top of page

Penthouse Senior Forum

Updated: Oct 19, 2023

Dear Penthouse,

I know this sounds like I’m out of my oversexed, 72-year-old tree. But I swear, there is not a word of a lie in what I am about to tell you. Except maybe the part about my 10-inch* throbbing man meat. It’s closer to 14 inches** if I arch my back while saying three Hail Marys and promising to sin no more.

(* Also, just as a word of warning, beware those pointy hooks at the ends of tape measures. Those buggers are lethal.)

(** Oh, wait. This is in millimetres.)

So anyway, I was at the airport, fulfilling my part-time duties as a rarely noticed but generally affable security guard.

I had just finished my egg salad sandwiches (like to throw in the occasional dill pickle to keep things fresh) when an attractive old doll happened to catch my involuntarily roving good eye. (I used to freak out the neighbourhood kids by using the glass one as a shooter while playing marbles, but that’s a whole nother story.)

I was seized with a burning, burning, burning desire to approach the saucy minx but couldn’t think of a plausible reason for sidling up to her. Sweet mother of Jesus! Fate intervened on my side for once when she spotted my uniform, brightened and approached.

Lord Almighty, feel my temperature rising! Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love.

“Can you tell me how to get to Gate 69?” she asked (I can still see that sickly, mottled, white tongue quivering if I close my good eye and squint on the marble). Like the song says, I could see that girl was no good for me.

But I was lost like a slave that no man could free.

My temptress had a luxurious blond wig that danced on her sloping shoulders whenever she would slowly and painfully turn her head, putting the erotic in sclerotic, and a set of million-dollar legs up to here you could have used to crack a walnut. In fact, as I was later to discover, that was her favourite form of exercise after she broke the Thigh-Master.

Chowing down my pickle and summoning my courage, I awkwardly introduced myself. Asked her if she was a parking ticket “because you’ve got fine written all over you.”

She purred in a husky voice: “I can see from your name tag what your name is, Earl. It’s routinely used on TV shows and in the comics to depict hayseeds and village idiots. Kind of a turn-on.”

As l giggled idiotically, a morsel of dill and green onion flew out of my mouth and landed on her more than ample landing lights. My God, I thought. It’s a good thing I renewed my library card because I am totally checking her out.

“Susan,” she said, extending a heavily ringed left hand to break a pregnant silence. Her grip was cold and clammy. And I was gone, gone, gone, I’ve been gone so long. Head over heels and ass over teakettle, only this time in a good way.

“Good thing I have training in CPR,” I said, “because you are taking my breath away. Stand back. I might have to intubate myself.”

She asked what I do in my spare time and pretended to be intrigued by my bottle cap collection, but the whole time I noticed her monocle lingering in the direction of my throbbing prime member. Then I noticed that I’d spilled mayonnaise on my polyester slacks and that the pager in my pocket was frantically buzzing. Something about a psychotic lunatic in the Alaska Airlines lineup threatening fellow passengers with a semi-automatic something or other.

Sensing that it was time to make my move and that little Suzie was turned on, I turned off the pager.

I paid her the ultimate compliment a man can give a woman of a certain age, if you know what I mean, wink wink, say no more, and could tell by the way she had to sit down because of a sudden attack of sciatica that she was totally into it.

“That’s quite the carry-on you’re carrying, little lady,” I found myself saying, suave as all hell. I don’t know where I found the words because I’m usually tongue-tied among beautiful gals, but I could tell right away that this time, at long last, I’d hit the sweet spot and struck the motherlode.


In like Flynn.

I left the guard uniform in my locker. More rumpled than according to my usual custom, but time was of the essence as her flight was boarding. Screaming people were abandoning their luggage and running for the exit doors as I headed up the escalator. It sounded like someone was setting off fireworks. Wonder what that was all about.

We held glands all the way to Scranton until she fell asleep and started to drool Club Soda and erotic oils. Talk about the Mile High Club!

I pushed her head toward the window and she woke to a wondrous view of tawny stubble streaked with snow as the flight descended at Wilkes-Barr International.

Our Lyft driver turned out to be the guy who played McLovin in Superbad; this SAG-AFTRA strike is worse than we knew. By the time we got to the nearest Super 8, I didn’t know whether I was sucking or blowing. Turned out I was just climbing the stairs to the second floor.

One shoe on and one shoe off, I sprawled seductively on the vibra-bed in my Stanfield tighty whities (bonus tip: they’re cheaper if you buy a three-pack) as Run Around Sue went into the bathroom to “slip into something more comfortable.” Closed my eyes for just a moment. What a day it had been, with the best yet to come.


Don’t know how long I was out, but in the morning I discovered my watch, wallet, and, in the cruellest blow of all, my badge and embossed name tag were missing.


The handcuffs weren’t that hard to get out of. After all, I’m a security guard.

There were twin sets of dentures in the drinking glasses that came with the room. Only one was mine so at least I have a precious souvenir. (And by the way, Mr. Bob Guccione, if you have a shred of decency left, you won’t publish those Polaroid One Step snapshots.)

The note on the dresser read: “I have slept with men all over the world and can state without hesitation that you are the worst lover I have ever had. As the Chicks sing so aptly, Goodbye Earl.”

Lover! The word echoes in the back roads by the rivers of my memory that keeps her ever gentle on my mind.

It was the best night of my life.

Earl Fowler (people do sign their real names to these letters, right?)

Climax, Sask.





66 views2 comments

2 Comments


Speak for yourself. I’m at WWW.

Like
Replying to

Put your teeth in. You're mumbling again.

Like
bottom of page