Geriatric Lesbian Sex On A Ladder

Geriatric Lesbian Sex on an Extension Ladder

I am a Realtor - which means I go to a lot of parties with a lot of other Realtors in houses that we can't afford and will never sell. These parties are given by builders who have to spend great amounts of money on entertainment for business in order to get tax deductions and keep their trophy (second) wives busy while they consider whether to have an affair with a tennis pro or start a catering business.

I was on my way to one of these parties when I encountered one of our older agents wandering around the parking lot. I said, Doreen - come with me to this stupid party! She said, I can't - I locked my keys in my car! Come help me get them out! She hands me a wire coat hanger and I twist it into my best abortionist-hook-format and start trying to fish it through her volvo wagon's sadistically designed windows. 

No luck. I say, well, I'll drive you to your house and you can get your spare set. She says, My house is locked! I said, did you hide some keys in your garden or something? She says, No. I'm feeling bad for her now, but I bet that tomorrow when this is all just an unpleasant memory she will be burying a tuna can in the side yard with every key to every locked thing she owns.

We decide she has the following options: Break a window in her car, break a window in her house, call a locksmith for her house or call a locksmith for her car.....

We opt to break a window at her house, climb in my car and head off.

When we get there, we realize that she has storms and regular windows on the ground floor - all closed. We would have to break TWO windows. I notice that on the second floor, she has a window open, with only a screen. I point it out and Doreen says, I have a ladder!! 

We get the extension ladder off her fence and haul it over to the wall of the house. We heft it up and I'm thinking, this is pretty cool for two old women like us! With great humility, I confess to Doreen that I have tremendous upper body strength from all the crap I do at the farm. I show her my muscle. I admire my muscle - bulging as it does through the sleeve of my brand new Talbot's shantung silk wrap top in Sage Green (Ripper Gurl is going to want to borrow this - it goes great with my new bling I got off the dead lady - another story for another time)

The thing is though - it is time to climb that ladder. I tell Doreen she is on her own. There are many things I can do with aplomb but I can not climb into high heel shoes without getting vertigo. She says that she used to mountain climb in Europe every summer when she was kept (yes, kept) by a Junior Ambassador to some country that doesn't exist anymore. I say, Have at it! and start to admire my muscle again.

I am pretty much concentrating on something that might be skin cancer on my upper arm when I hear a rustle and I turn around and Doreen is standing at the bottom of the extension ladder in nothing but her bra and panty hose.

yes.

My first thought is that this has all been an elaborate ruse to get me over to her house so she can seduce me into some weird geriatric lesbian sex orgy that involves an extension ladder. She sees my bewildered look and before I can say, I want to be friends and I'm not even remotely bi-curious she says, I don't want to rip this suit - it's a Worth from Paris.

OH! well, that makes sense.

I'm still digesting this when she starts climbing the ladder and I find I am staring at parts of her that I haven't seen on my mother. I think, This could make me BLIND! but it's lilke a car wreck and I can't stop looking.

She climbs up and up and then, using the pen knife that I carry because I am always needing one to cut duct tape or pry open clam shells. She slits the screen and with amazing agility for a woman her age in control tops, slithers over the sill like a baby seal and falls with a soft thunk on the floor of her upstairs bathroom.

I don't know what I was thinking, but I assumed she would put some clothes on before she came out, but NO she comes down stairs, lets her dogs out and stands in front of me pointing out the varietal digitalis (foxglove plants) that are springing up in her garden path. Just as she bends over to pull a weed, I say Doreen! we should be going, and she pulls on her clothes. 

Later, at the stir fry bar (the newest wrinkle in local extreme catering) I find myself telling this story to a woman I don't know. Fortunately she was drunk on tax deduction open bar box wine, so I know she won't remember, the next time we are wrangling over a radon inspection for some town house.