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As time passed by I stopped weeping over my loss of Alfred, but my pussy didn't stop weeping, and it didn't stop longing for those delicious fucks. Heavens, how I masturbated. Fingers, dildos, vibrators. Of course I could quench the fires, but the rest of the nights felt even lonelier with no shoulder for my head and without Alfred's melodious snoring.I felt so bad that I decided to do something about it. I'd try to find a lover to fill the void. Shouldn't be impossible. After all I'm very attractive for my age, looking years younger. But I was ever so wrong. The few men of my own age, who still seemed to be out 'hunting', only had eyes for the painted singles in their forties. I bottomed out twice. Went to a hotel room with a guy in his early seventies, and later a soft gentleman in his late sixties. Both of them were clumsy and selfish, and neither of them managed to produce a respectable stand. But they managed to make me feel dirty and unworthy. Back to my lonely sessions. At. He told me to ask the bartender for him. Maybe this was a way for him to feel special? Did he slip the bartender a few extra bucks to point him out? Maybe he frequents here enough that he is known by name? The familiar smell and sights of the interior greet my eyes as they strained to adjust to the dimness. I glanced around and see no one inside that resembles Paulie from his profile. FUCK, this guy is messing with me, he better not be some fat fuck slob with no life. More importantly than that, she better be his real wife. I walk to the bar and order a beer, ask the barkeep when he delivers my frosty pint of goodness if he can let Paulie know that Stan (fake name) was here. The menacing man who had just brought me my lifeblood told me $7 and then picked up a phone. I laid a ten spot on the bar and sipped the head off of the beer. The rather odd large man pointed towards a door in the back and then said the beer was free. I left the $10 where it laid and took another.
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