They were a bit old for the acrobatics of sex. Donny knew this. But not much had ever hindered Donny in his quest for Don-Juan-ship. Once, back in the day a skinny, flat chester had rammed her knee into his crouch. That had hindered things. But for the most part Donny advanced unhindered through the old getting-it-on business with what he considered suave grace. He saw no reason why age should slow things up any more than four divorces had. He still had his hair (white though it was) and most of his teeth (long though they might be) and his sky-blue eyes (enhanced though they were through bottle bottom spectacles). And Donny still had his grin, a sort of waifish, raffish, devil-may-care, come-hither smile, raked a bit to the left by a quick, bottle-bottom enhanced wink.
Oh, Donny knew that he wasn’t rising to the occasion any more the way he had when he was seventeen. But why should that hinder a man.
As for Melva she was tired of seductive old farts whose whole body creaked. She was also aware that her time for gracile young men had passed. Her bosom was a pair of flaccid, empty purses; her lips were ravaged ravines telling of an early life of cigarettes, whiskey and other misdemeanors. Her raven hair was still raven, but thin on top and coarse as horse tail. But why should this hinder her having a good time at the Last Lost Valley Senior Center Senior Prom?
The first thing she noticed when she and Donny paired off to swing to Nancy singing “These Boots are Made for Walking” was that his asthmatic wheeze rattled with breathtaking crepitusness, that his grin was toothy, his wink ominously magnified, and that he thought his white pompadour was the mane of God. These were old hat for Melva. She had seen and sometimes allowed herself to succumb to grins and winks that actually had potential in their promise. She could feel every creptic creak in Donny’s thin shoulder and his blue veined, joint-knotted hand as they swirled and staggered across the floor.
When Nancy had finished stomping her Boots, Donny made his move.
“How ‘bout we get some fresh air, Sweetie,” he managed to pant. He was wheezing like a poorly embouchured bassoon. With one hand he stroked Melva’s flat flank, and with the other he fumbled for the inhaler in his vest pocket.
“Yeah, right,” Melva said, “You and how many teenagers.” She unwound herself from his grope and went looking for somebody to waltz to Willie’s “My Heroes have Always Been Cowboys.”