Older...

You know by now that most writers have more than one tale on the go. Since I finished Wynne's Surprise last week, a mature lady just drive by interrupted my self satisfaction with a, "Get me a bloke! It's like the Sahara down there!"
What do you do with that, except start writing? Carole, my darling, dearest, horniest heroine I know. Carole's in her early sixties, has three children, two grandchildren, an ex-husband, her own home and has taken early retirement. She's the embodiment of a woman I know and absolutely adore, and that means this story is me trying to give her everything she deserves, which includes watering the desert. Sorry. Had to. There's one serious, no nonsense, man's man for the job - Aneurin Agnarsson. Sixty-five and more than alive. Big, bearded, buff. I would. I mean, I think about Santa Claus these days, not for presents, but what I can give him. I need help, I know this.
We all have our age comfort zones, and either side of my own is always cause for a little apprehension. This time around I don't even care. Because Carole doesn't give a monkeys. Surgical scars, troublesome family members, not enough coconut oil to tame her hair... She ain't bothered. Hot Muse Hank's eyebrows are right at his hairline. Yesterday, I was bashing away at the laptop, and Hank tried to interrupt me. "Isn't a bit soon for all of that? That's... Yeah, that's a lot."
I told him, nah. Carole's getting laaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyd!
And she will continue to do so, on the damn regular - if everyone stays out of her business. Except Aneurin. That's all his.
Age ain't nothin' but a number! Coz these old folks, they are dirty. Dirty.