"I'm not your grandmother, Peter, I am a healthy, desirable woman. At least I was a few years ago."
"Hell, you are almost 80," Pete scoffed.
"Ok, so it's been quite a few years ago. It doesn't seem that long. I could still use a stiff dick between my legs, if you are interested."

"I'm not. I want somebody who as born in this century."
"Peter!" Emma pretended shock, "she would be three years old?"
"Ok, last century," he said with a reluctant laugh. They had been trying to shock each other since they first met. It never worked. She was a slightly older version of Peter himself, only in female form.

"I don't want to be old, Peter. I just lived life one day at a time until I somehow got this way. I'm still young on the inside. As the old joke goes, I'm getting this 20 year old body all wrinkled."
"Even at your age, you are one hot babe, Emma. Why don't you hook up with one of the guys in the complex. I know several who would love to get into your pants, wrinkled or not."

"I tried. I was shocked when I opened my eyes and saw a face as old as mine staring back at me. It sickened me, Peter. I don't want to be old," Emma sighed. "I want to be young again."
"I can help with your aches and pains, dress you, bathe you, I can change your diapers if you start wearing one, but I can't make you young again, old girl."
"I know. Are there any blind male nurses in the complex?"
"Not in any complex. Blind men can't do this job."
"I'm sure they could."
"They can't."
"Oh. What about male whores."
"What?" Pete gasped.
"You know, those gigalors.
"Gigolos," he corrected.
"Yeah, one of them."
"I am not your pimp, I am your nurse. Haul your ass out of here and look for one yourself, you're healthy enough.'
"The world scares me, I don't know it any more. It's all too fast."
"It's the same world, it just has more assholes running around in it."
"I suppose. Peter, can you look at my pussy?"
"Why," he said with a great deal of self- control. It was his job, on a professional level. He knew she was discussing something different.

"Tell me what you think," Emma said, pulling up her night gown. She yanked down her cotton panties and showed him her pussy. Pete glanced at it carelessly, then gave it a careful look.
"It just looks like a pussy," he said in wonder. "Except for a few gray hairs, it looks normal."
"That's what I tried to tell you. It's just a pussy, not a flesh colored prune. Would you fuck that Pete?" she asked slyly.
"If I was really hard up I might."
"Are you?"
"No, I have lot's of action," he said defensively. She laughed, knowing that she was one up on him. She had made him defend his male honor.
"Hey, fuck you," he said.
"Oh, I wish you would, Peter, I need it so badly."

"Damit, stop talking like that. You've got me horny and I have a full days work ahead of me."
"I could take care of that," she laughed.
"Oh no you couldn't," he called, tying a bag of trash and throwing it over his shoulder. "I will see you tomorrow," he said with a fond smile.
"Oh, ok," she said in real disappointment. "Stop by for lunch, if you like. I make a mean grilled bologna sandwich."

"Hey, I loves those things," he gasped.
"It's the most underrated sandwich on earth. You take bread and stick some bologna in it and you have cold meat and half cooked dough. You add some cheese, miracle whip and a little heat, and you have the world's greatest sandwich."
Pete nodded, smiling. "Ok, it's a date. But no funny stuff," he pointed, then waved and left.
"You want to bet," she hissed, turning to hurry to her kitchen unit. The only good thing which went with grilled bologna was cold potato salad. She had to hurry or it wouldn't chill to the proper temperature.

She filled a decanter half full of gin, filled it to the top with orange juice and slid it into the refrigerator. She finished the potato salad at 10:00, wiped her hands on her night gown, and slipped into something more appropriate. Then she started her magic act. She arranged the foundation, eye liner, lipstick and creams, then her secret weapon, Preparation H. After setting them in just the right order, she began remodeling her face. With enough makeup...

The door opened at Pete's second knock. He gave Emma a stunned look, then stepped inside. She was different, somehow younger and more appealing. He didn't know if he approved or not, it seemed... wrong.
"Nice look," he said airily. "Are the sandwiches done?"
"Done and keeping warm in the oven. I also have potato salad and cocktails."
"Wow, the works, huh?"
"Yes, the works," she said, motioning him to the table.
"He took a second, longer look at her face, then shook his head."
"Never judge a woman before you've seen her in makeup," Emma said as she loaded down the table. "It makes a world of difference."
"Yeah, scary."
"And what's scary about it?"
"You look nice, if I didn't know it was makeup..."
"Hey, young man, half the women you've dated would look scary without makeup. I'm no different."
"No, I guess not. You look nice," he repeated again.
"Does that mean you are interested?"
"Well yeah... I mean no. I don't think," he said in confusion.
"Here, drink this," she handed him a glass of orange juice. He took a big gulp, then howled.
"Holy shit, what's in this?"
"Gin. It does wonders for the male... lets say ego," she smiled.
"Let's say libido. I can feel where the heat is going. You are one deceptive old woman," he accused half joking and half in ernest.
"Shut up and eat."

Peter ate, but he couldn't help but stare at Emma. If he didn't know that she was 77, he would have sworn she was in her 40's. He wouldn't eat it, but he'd sure fuck it, the thought crept into his head. His balls had been burning since he drank the gin and orange juice. Successive sips kept the fire burning. But it was a good burn, and his cock was as hard as rock.

Peter had bathed Emma during her bad times, right after her stroke. He knew every age spot, wrinkle, and pimple on her ass. And still he was turned on. Part of it was the gin, part was her disguise, but mostly it was knowing that he could reach out and have her, it was that simple. All he had to do was...