I walk out the door of my fatherÕs building in the Serendipity Senior Housing Complex in which he lives. It is Yom Kippor morning and IÕve come down to Philadelphia from my Brooklyn home to spend the highest of the holy days with him. I donÕt feel very holy. Sadly, ten minutes in my fatherÕs company has the same effect on me that it did when I was small. Then he was always comparing me to my cousin Marcia who got straight ÒAÕs in school and played with dolls like a little girl should, now he compares me to my dead mother who looked like a movie star and never, never burned his oatmeal like I did an hour ago. Whatever I do, I canÕt please my father; spending time with him makes me feel useless and sad. I pause and survey the lovely pale blue cloudless sky. I enjoy the comforting feeling of the warm sun on my face. I feel useless and sad a lot lately anyway. I miss my old boyfriend Robby. I miss his miraculous tongue. ItÕs been almost a year since we broke up and in all that time I havenÕt had any of the old in-and-out except with my Blue Bunny vibrator. Before I can ponder the sources of my melancholy further, I see Mr. Tom. He is sitting on the bench beside the door. Three times a week he goes for radiation for liver cancer, but he still chain-smokes his brown Nat ShermanÕs, lighting the new one off the butt of the last. He sits smoking cigarettes and holding court on this bench everyday except when it is raining or snowing or too cold. One of the neighbors has even donated an old stone spittoon that sits beside the bench for him. Mr. Tom is a friend of my fatherÕs. TheyÕre both W.W. II vets in their eighties though Mr. Tom is older. On his good days, my father wheels outside to join Mr. Tom and trade war stories. Mr. Tom is genial and sharp; he always has a smile on his face. ÒHey, Girlie,Ó Mr. Tom calls out to me, Òso youÕre visiting your Dad.Ó He offers me his hand. I take it and sit down. His fingers are strong and firm as he grasps mine and draws me closer to him. He is freshly shaved and smells of Brut, the same aftershave Robby used. ÒYes,Ó I tell him, ÒIÕm trying to be a better daughter.Ó YouÕre a good girl,Ó Mr. Tom says, Òand good looking too. The first time I saw you, I said to myself, Tommy, thereÕs a girl, who can break a manÕs back and look like a beauty queen while she does it.Ó IÕm taken aback at the turn the conversation has taken; maybe itÕs just his way of being courtly. ÒEr, um, thank you,Ó I say but I decide to change the subject. ÒHowÕs Mrs. Susie?Ó I ask. Mrs. Susie is TomÕs wife, she had a stroke three months ago and has been in a nursing home ever since. ÒAbout the same,Ó he says, shaking his head. ÒShe wonÕt be doing the old hootchie - kooch any time soon.Ó I am conscious of the warmth of his thigh next to mine. HeÕs always dressed impeccably. Today heÕs got on fine beige linen slacks and a creamy colored pullover. With his big blue eyes and leading man smile, Mr. Tom is adorable. He continues to hold my left hand in his left hand. He puts his right arm along the back of the bench encircling but not quite touching my shoulders. We sit like this as I watch a monarch butterfly flit about the geraniums in the flowerbed next to the bench. Mr. Tom clears his throat. ÒSo,Ó he says, ÒHow is your love life, girlie? A good looker like you must have plenty of boyfriends.Ó I tell him the truth, ÒNah,Ó I say. ÒThere is a guy IÕve been going out with but heÕs holding back, all politeness and pecks on the cheek. I canÕt get him to make the move.Ó ÒHa!Ó says Mr. Tom, ÒDoesnÕt he know life is short? You wouldnÕt have any trouble getting me to make the move!Ó He starts rubbing my back, caressing my spine with sure, supple fingers. I canÕt believe this is happening, the butterfly continues to play in the flowerbed, the sun is still warm on my face, but suddenly my kundalini is being expertly elevated by a senior, senior citizen in expensive looking tasseled loafers. I feel the space between my legs part, the crevice between them moisten. In less than a minute heÕs got me wet. All the stored up juices inside me start to simmer. ÒYou wouldnÕt have any trouble getting me to make the move,Ó Mr. Tom murmurs again and then he just leans over and plants a big, juicy kiss right on my mouth. I canÕt help it, I respond. His lips are as firm and determined as his fingers and his mouth smells like tobacco. I havenÕt smoked a cigarette for fifteen years but the smell of tobacco still turns me on. I open my lips to Mr. Tom. I feel his hot tongue slide between them, but then it hits me. This is crazy! IÕm crazy, so crazy! What am I doing, canoodling in broad daylight with a lecherous octogenarian who is older than my father and on Yom Kippor no less? I leap up as if it was a golem who was kissing me. Mr. Tom is left with his mouth hanging open. He appears surprised but right away he gives me that big smile. ÒThat was lovely, girlie,Ó he says smoothly, nodding at me, his bald head pink as a babyÕs bottom. I start to stutter, ÒC-c-c-c coffee, I came out for c-c-coffeee.Ó ÒI bet you take it sweet,Ó Mr. Tom calls out after me as I turn and lurch away. The next day I am sitting at my fatherÕs dining room table grading homework for the erotic writing class I teach. The student who wrote a story in which he keeps referring to his heroineÕs nipples as ripe strawberries gets a ÒCÓ. The student who refers to her heroineÕs twat as the Bat Cave gets an ÒAÓ. My father glides in on his new motorized wheelchair. He rams into my motherÕs four thousand dollar mahogany china closet filled with her precious collection of Rose Medallion china. Miraculously, he doesnÕt break the glass or damage the china, but when he disengages the wheelchair there is a long scratch in the dark wood that is shaped like a scythe. Then, standing behind my father, the angel of death appears, his gray hooded burnoose stained with blood. With infinite care, he brings his scythe down towards my fatherÕs neck. I draw back, horrified, shutting my eyes tight. When I open them again the grim reaper is gone. ÒYou look just like your mother, honey,Ó my father says. I have repeatedly asked him not to call me honey because that was what he always called my mother. He has repeatedly ignored me. ÒBut,Ó he goes on and his eyes stray to my breasts. I remember the day when he told me, a shy, scrawny teenager proud of my new tiny boobies, that I would have a good figure if only I had bigger breasts. I shudder, but when my father continues he surprises me, ÒYouÕre even prettier than your mother,Ó he says. Maybe he is mellowing because it is the New Year and this is the time that the Midrash says we must make amends to those we have slighted. Maybe he just wants love like me and everyone else. I look at my Father in the scooter. HeÕs gotten so skinny but he has a big belly as if his once fine physique has melted down around his waist. He used to swim a mile a day. He is wearing a baseball cap as he always does to conceal the fact that all that that is left of his once thick, dark hair is a few silver stands. Today it is his Baltimore Orioles cap, a bright red flag above his pallid face. It must be so hard for him now, careening around these four rooms in his little crippleÕs cart, struggling to change his diapers. ÒHey Dad,Ó I ask, ÒYou want to have tea and cookies? I need to take a break.Ó His face brightens. ÒSure, Honey,Ó he says. We sit together drinking tea and eating OreoÕs. My father starts to tell the story about how my mother wouldnÕt take off her nightgown on their wedding night. I donÕt want to hear this story, certainly not for the twentieth time. I recite Kubla Khan to myself and pretend to listen. My father has stopped talking and is looking at me expectantly as if he is waiting for an answer. ÒI couldnÕt hear what you said, Dad,Ó I tell him, Òbecause I was chewing. What did you say?Ó ÒWill you do something for me, honey?Ó my father asks. ÒBring some books up to Mr. Tom? He has some books for me.Ó My father and Mr. Tom are both mystery fans, sharing a preference for the contemporary thrillers of Lawrence Block. They trade books back and forth. IÕm not that happy about another encounter with Mr. Tom but I agree. ÒSure,Ó I say. ÒThanks, honey,Ó my father answers. ÒIÕll call Mr. Tom right up.Ó My father drives off eagerly to the telephone in his bedroom. He soon calls in to me, ÒTommy says come up in an hour.Ó IÕm standing in front of Mr. TomÕs door holding three paperback books. The top one is The Sins of Our Fathers. As I knock on the door, I feel nervous. Mr. Tom answers immediately. He is wearing a maroon satin smoking jacket with a white cravat. The smell of Brut surrounding him is very strong. I fight the impulse to run back into the elevator. ÒHere, Mr. Tom,Ó I say as I hold the books out to him. ÔIf youÕll just give me the books you have for my dad, IÕll be on my way.Ó He shakes his head, ÒOh, no, no, you canÕt do that, you just canÕt. You must come in, you must. I have something special to show you. Please, please come in.Ó He looks at me so imploringly that I cannot refuse. ÒOkay,Ó I say, Òbut only for a minute.Ó I follow him into a spacious living room with fancy furniture in white and gold. A big white sofa dominates the room, a low gold coffee table in front of it. ÒDo me the honor of sitting down,Ó says Mr. Tom and I do. ÒTake a look at this,Ó he says, ÒIÕve made a little display for you.Ó Standing on the coffee table, there are perhaps a dozen framed pictures of Mr. Tom, a much younger Mr. Tom, Mr. Tom in uniform, Mr. Tom the soldier. There is also an open cigar box filled with medals and brightly colored war ribbons. In the center of the table sits a pink porcelain candy dish piled with HersheyÕs Kisses. ÒThese are the souvenirs of my military career,Ó says Mr. Tom. Ò I wanted you to see me when I was a young warrior fighting for my country. I enlisted again after the war. Now in this one, IÕm in front of my plane, we were liberating Belgium, bet you didnÕt know Tommy was a pilot.Ó He picks up a picture of a handsome young charmer with large, luminous eyes, his light hair combed into an old style pompadour. One by one he shows me the photos, recounts their histories. He was in Morocco standing under a palm tree. He was in Palermo sitting at the wheel of a jeep. ÒThose Italian lasses were saucy,Ó says Mr. Tom Òbut they couldnÕt hold a candle to you.Ó My father said when Mr. Tom was diagnosed with cancer the doctor said heÕd be dead in three months. Now a couple of years later, here he is, an aged Don Juan trying to seduce me with war pictures and medals attesting to his courage and valor. ÒWill you join me in a cocktail?Ó Mr. Tom asks. ÒI usually have one at this time of day.Ó I thought of Timothy LearyÕs last words. ÒWhy not?Ó I say. ÒI like an Old Fashioned, he tells me. ÒWould that be okay?Ó I tell him that would be fine. He vanishes into the other room, while I idly examine his Silver Star, his Purple Heart. He is soon back with a tray holding a cocktail shaker and two highball glasses, the glasses already full. The old devil has planned this very carefully. The drink is deliciously sweet and powerful, just a few sips and my head is spinning. ÒHits the spot,Ó I say to him. ÒI like a woman who appreciates her liquor and I like you, girlie,Ó Mr. Tom says. ÒWould you grant my wish? Would you permit me to use my Uncle Woody the way God intended at least one more time?Ó Even though he was trying to play on my sympathies, I am charmed by his ingenious attempt at seduction, his courage. Mr. Tom has a pair as big as Sicily. ÒYes,Ó I say. ÒOh, baby!Ó Mr. Tom exclaims. He reaches into the pocket of the smoking jacket, pulls out two pleasure mesh Trojans in their black packets and puts them on the table. I donÕt know what to do next so I gulp down the rest of my drink and ask for another. Mr. Tom pours it for me and I take a big swallow. He slips off the smoking jacket and cravat to reveal he still has plenty of wiry white hair on his bony chest. His nipples are plump and pink like those of a much younger man. He puts his arms up like a bodybuilder and begins preening, flexing his biceps for me, showing me he still has some muscle. ÒIÕm the boogie woogie bugle boy,Ó he starts to sing; proving he can still carry a tune. He is so happy his bugle is already making a little tent inside his pants. Mr. Tom starts to kiss my face with his big lava lips. He moves on to my mouth, opening it with a wily tongue. He shows me he knows how to take his time as he slowly spears my mouth in and out. Once again he quickly gets my little jam pot simmering. I put my fingers up to tug languidly at his nipple and soon it hardens beneath my fingers. Matching the rhythm of my fingers to that of his tongue in my mouth, I pull it; milk it like it was a tiny cock. Our lower bodies start to work in tandem grinding against each other. The heavy package he presses against my vulva is so big, I wonder if he has a howitzer in his pants. Mr. Tom stops kissing me and starts to fumble with the bottom of my sweater. I let go of his nipple and help him pull my sweater and bra off over my head. He surveys the terrain below. ÒYou got tits like an angel,Ó he says. He lowers his body on top of mine and we start smooching again, making out wildly like teenagers, our hips churning even faster. It was all so pleasurable and I felt those juices simmering between my legs heat up to a rolling boil. ÒAre you ready?Ó Mr. Tom asks. ÒPrecede, soldier,Ó I tell him. He sits up on the edge of the couch and unzips his trousers. He picks up a condom packet and tears it open. I look away; I donÕt want to watch this part. IÕm afraid IÕll see a strange wizened appendage, wrinkled like a prune, but at the last minute, my curiosity gets the best of me. I glance over. I see Mr. Tom slide the love sock onto a long meaty shaft that would make a twenty-year-old marine proud. He hovers over me again and pulls up my skirt. I spread my legs eagerly; I want that big thing inside me. I shut my eyes. I feel Mr. Tom pull the crotch of my panties aside. My sweet sex stink floats out into the room, I hear Mr. Tom take a hearty sniff, and then he slides right in, filling me completely. We begin our campaign and I hear troops, whole regiments, marching, stomping into battle. I hear rifle fire, artillery, cannons, mortars exploding. We come at exactly the same instant. ItÕs a direct hit. ÒBombs away!Ó Mr. Tom yells. For the first time in ages, I feel completely relaxed. I want to reach up; touch Mr. TomÕs cheek, his mouth. I open my eyes as he pulls out of me. His face is very red. Suddenly, he just keels over and falls off the couch with a big kerpunk, landing between the couch and coffee table. IÕm frightened! Did he have a heart attack? Has he died in the saddle, my saddle? I make myself look down. He is still breathing. His eyes are open. ÒMr. Tom,Ó I ask. ÒAre you all right?Ó He smiles up at me. ÒYes, girly,Ó he answers. ÒGuess I just got a little wobbly. How did I do?Ó I was so relieved, ÒVictory on all fronts,Ó I tell him. We put our tops back on and straighten our clothes. We polish off the Old Fashioneds. Mr. Tom gives me a couple of books for my father that had been on the floor next to the couch. As I get up to leave my eyes fall on the unused Trojan on the coffee table. Mr. Tom sees me looking. ÒFor next time,Ó he says. My father is sitting in front of the T.V. in the living room watching Oprah when I return. ÒWhat took you so long? I was going to call up,Ó my father asks. ÒMr. Tom was showing me some of his war souvenirs,Ó I tell him. ÒYouÕre a sweet girl,Ó my father replies. ÒTrying to make and old man happy, IÕm proud of you,Ó and this time he doesnÕt call me honey.