The Big Bang! Theory - A fourth--and final--short, erotic encounter of the Judy Banger kind

by Debra Salonen

  Judy and Wiley exchanged a grin. Actually, the wedding was all show for their family and friends and society at large. They'd eloped three days after Wiley proposed. A simple exchanging of heartfelt vows before the judge who mentored Wiley in his early years on the bench. "We should tell her," Wiley whispered after Pru drifted away.

  "We can't. It would break her heart. Pru needs the drama to feel included. In the past, she was the one who led the jet-set life. Now, she's going to work fulltime for Fletcher while I'm off on my honeymoon. I have to give her the wedding. Consider it a reverse gift."

  Wiley shrugged. "If you say so. And Fletcher? We're not telling him because..."

  "You promised he'd be there with us when we married. He's your best man. You should hear him talking about the bachelor party he's going to throw. I don't want to disappoint him."

  Wiley helped her to turn around so he could unzip the dress. His lips plundered her neckline, trailing down her spine. "You know, you're killing me, right?" he asked. His warm whisper made her melt against him. "It's taking every bit of willpower I have not to close the door and make love to you right here."

  She rubbed her tushie against his erection. "Normally, I'd say bring it on, big boy, but getting caught with your pants down... in a wedding boutique...doesn't sound like the best way to end your legal career." She spun around and looped her arms across his shoulders. "Two more weeks and you'll be free."

  "Two more weeks and we'll be married--in public."

  "Two more weeks and Wiley Canby and Judy Banger-Canby will be setting off on the journey of a lifetime."

  He smiled and kissed her. "I can't wait. Oh," he added, "I almost forgot. The bike shop called. Our wedding presents from Fletcher and Lewis are in."

  Judy gave a fist pump and shouted, "Yeah! I can't wait to test out that custom, plush-bottom seat." She hung up the dress and pulled on her blouse. "I'll send Pru back for this. I think it's perfect, don't you?"

  He nodded--his mind obviously on other things. "Look what else Lew gave us." He held up a little chain with a bosomy blond pin-up girl dangling from a key ring.

  "Betty Grable," Judy cried snatching it to her heart. "I love it. Now, we'll have a little piece of Buddy Fusco memorabilia with us wherever we go." She looked at Wiley soberly. "You know, if not for Buddy, we might never have met."

  Wiley blanched. "Maybe we should put that key fob in our safe deposit box instead of attaching it to a bike lock."

  Judy laughed. "No way. Hanging on to stuff was never Buddy's style. He'd want us to look at Betty and smile every time we lock up our bikes. Having fun--and making love..." She reached down to cop a quick feel. "...were Buddy's two favorite pastimes."

  She knew Wiley didn't like to ruminate on the convoluted quirks of fate that played into their meeting. Judy didn't obsess about the past anymore, either. But she'd never forget her old friend, or the life lessons he taught her.

  Thank you, Buddy, Judy thought, tucking the garish little hunk of pot metal into a side pocket of her purse.

  She took Wiley's hand and followed him to the street where Pru stood waiting--or, rather, stood flirting with a twenty-something traffic cop. A friend of Fletcher's apparently.

  Judy tuned out the conversation, her thoughts still on Buddy.

  If not for Buddy's example, I might be sitting on my ass in my trailer watching Storage Wars with Pru at this very moment. "You gotta keep the juices flowing to avoid getting old and senile," Buddy used to say. Was his gentle nagging what made her start working out at the gym? Possibly. Certainly, his friendship and admiration helped her begin to think of herself as a sexual being again.

  Judy looked at her handsome, sexy husband and felt her heart swell with joy. She got lucky.

  She knew Wiley would say he was the lucky one in their relationship. He never expected to fall in love again. He didn't think he deserved a third shot at happiness. Silly man. Nobody deserved love more than Wiley Canby.

  And she intended to prove that to him for the rest of their lives--one orgasm at a time.

  ###

  OTHER books in the SCREW SENILITY series:

  Book I - Bang! You're Dead - a short, erotic encounter of the Judy Banger kind.

  Think: Ethel Mertz meets 50 Shades of Gray. Judy Banger is done apologizing for her name, her weight and her sexuality. She is sorry–really sorry–about Buddy Fusco–the dead guy in her bed.

  Excerpt:

  Judy Banger had one goal and one goal only: survive the humiliation of having sex with a man old enough to be her father. Or grandfather. Although she wasn’t sure that was possible since she was fifty-four and Buddy Fusco wasn’t exactly doddering. Quite the opposite, actually. Bud looked pretty good sitting on the foot of her bed, legs spread, wearing nothing but a shit-ass grin. With the help of the little blue pill he’d made a point of popping the moment he walked through the door of her double-wide, he was flag-pole stiff and, obviously, proud of it.

  “Hot damn, Judy, look at the size of this woody. Shit, I should have tried this stuff years ago.”

  Judy stared at his reflection in the mirror of her antique dressing table. Her bed was just a few feet away behind her but unlike a rear-view mirror, objects were not smaller. Not at all.

  She had to lick her lips before she could apply a coat of Flaming Coral lipstick. The salesgirl had assured her the color was, “Sexy mama hot.” She might have thought sexy grandma, but she’d been PC enough not to lose the sale.

  “You’re gorgeous, gorgeous. Come over here. Let’s play.”

  Gorgeous. When was the last time anyone called her pretty? She honestly couldn’t remember. Compliments had never been Shawn’s thing.

  She looked at her reflection and smiled. Despite the butterflies wreaking havoc with the coffee and cream cheese Danish Buddy had brought and insisted they share “…for endurance, baby cakes,” it felt good to dress for a man, to splurge on new perfume and lipstick. She liked the idea of feeling desirable. It had been too long.

  “Coming, Buddy. I want to look my best.” As she fluffed out her artfully frosted hair–her one big splurge, she caught his gaze in the mirror. The look of tenderness in his eyes made her remember: he’s a friend. This might turn out okay after all.

  “I love you, Judy. You know that, right?”

  She did. But she also knew what he truly meant. “I love the fact you’ll let me fuck you, even though I’m old and this could be the last time anybody lets me fuck them. Ever.”

  That had been her rationale for conceding to Buddy’s three-month long “seduction.” He’d taken her to a boatload of dinners, more lunches than her waistline could afford, plus, he’d paid to have her front porch fixed–and she wasn’t talking a boob job. The redwood steps and landing of her double-wide had just about rotted through when Buddy called a contractor friend of his to rip out the whole thing and build a brand new, extra wide porch with a handicap ramp. She’d vacillated about the ramp because it seemed to cry “one step closer to old age,” but, as Buddy pithily pointed out, “If I don’t have to exert the effort to climb your steps, I’ll have more energy for other things.” He meant sex, of course.

  I’m about to have sex with an octogenarian, she thought. I should be ashamed.

  She was. A little. But she also suffered from a deep abiding sense of fairness, and, dammit, Buddy had earned this booty call. And what the hell! Sex was good for you and she hadn’t done the dirty in a long time. Way too long. God, what if her body forgot how to play this game? Or, her juices had dried up like that uncovered can of fruit cocktail in her fridge?

  She glanced at the array of products on her dressing table. The tube in the pretty purple box promised more sizzle for her “big moment.” The damn thing cost twenty-five bucks. She’d better see freakin’ fireworks or back it went.

  “You’re sweet, Buddy. I like you, too.” A truthful rejoinder. She did love him…like a friend, as Pru would have said. Judy’s BFF, Prudence O’Riley–flame-haired, ninety-pounds dripping wet and one wea
lthy male consort away from earning her AMEX Gold Digger card–had even expressed a fleeting hint of interest in Buddy until “Mr. Platinum” showed up on the scene. “Did you check with your doctor about those pills like I asked?”

  “Sure, baby. Anything for you. Come on over here. Let’s get you naked.”

  Bang!

  ~~~

  Book II - In With a Bang! - a second, short, erotic encounter of the Judy Banger kind.

  "Pending an administrative review at work, Judy Banger has time on her hands and much, too much, on her mind. Is Buddy Fusco's son really going to sue her for his father's wrongful death? Is the hunky carpenter Judy hires to eradicate the bad juju in her bedroom really more interested in laying her than a new floor? Might the sweet young cop, Officer Candy, be persuaded to stall the autopsy until Judy has a chance to talk some sense into Lewis Fusco? The combination has all the makings of an X-rated episode of I Love Lucy. Judy Banger, you've got some 'splaining to do."

  Excerpt:

  "Facebook? Somebody wrote about me and Buddy on a social media site? That's disgusting. The poor man's only been dead forty-eight hours."

  Judy Banger sat on the floor of her bedroom, back to the wall, legs splayed in front of her as she stared at the bed where Buddy Fusco drew his final breath.

  "Frankly, I'm surprised there wasn't a photo," Pru replied after that awkward long, long distance pause. Prudence O'Riley--Judy's best friend--was cruising the Mediterranean with her current sugar daddy--or as Pru preferred, "My low-cal sweetener sweetie." "Everybody and his brother carries a cell phone with a mega-pixel camera. Yesterday, I saw a tourist take a picture of dog poo in the parking lot near the Acropolis. Fresh stuff, not classic Greek petrified poo."

  Judy owned a wannabe iPhone. She'd snapped a few shots but had yet to attempt downloading, sharing or any other technological challenges. As she told the Heritage House residents who attended her "Basic Computers for Basic Dummies" class, "I've yet to meet a computer that doesn't make me feel stupid. Which, of course, is my mother's job."

  "You can stay in my apartment until the bad juju passes," Pru offered. "I won't be home until Friday."

  "Thanks, but I've got Nester, the cook's helper at Heritage House, coming to haul away my bed. Knowing him, he'll probably turn around and sell it at a flea market."

  "Eiouw," Pru shrieked. "Sleeping in a dead man's bed. Yuck. Did his organs let go once he stopped breathing? Pee and you-know-what does not come out of bedding no matter how much bleach you use."

  Judy's already touchy stomach sent a shot of bile upward. She refused to ask how Pru came by this knowledge.

  "If you're buying a new bed, be sure to get a king. More room for sexual gymnastics."

  Right. Like that's ever going to be an issue. Once word got around, Judy figured her chances of getting laid would be on par with winning the lotto--unless you counted men over eighty with a death wish. Mature, healthy, "normal" men would run from Judy with the same degree of ardor they were drawn to Pru, red-haired will-'o-the-wisp, who embodied--and made up--the slogan: "Fifty is the new thirty-five."

  "I'm picturing a futon," Judy said, trying not to sound bitter. She'd loved the soft-yet-firm pillow-top she bought to replace the saggy, stained mattress she'd gotten as part of her divorce settlement. And for most of yesterday, she'd tried to convince herself Buddy's death couldn't have permanently tainted the mattress. But every time she approached the bed her heart would begin to palpitate and her hands would shake. If she closed her eyes, she'd see Buddy's cold, naked body sprawled in all its lifeless glory.

  Nester had agreed to take the sheets and bedspread, too.

  She worked her fingers into the nap of the ugly brown carpet she detested. "I'm also taking out the carpet to put in wood flooring. I might turn this room into a yoga studio or home gym."

  "OMG! That's so Judy," Pru cried with a laugh. "I can't wait to see it. Gotta run. Ciao."

  Ciao? Isn't that Italian?

  Judy rolled to one hip to pull her feet under her then stuck her phone in the hip pocket of her denim capris and stood. What was "so Judy" she wondered? Remodeling her house while on leave from work pending a "disciplinary review"? Or rethinking her entire life after a good friend's death?

  Purging the bed and carpet and changing the wall color seemed a cheap and reasonable alternative to slipping away in the night and joining the circus.

  Her mind made up she walked to the kitchen to call Buddy's contractor friend who re-built her deck a few months back. What was his name? Jed Something. She remembered how embarrassed she'd been when she looked at his business card and inanely joked, "So, your parents named you after your great-uncle on the Clampett side of the family, huh?" He'd faked a polite smile and nodded agreeably. She gave him props for his people skills, but he'd obviously missed her reference to The Beverly Hillbillies.

  "How old do you have to be to know Jed, Jethro, Elly Mae and Granny?" she muttered, scrounging through her junk drawer for a business card with gold lettering. One of the few benefits of being a packrat is she never threw out anything.

  "Ah," she exclaimed a few seconds later. "Jed Blassingame. Let's see if you're up for an estimate."

  She punched in the numbers and waited.

  "This is Jed. I must be working. Leave your name and number and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks."

  Nice voice. Husky and quite a bit sexier than she remembered. "Jed. This is Judy Banger over at the Mountainview Mobile Home Park." I must not be working since I'm calling you in the middle of the day. "You did a deck for me...well, um, for my friend, Buddy Fusco." Her throat tightened as it always did when Buddy's name came up. "Give me a call when you have a chance," she added with a Betty Boop squeak.

  Too late, she debated the wisdom of calling someone who knew Buddy. Either he'd heard about Buddy and blamed Judy, or he hadn't heard and she'd have to be the one to break the news.

  So far, Judy hadn't been impressed with people's outpouring of sympathy and condolences. True, Buddy wasn't her husband of x-number of years. But instead of "We're so sorry for your loss," she got: "What killed him? Heart attack? Stroke?"

  "It's usually one or the other when someone goes sudden like that," the driver of the Medi-van said when he bumped into Judy at Heritage House the day before. She'd been called into work to answer her employers' equally pointed questions.

  "Why was Buddy Fusco at your home, Judy?" Ron Carlson asked.

  Ron and Bev, the live-in managers of Heritage House, weren't newcomers to the geriatric care business. They'd "downsized" from a facility in Reno after Ron's gambling got out of hand.

  "More tea?" Bev offered.

  Judy had taken comfort in the fact they'd invited her to their apartment, which sat adjacent to Heritage House, instead of squaring off in their office. "Buddy and I started seeing each other outside of work a few months ago. Dinner. A movie or two. No big deal. I honestly didn't plan to take things to the next level, but I liked Buddy and well...he asked."

  And, as her fundamentalist family claimed, Judy didn't know the meaning of the word "no."

  "Fraternizing with residents is frowned on," Ron said.

  So is hoarding individual packets of butter and walking down the hall in your birthday suit, but both happened at this facility on a regular basis, Judy barely refrained from saying. "Buddy understood this would be one-time only." Literally. "If he were alive right now, we'd both be back to our normal routines." I wish with all my heart. "No harm, no foul."

  "Unfortunately, Buddy died in your presence, Judy, and as an employee of Heritage House--even off-duty and off-site--the rules of resident-employee interaction still apply," Ron told her.

  His wife added, "Since we're so close to the situation, we've asked Home Office H.R. to make a decision. You'll be on administrative leave until we get a ruling."

  Neither would speculate how long the decision-making process would take.

  So Judy had returned home to fume, fret, pace, cry--and sleep on her sofa
. Bad juju aside, she viewed the symbolic cleansing of space as a positive distraction. Anything to keep from dwelling on the fact the circumstances surrounding Buddy's death had impacted her life more than the actual loss of his life.

  Did that make her a ghoul...or worse?

  She clamped her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. Where to start? Take down the mini-blinds? Or prep for paint?

  A loud growling sound made her spin in a circle looking for her cat--until she remembered Homer Simpson--her rescue kitty of indiscriminate parentage--was outside.

  She sucked in her gut. Had she forgotten to eat breakfast? That was a first. She looked around the kitchen with no real urge to eat. Nothing sounded good. Especially not the can of tuna she'd set on the counter.

  Kelly, her fitness trainer, constantly nagged Judy to eat more protein.

  "I swallow a raw egg white every morning before I leave for the gym," Kelly claimed. "You should try it."

  "Well, foo. Why didn't you say so? I'd lose weight in a snap if I tried that," Judy had replied. "Because I'd throw up thirty seconds later."

  "Naw. It's tasteless and slippery. One gulp and it's gone."

  Just what the men who "accidentally" came in her mouth said, too--back in the day when she and Shawn were swinging. Whenever she'd complain to her ex about the "pre-shooters," as she labeled them, he'd shrug off her criticism. She vividly recalled their final argument on the matter.

  "Guys are different, Judy. We only have so much control. You should take it as a compliment. You turned him on so much he couldn't hold back. Get down on your knees. I'll show you."

  "Like hell I will. My mouth is a no cum zone."

  "Jeez, Judy, you act like I'm asking you to swallow hemlock."

  She'd crossed her arms and stared him down. "Cum...hemlock...same difference."

  Not surprising, he didn't put up a fuss when she asked for a divorce a few months later.

  Judy opened the fridge.