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Dot was growing old. She had to admit to herself that her life, since her powerfully masculine Frank had died, depriving her of the one part of his anatomy that turned her on so very much, every day of their life together, was growing emptier by the moment . . . and that emptiness was building within her a fearsome frustration.
Sigmund Freud knew of such womens’ woes: “The most immediate cause of the onset of neurotic illness lies in frustration. The person was healthy as long as his erotic need was satisfied by an actual object in the outer world; he becomes neurotic as soon as he is deprived of this object and no substitute is forthcoming.”
In Dot’s case, the object she most missed was Frank’s big hard cock, and she was desperate to find a substitute for it.
Dot was dreaming again. The hell of it was she had no excuse. She was wide awake in her own garden but still she was dreaming of a time when… .
Frank had gone in for surfing in a big way. Back then the boards had been balsa, before Frank had made close to a million with his newer, shorter plastic board. But Dot wasn’t thinking about the money they had had. She remembered mostly the marvelous symmetry of Frank’s indefatigable cock, the young and carefree days when they had sneaked away at every opportunity even in the middle of their own parties to ball away. They had fucked themselves into silly satiation as if it would never endear as if it might all end sooner than they expected.
And now it had. Frank had piled up an airplane a week before his fiftieth birthday and Dot had spent the first month afterward wishing she could have gone into the side of that mountain with him. With Frank’s death it was all over in more ways than she had realized at first. She had been shocked when the lawyers explained how all the property was mortgaged to finance the expanding business. One day they had been rich and getting richer. The next day it was all gone: business, La Jolla home, Frank, everything!
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.