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Looking After Lorne

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*****

I knocked at the door for a second time and Lorne finally opened the door. What I faced was not a pretty sight for anyone who knew Lorne from the old days.

Lorne of old had always been a fit, vital, active man, always well-groomed, well-dressed and handsome, so it came as an extraordinary shock to see this spectre of the man. He stood at the door and stared at me with vacant eyes, lacking interest or recognition. A dirty housecoat hung open to show a soiled t-shirt and boxers. He was most shocking from the neck up. His dark brown hair had grown long and greasy and a thick, long, tangled and matted beard stood off his face like a bush. Both his hair and his beard were shot through now with threads of grey. His smell was rank and offensive.

I had tried calling Lorne several times over the past few years and particularly in the last few months, but he never answered and never replied to my messages. I e-mailed with an equal lack of response. His Facebook account was dormant. I have to admit that I started googling obituaries, wondering if my old school friend was still alive.

When I eventually called his sister, she explained that Lorne had experienced a breakdown after his second divorce. The wife had taken everything and Lorne didn’t lift a finger to stop her. He was saddled with enough marital debt to force his bankruptcy. All of his investments and savings were wiped out. He hit the bottle hard for a while and became more and more socially isolated. He lost his job of fifteen years and had now been unemployed for two years.

He had some kind of mental health breakdown for which he had been hospitalized and he was in the process of making a slow recovery. He was on several medications. He had drawn disability assistance and that was now his only source of income. Since social assistance paid far less than was possible to live on, his brothers and sisters chipped in to keep Lorne’s cupboard full and his lights on, but they were also busy people and most of them lived far away.

I offered to stop by and check on Lorne and his sister welcomed the news. Most of his friends had faded away as if they’d never been. I had to admit, I had not been around to see him either and I felt guilty. I only lived on the other side of the city; I might have visited sooner had I known the hardship he was enduring.

Lorne stared at me blankly for several seconds. I introduced myself to him several times. It would be an exaggeration to say there was a spark of recognition; those eyes held no spark. Rather, there was a kind of shift that registered on his face. He stood aside and let me in.

As I entered, I realized that my host was not all that smelled here. The apartment, a small bachelor affair, reeked. The strongest smells hung over the unwashed dishes soaking in weeks-old dishwater in the kitchen and the area around the bathroom toilet. I opened a window to help blow off the stink.

I decided to leave my shoes on. I followed Lorne’s zombie walk over to a small couch and chair servicing the small visiting area of the apartment. I tried to engage Lorne in conversation, but it was nearly impossible. He heard, but he was capable of only the simplest discussion; mostly, I asked questions and he answered “yes” or “no”. His sister had described his condition as one step above catatonia.

While I picked at his shell, I surveyed the apartment, nearly all of which was visible from this vantage point.

There were a few pots and pans soaking on the kitchen counter, but the double-sink overflowed with bowls and plates. Used cutlery lay scattered around the dirty pots and pans. The stove-top was filthy with food waste and the residue left when a pot boiled over. The kitchen floor looked sticky even from a distance. The sleeping area was a tip, with blankets on the floor and a tangle of sheets piled in the middle of the bed. Two wrinkled pillows looked like large, stamped out cigarette butts. The mattress was visible where the fitted sheet had been pulled off the corners. It was clear the bed had not been changed in weeks or months. The carpeted floor of the apartment living area was matted with hair and lint and buried under randomly-discarded dirty clothes. I hardly needed to inspect the washroom to know that it would be disgusting.

After a half-hour playing twenty questions with Lorne, I was played out. I had very little new information from him that the state of his apartment didn’t explain more eloquently. He was not managing on his own. I wondered how I could help.

I myself was recently divorced, though I had not suffered an ordeal like Lorne’s. In fact, my ex-wife and I were still friends, occasionally with benefits, and I was still on good terms with her family. We cut everything down the escort bahçelievler middle. My share of the proceeds from the sale of the marital home would be enough to put a sizeable down payment on the right place when I found it. I worked full-time but, having no full-time girlfriend or little children, my off-hours were my own. In fact, I was bored with all my spare time.

It occurred to me now that I could spend a little time helping my friend. Before I left that night, I rolled up my sleeves and washed all of the pots and pans, all the dishes and cutlery. I wiped down the stove-top and sanitized the counters. I polished the stainless-steel sinks until they gleamed. I found a long-ignored mop and pail and washed the floor three times; it was clean when I was done. When that was done, I checked the linen closet and found a clean set of sheets there. I took off the old bedding and made up the bed afresh. I dropped the pungent old bedding and pillow cases into a laundry basket I found by the bed. There was still room in the basket, so I collected all the abandoned socks, underwear, shirts and pants littering the apartment. I set the basket by the door. I would wash these items at my apartment building’s laundry room.

That was enough cleaning for one night, and it was no small improvement. The kitchen was clean enough to eat out of. I asked Lorne if he needed me to do anything else while I was there; he shook his head. I told him I would come back the next day if that was alright. He nodded yes.

I stayed up fairly late that night washing and folding Lorne’s clean clothes and thinking about my old friend. We had known each other since high school, where he had been a grade ahead of me. We took several classes together, including physical education. Lorne taught me about the birds and the bees when my parents refused me ‘the talk’. Later, we golfed together and went to car shows. We even went on a Caribbean cruise together when my ex and his first wife were friends. Was my life-loving old friend still alive in that shell of a man I met earlier that evening?

The next day, after work, I went straight to Lorne’s, lugging a laundry basket full of clean clothes and bedding under one arm and my vacuum cleaner in the other. It was just as hard to get him to acknowledge me this time as the last. He let me in and I was quickly reminded of the limitations on his conversational abilities. I decided to talk to him as if he was the way he had always been, filling his ears with everyday talk about the news, the weather, sports, entertainment and work. I thought it might do some good in drawing him out.

I checked the kitchen and found nothing in the sink but a water glass. I asked Lorne if he had eaten that day. After a long pause, he told me “no.” I sighed and checked his pantry and freezer. The freezer was nearly empty, so I looked in the fridge. There was nothing edible within and much that was rotting. I realized the fridge needed to be cleared out, power-cleaned and restocked. There was canned soup in the pantry, so I heated it up and served it with some slightly stale salted crackers. He seemed satisfied. I remember making a mental note to call Lorne’s sister to let her know that he was almost out of food. She had mentioned they usually got him some groceries every second week or so. He was clearly due.

Lorne resumed his place on the couch and moved his feet while I vacuumed the floor in front of him. Along with my other improvements, vacuuming really made the apartment start to look like a kind of home. Lorne watched me continue to labour on his behalf.

Once I washed his dinner dishes and put them away, I tackled the bathroom. I began by sanitizing the toilet inside and out. The mop and bucket came in handy taking layers off the bathroom floor. I scrubbed out the disgusting sink and the filthy tub. I wiped the mirror clean. After an hour or so of steady labour, the room was clean.

The next night was spent in cleaning out all the spoiled food in his refrigerator and emptying the overflowing garbage can.

By the following evening, there were still touch-ups needed to get the apartment gold-standard clean. There was dusting to do and the windows needed washing. Pictures on the wall needed straightening. These were smaller jobs and of less importance. I had been prioritizing up to now. Two out of three of the apartment’s dirtiest, smelliest areas had been cleaned. Lorne was the next priority. I had been putting off his clean-up in hope that he might show some initiative, but that was clearly beyond his current abilities.

We went into the bathroom and I stood him in the bathtub. He had wireless hair clippers and by luck they were completely charged; perhaps someone in the family had recently planned to escort balgat do this job, but they never got around to it. It took fifteen minutes to cut through the thick wavy hair, but I was soon looking at a man with a short buzz cut. Another ten minutes passed and his beard was neat and trim. I used a broom and dust pan to pick up the cut hair before depositing it in the garbage.

Lorne was still standing in the tub, so I told him to take off his clothes for his shower. Lorne let the open housecoat fall off his shoulders. I helped him off with his t-shirt and was offended by the ripeness of him. He pulled down his boxers and stepped out of them. I reached in and pulled the clothes out of the tub.

“Alright, jock. Hit the showers.”

I deliberately channelled our old high school coach in the hope of invoking a common memory. I twisted the dial to turn the water on, taking care that the setting should neither be too hot nor too cold. When the temperature felt right, I pointed the naked man toward the running water. He looked at me dimly, as if he was trying to remember what he was supposed to be doing.

Lorne was standing against the streaming water, but no coaxing would convince him to soap up the fresh washcloth and scrub himself clean. He just stood there immobile under the spray.

I sighed. There was only one thing for it. I unbuttoned my shirt and started my own pile of discarded clothes. Soon my pants, socks and underwear were on that pile. I was a little bashful as I joined my old friend in the shower. I noticed my cock had shriveled up like a baby carrot. But why should I be nervous? Lorne and I had showered together in the high school locker room and later in poolside change rooms. We had seen each other naked dozens of times. I relaxed and unclenched somewhat.

I was standing behind Lorne, so I turned him to face me. I drowned his greasy fresh-cut hair and beard in shampoo. I scrubbed them until they were clean. He made a child-like sound as some of the shampoo ran into his eyes. We sorted that out as we rinsed his hair.

Then I reached over to the soap dish niche and grabbed the soap and a washcloth. I turned Lorne around to face the spray so I could wash his back. I rubbed the soap deep into his back with my hands. I felt awkward when it came to washing another man’s ass, but I managed, even parting his cheeks to give his butt-hole a light rub.

When that was done, I turned Lorne around to face me. Perhaps the water had revived him a little; there was a little more light in his eyes than usual. I lifted his arms one at a time, correcting each of those reeking armpits with spring freshness. I rubbed the lathered washcloth into his hairy chest and down his torso.

To continue working my way down the front of his body, I had to bend or kneel, and with my chronic back pain, kneeling was the better option. I found myself eye-to-eye with his penis. I replenished the soap on the cloth, and began to rub suds in his pubic hair. I noticed a slight twitch in his dick, and when I looked up, Lorne was focused on my face. I wrapped the cloth around the shaft of his cock and began to lather the organ up before I realized that I was effectively jacking my old friend off. Even as I processed this, I continued pumping him and before I could contemplate stopping, Lorne let out a deep groan. His cock twisted in my hand as spurt after spurt of hot cum splattered against my face and hair.

I was in a slight state of shock, but I acted on auto-pilot. I rinsed out the cloth, reapplied soap and washed off his cock and balls. Then I lathered up his legs and washed his feet. All that remained was to thoroughly rinse the soap off my friend.

That done, I stood up and washed my hair and face and anywhere his cum landed on me. As I was rinsing out my hair, I had my back to the shower, facing Lorne. My eyes were closed until I felt a pleasant pressure enclose my cock. I opened my eyes to see that Lorne was kneeling before me, leaning in to take my cock in his mouth.

That warm sleeve sucked almost the full length of my dick. He rocked back and forth on his knees as he went to town on me. The pleasure, especially after so long a sexual drought, was indescribable. Lorne hummed deep in his throat and his tongue vibrated on my shaft. He worked me with technique, using both his hand and his mouth to pleasure me.

In the matter of about five minutes, while my attention was divided between questioning my sexuality and enduring the fierce pleasure he inflicted on me, I came hard, blasting spurt after spurt of cum down his waiting throat. He continued to jack me as he looked into my eyes. He opened his mouth and showed me my own jism settled on his tongue and in the back of his throat. Then he swallowed and I groaned, escort batıkent feeling almost like I could come again. I had to take his hand off my dick before the overstimulation drove me mad.

A few minutes later, we were out of the shower. I dried him off first and walked him out of the bathroom. He walked straight to his bed. Once more he looked at me with a gleam of life in his eye. There was a hunger there now that wasn’t there before.

For life or… for me?

Lorne raised his arms and put them on my shoulders, pressing my naked body down onto the bed, face down. Lying on my belly, I was curious what he was doing until I felt his weight compress the mattress. He placed his hands on my thighs and gently pulled them apart. An instant later, he was kneeling between my legs. I discovered his cock was hard again as it pressed into the crack of my ass. A moan escaped me, followed by a cry of pain as that hard organ slowly but inexorably penetrated my asshole.

Despite the pain, I didn’t try to fight him off or resist his advances. In truth, I was too curious about this whole experience to give it up at the first sign of discomfort. Still, the pain increased as the head of his penis passed my anal sphincter and moved into my bowel. When he was balls deep in my arse, he began to rotate his hips, which had the effect of widening and massaging my passage. The pain faded away and a tingling warmth of pleasure replaced it. I began to shove back in time to his thrusts, meeting him push-for-push.

Middle-aged men both of us, we were both out of shape and quickly winded by our exertions, but we persisted in the pursuit of this strange, new passion. He moaned, groaned and gasped as we continued to accelerate our efforts. Lorne flexed his hips against my backside faster and faster. My cock oozed preseminal fluid over the clean sheets. As he continued to ram my ass, I felt myself in a heightened state of excitement and I could tell Lorne felt it too.

“Fuck me, Lorne,” I said between breaths, surprised at my directness. “You feel so good in my ass.”

Lorne didn’t answer and he didn’t let up on fucking my ass. His pace couldn’t hold much longer and I knew he was going to come soon. To my surprise, since I had never before had gay sex, I felt close to coming myself. I felt great pleasure in my ass, presumably because Lorne’s cock was massaging my prostate gland. I had heard that the male g-spot was up the ass, and now I knew it was true. He sawed in and out of me, long-dicking me.

The pace could not be sustained and had to reach a conclusion. I was the first to cave to pleasure. I threw back my head and cried out in pleasure as my throbbing cock, untouched as it was, spasmed violently and erupted its hot semen all over the clean sheets. I felt the contractions in my ass that propelled my load, and I realized that Lorne would feel those ripples in my backside. It was Lorne’s turn to groan and he buried his cock to the hilt inside me. I felt it pulse and jerk inside me before a hot liquid sprayed the inside of my guts.

When we were finished, Lorne collapsed on me. He was still inside me, but he soon softened and my ass muscles expelled the invading flesh. He lay over me with his full weight, exhausted and utterly relaxed. I felt much the same. Lorne was like a weighted, heated blanket and I lazed under him. Our sweating skins stuck together. Lorne’s head was near my ear and for a moment I thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t. He stretched his neck so that his lips could reach mine; I kissed him back awkwardly over my shoulder.

The next thing I remember, we were lying side-by-side in his bed. I had fallen asleep. When I looked at Lorne, he was awake and laying face-up, staring at the ceiling. I was sure there was more life in those eyes than there had been before his shower.

“Lorne, are you alright?”

I was surprised when he answered. “Never better.”

“That sounds like the guy I know.” If he was the Lorne I knew from the old days, he might have been troubled over our liaison, but if so, he gave no sign. I, for one, regretted nothing.

Over the next few weeks, we continued to have regular sex, and it seemed that each time we did, a little more of him seemed to come back from that faraway place he’d been lost in. My daily checks showed his remarkable progress. One day, I came in to find him making a supper more complicated than canned pasta. Another day, he was doing dishes. A few days after that, he was actually cleaning and taking out the trash. These sound like small achievements, but they were beyond Lorne’s capabilities just days before. I don’t know if our companionship and lovemaking alone was responsible for his rehabilitation, but it certainly seems to have made a difference. I would argue that he has awakened me to just as great an extent.

As time went on, Lorne continued to improve and our old friendship evolved into a new stage of its evolution. We are lovers. I don’t know where it will lead or if it will last, but for the time being, I look after Lorne and Lorne looks after me.

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