A year had passed since Donna and I had our interlude at her house on Thanksgiving Day. We’d crossed paths several times but had never gotten together again. Apparently, her husband, John, had experienced some sort of epiphany not long after that day. He was sober and treating her like the treasure she is. She laughed when she told me of her shock the first time that he cleared the supper table and loaded the dishwasher while she went to the living room and relaxed. I will always wonder if, somehow through his drunken stupor the previous year, he’d been aware his wife and I were grinding groins together on the floor just a few feet from him passed out on the couch. Her invitation this year was a surprise, but even if all we did was visit, she’s a great cook and the food would be worth it.

I arrived around 4:30, just like the year before. Donna answered the door dressed, again, in jeans and a button-up blouse that was buttoned up more than before. Disappointing. I stepped in and she gave me an all too short “we’re just causal friends” hug that barely let me feel her delicious breasts pressed against my chest before turning to introduce a slightly pudgy girl standing behind her in the entry. “Steve, this is Ellen, John’s daughter. Ellen has just turned 18 so we’re celebrating that as well as Thanksgiving.” Ellen said hi and shook my hand momentarily before moving in for an awkward quick hug. Other than her size, how she pressed against me felt much like Donna. I looked her over as I followed them back into the kitchen/dining area. Actually, not bad. A definite waist, nice butt wiggle, thighs thick but not flabby. Well, of course, she was still a teenager.

John is who really surprised me. The TV was off, Alexa had some classic rock softly playing in the background, he was in the kitchen busy helping Donna with the fixings, a smile on his face, eyes clear, a total turn-around from who he’d been the year before. Donna went to the counter beside him, kissed his arm, took over mashing the potatoes and told him to chop veggies for the platter.

All throughout dinner I marveled at the changes in him and their relationship. On the one hand, I was quite disappointed. It was obvious I’d never get to tap Donna again. On the other hand, I was happy for them both. John was a very interesting guy. Evangelical preacher with an open mind that was accepting of beliefs which weren’t aligned with his. She was more aligned with the mystical/spiritual rather than religious. I could see how they were originally attracted to each other.

After dinner he and Donna cleared the table while Ellen and I went to the living room. “MacArthur’s Park” was on the radio. Ellen commented on how she really liked that song, as well as the music from that era. “There was real heart and soul put into the music back then. Today’s stuff is nothing compared to it,” she said. I replied that I believed it was due to all the social and political turmoil of the day. Vietnam, Civil Rights, Women’s Lib, Flower Power, the hippy movement, the Cold War, etc. We became lost in a wonderful conversation about the ‘60s and ‘70s. She had studied those times, I had lived through them.

John interrupted us. He and Donna were putting on their coats. “Hey, guys. Donna and I are going to visit my mom. Ellen, I know you don’t like to see her as she is, so it’s okay to stay here. Steve, you’re welcome to hang out. Seems like you and Ellen have hit it off. We’ll only be gone maybe an hour and a half.” Ellen said okay, sounding a bit relieved. I told them I’d hang around and continue this fascinating conversation.

When the door closed Ellen explained that Grandma had Alzheimer’s and rarely recognized anyone who was there and sometimes didn’t even know anyone was there at all. I recalled when one of my grandmothers had the same affliction and could relate to not wanting to visit, assuring her that was her dad’s duty, not hers. The conversation had shifted from my coming of age era to aging in general. She seemed curious, not from a place of fear of it happening to her, but just curious. I’m in my late 60s, so I shared my experiences and beliefs as she probed for more information.

“Is it true men can’t get it up after a certain age?” she asked. Whoa! That came out of left field. I explained that many men developed difficulty in achieving and maintaining “it up” as well as losing the ability completely, but not all did. I had no idea why that was. “Can you,” she asked. Sweet Jesus, where was this coming from? I almost told her she should be asking her dad or Donna these questions but immediately realized how awkward that would be. I was a safe source. And she was 18. Oh, fuck, go for it.

“Yes, I still can, I’m thankful to say.” She put her hand to her mouth and snorted a laugh.