, and when it was over the Kid had ended up a vegetable.
Someone had once told Collie that the Kid was still in Philadelphia's Veterans' Hospital, a babbling idiot who could only remember what the sportswriters had called him after his tenth-round knockout: Kiddy Carlisle.
As Collie's body became frosty on the trainer's table, he recalled another name in another time in another place.
A Mexican kid. With some African-American blood in him. He had been born with the monicker: Lazarus Gonzales. Which Collie had changed just as soon as he knew that the Kid had the kind of punch to make him a contender.
Collie had re-dubbed him Loco Lazarus. But the sportswriters called him Goofy Gonzales. And the in-people in boxing circles in 1946 simply called him Speedy.
Because he was so fast. A left-right combination looked more like double lightning bolts. Foot work to do a roadrunner proud. The only drawback for Loco, or Goofy, or Speedy, was there was a lot of chicken shit in his soul.
Hated to get hit. Couldn't stand the sight of blood. One time Loco had even cried because the punching bag had torn apart under a series of double lightning bolts.
Collie was good to the Kid though. Good to him and good for him. Made him eat a lot of bulls' balls for courage. Made him look at lots of John Wayne movies where the Japs or Heinies were being crucified and beat to shit. Tacked up Boy Scout motto boards: Be prepared. Courage. Be brave.
Turned out that in the fight for the bantamweight championship, Loco Lazarus, who had beaten many an opponent senseless on his climb to fame, had revealed another peculiarity about himself that Collie hadn't known about.
Loco couldn't stand the smell of underarms. No, not his own, the other guy's in the ring. Especially when they went into the clinches.
So the opposing team knew about Loco's weakness. And they exploited it. And how.
They made sure Hurricane didn't get a rubdown before the fight. Rubbed four-day-old fish heads under his arms. And the only pre-fight instructions given Hurricane were: "Get the fucking kid in the clinches. Tie him up! Now get out there and fight like a fucking man!"
And Hurricane had fought like a man. But he didn't smell like one. Smelled like a carp, like salmon eggs and sturgeon roe.
Holy mackerel.
After the fourth round, Collie had thrown in the towel on behalf of his fish-drunk fighter.
Thus went another chance of being the trainer of another promising World Champion.
Collie sat up, heard the bones creak in his spine, felt his knees flop like rubber against the training table.
There was one last chance.
Buster Hyman – Heavyweight Champion of the World. Yeah, sure sounded good.
Collie looked up at the wall clock that had hands capped with miniature boxing gloves. The boxing gloves were pointing straight up. As if in victory.
Where the fuck was the next Heavyweight Champion of the World?