Quickie 3: Fingers
Mr. Fingers was always sticky and he usually smelled a little musky. His caretakers that it had something to do with his cologne, but didn’t dare ask. The man paid them more than they ever imagined making for simply giving him sponge baths. Upsetting him didn’t seem like the smart thing to do.
Still, they were all very tired of his antics. So many times they found him inside of dark, moist places. He hid there, hours on end, waiting for his ladies to pull him out. And, when they finally did, he was dripping wet, bald head shining in the florescent lights.
“Mr. Fingers,” they would scold him, “you can’t go in any old hole like that. You’ll get sick.”
He would look up at them, bull-dogged face pouting. His drooping eyes seemed to shimmer in the bright light of the hall.
“Yes, ma’am,” he would respond, completely rejected.
Of course, the old man perked right up as one of his girls led him to the jacuzzi tub. He would grab her rear-end with a grip worthy of a man fifty years younger.
“We have to do something about him!” one of his ladies growled.
Exasperated, she flopped down into the plushy pink couch of the staff’s common room. The other girls nodded to her in unison.
“Yeah,” another piped up, “I have a bruise on my ass the size of baseball.”
One girl laughed, “It’ll match the one on my tit.”
The first girl sighed heavily, “I don’t know why we put up with this shit. I know he’s giving us enough money to pay off a house on our own, but that doesn’t excuse his behavior.”
That’s when Madison, Mr. Finger’s executive chef, and the most wonderfully, flaming gay man any of them had ever known, came into the room with a tray of bagels.
“What you girls need to do is introduce him to a playmate.”
It seemed like a novel idea. As they grabbed bagels, each of them looked around at the other, silently asking if that seemed like a good idea. When they came to an agreement over it, they smiled.
“Ok,” the second girl chirped, “that really sounds smart. I don’t think any of us know an old woman that would be a good match. Do you happen to know anyone?”
He flashed them his usual charming grin as he passed the nearest girl a card.
“Give this lady a call. She’s my great aunt. I think she can give that old nasty man a run for her money.” He took his own bagel and bit into is. “I’d call her myself, but she won’t answer my calls.”
He sashayed out of the room, nonchalantly. The women gathered around the card, looked over it as it were a valuable prize. They nodded to each other. One took the phone into her hands and began to dial.
The next day, an old woman appeared at the door. A small thing with red lipsticks and red nails and the biggest hair anyone had seen since the 80s. She helped herself in with out much of an invite. The girls had to smile at her brazen assessment of the mansion’s foyer.
“Kind of kitschy, but it will do.”
Old man Fingers came down the stairs, naked but robed. Only barely, of course. He stood before the old woman with his hands on his hips.
“Well, who is this old bag of bones?” he asked, snarling.
The were late for his bath. That always made Fingers angry.
The old woman sauntered forward in a way that reminded everyone of Madison. She reached into his robe, trailing on long, bright, red finger down his chest. She continued on her bath until she reached between his legs. Mr. Fingers’ face turned bright, but a wicked smile tweaked his lips.
“Mr. Fingers,” one of his ladies said, “I would like to introduce you to someone I think you’ll enjoy very much. This is Ms. Box.”