2016.101-09005 I need a job! (ver.1)
@23.0724-9999.30 Atx
Dear Marla,
I had to pee. *Really* bad.
From the bus window, I spotted the library coming up on the left. They'd have a public bathroom. And maybe—just maybe—a job for me.
It had been almost a year since Frank kicked me out. Like my previous partners, once he understood the depth of my rubber fetish, it disgusted him. (Yeah. His words.) My life had crashed since then. Worse yet, it's one thing if you're young and beautiful and can rebuild. But I'm old. I'm tired. My bones hurt. What was I going to do?
Things were so bad I didn't even have a cellphone anymore. I was officially "homeless." My life went from zooming around upper-crust suburbs in a shiny, ticket-me-red Ford Mustang convertible to riding city buses looking for crappy jobs that probably didn't exist anyway.
Fuck Frank.
It was only mid-morning and I was already warming up. The latex panties under my jeans were beginning to sweat. In a moment of fanciful fantasy that morning, I'd worn them "for luck." Every movement—walking, kneeling, shifting—created additional erotic sensations, injecting constant fetish energy into everything I did. Even job hunting.
"Could I see the manager, please? I'd like to apply for a job."
Nope. Not hiring.
"Why don't you check the want-ads?" the manager suggested. "We have current newspapers in our periodical section. Maybe you'll find something there."
I spent nearly an hour pouring through pages of help-wanted ads. Most were for high-skill jobs: software engineers, truck drivers, customer service. I'd been out of the workforce so long I had little to offer. Besides, who was going to hire an old broad like me with no employable skills, saggy tits, and definitely not one of the "beautiful people"?
I'd just about given up when I noticed a small ad in a penny saver:
DOMESTIC ASSISTANT wanted by elderly couple. Light housekeeping, etc. Live-in required. Very isolated location. Includes modest salary, clothing allowance, room and board. Start immediately. Call 555-1212
Here was something I could do! I'd taken care of homes for three ex-husbands and Frank most of my life. I cooked well and managed household budgets.
The library let me use their phone. The man who answered explained that he and his wife were retired and needed someone to care for their coastal home, an hour west of the library. He was a published writer who also ran a small online software business. She dabbled in handcrafts and writing. They needed someone to cook, clean, do laundry. When I mentioned my age, he stressed this would be very light duty—just a few hours daily.
James repeatedly emphasized the house's isolation and minimal contact with others. "On a scale of 1-10, where 1 is extreme introversion and 10 is extreme extroversion, where would you place yourself most of the time?"
He explained that extroverts recharge through social interaction, while introverts are de-energized by social contact and are revitalized by solitude.
"Oh, I'm probably a one or two," I replied. "I spend most of my time alone and prefer it that way."
"Good, because *one of our main rules is no visitors*. We like being alone too."
Apparently I passed that test. He said he'd come interview me at the library in an hour.
++PIC - Tx in ch
I must have read half a dozen magazines cover to cover before an older man walked through the library door, obviously looking for someone. Silver-gray hair in a ponytail, jeans, faded rock band t-shirt. Late 60s or early 70s, I guessed. For an older man, he was gorgeous—reminded me of Sean Connery in *Medicine Man*.
"Thalia?"
"Yes, I'm Thalia Koster." We shook hands.
"Hi, I'm James Hahn."
We exchanged small talk—weather, the library, the usual first-meeting pleasantries. He seemed bright and intelligent, with a soft, quiet magnetism. I liked him immediately. As we grew comfortable, our conversation turned serious, drifting toward the job.
James and his wheelchair-bound wife lived in his generational family home on the coast, about an hour from Thorpton. (Thorpton's my home city—40 miles inland from the Pacific Coast, population almost a million, rains constantly.) James was caretaker of his family's forest farm, about 5 miles inland from the coastline.
His wife Lorraine had been wheelchair-bound since an auto accident a decade ago. He was reaching the age where he needed help with her and the house.
"In a way," James said, "you could think of Lorraine and me as *secular* monastics. We live a quiet, sequestered life pursuing what the Greeks called 'ataraxia'—the deep peace that comes from becoming fully self-actualized. I mostly write space opera novels but dabble in philosophy and photography. I also run a little software store online. When I was younger, I spent more time in my basement machine shop. Lorraine does some writing—psycho-drama—but focuses mainly on handcrafts. She makes leather and jewelry items and sells them online. These activities give us purpose and direction in the Winter of Our Lives. They get us out of bed each morning and give us excellence to pursue."
He paused.
"They give us a reason to live. We're too old for baby-making, so having some other mountain to climb matters, even if others see it as inconsequential or stupid. If it's important to you, that's all that matters."
Oh! This guy is deep!
"Writing works for both of us because, as long as we can type, we can share our dreams. In attempting to write a book—or even a sonnet—Purpose is immediately engaged."
He paused, then asked, "Do you have any creative aspirations or activities to help you stay sane living in the middle of nowhere? It's really important you have something to lose yourself in. Make the isolation work *for* your dreams rather than against them."
Without thinking, I blurted that I did some writing but never thought of it that way.
"That's great. You'll need something to do." He seemed satisfied with my answer.
"Our driveway is almost a mile long with nasty muddy spots. After rain, some puddles we need a four-wheel drive truck to negotiate the drive. Henry has to bulldoze it a few times a year. It's one reason we don't have many visitors."
"Who's Henry?"
"My nephew. Lives alone on the property in the old guest house. You might call him the groundskeeper. He's twenty years younger than us, so he handles the heavier work—maintaining the driveway, moving stuff around and other demanding chores. He comes over for dinner a few nights weekly, so factor that into your meal planning. He's quiet and reserved, but you'll like him once you know him."
He continued, "Something happened during the Iraq war. He was captured and tortured. Came home broken. Now he's very uncomfortable with people he doesn't know, so he keeps to himself."
"Is he okay now? He's single?" I asked. "As a female, do I need to worry?"
"No, I don't think so. For one thing, he doesn't seem interested in girls... or men. We suspect the Iraqis may have effectively neutered him. Mostly he's just quiet. Doesn't talk much. If you ask a question, he'll try for a one-word answer. Takes getting used to, but overall he's a nice guy. Intelligent, broadly educated, does some writing. Has a Master's in something related to animal health. His house is always overrun with rescued cats, dogs, and other animals."
"If he likes animals, he sounds nice."
"I think you'll like him once he warms up to you."
We headed to his truck. The parking lot was full, so we walked a ways. Despite the cool temperature, I sweated heavily in the latex panties. With each step, "Tom" and "Dick"—tucked warmly in my lower holes—tickled my mind, coloring everything with subtle sex-energy magic. They rarely brought me to orgasm, but there were exceptions, often at inconvenient times and places. That was part of the fun.
By the time we reached the truck, my two intruders nearly pushed me over the edge. Climbing into the truck finished the job—I came hard and fast. Fortunately, Mr. Hahn was still outside rearranging something in the truck bed and didn't see.
Marla, I occasionally enjoy getting myself into potentially embarrassing situations like that. I don't know why. Also remember: I'm an older woman, not a twenty-something babe. Imagine having lunch in a restaurant, watching me—this older woman across from you—try concealing an orgasm while you ate your tuna sandwich!
I didn't have to think much about it. Well, there was the brief moment of doubt: would I trust this unknown man enough to live with him and his wife, way out in the middle of nowhere? Should I even get into his trucK?
If I were 30 years younger, red caution flares would be firing in my head. This is how you wind up a sex slave or worse.
But you know what? I'm NOT 30 years younger! I'm just an old hag. I was never particularly pretty to start with, and time's ravages made me less so. What did I have to lose?
Besides, I really needed the job.
We started driving toward the coast.
"Let me explain what I'm looking for, Thalia. Lorraine and I both write long-winded novels. She also does crafts. Much of the time, our worlds are the characters, plots, and settings in our heads. It requires concentration and freedom from distractions to build momentum that lets words spew onto the screen. I simply want someone to tend domestic stuff so I don't have to. Same for Lorraine." He glanced at me briefly. "I assure you, we're gentle people. No sexual implications or expectations whatsoever. Our social life is virtually nonexistent—no parties, no guests. We're just looking for someone to care for our home as if it were their own. This is all business."
He continued, "That's not to say we won't develop some friendship or companionship. You're invited to dine at our table for all meals if you want. You may join us socially in the evenings after dinner if you like. We'd enjoy your company, though it's not required. During the day you'll be on your own. That's when Lorraine and I live in our respective novel worlds and only return to reality for meals. You won't see much of us then."
"What do you do in the evenings?"
"We're usually fatigued from writing, so we like mindless activities—TV, or if there's daylight, walks in the woods."
I had to ask: "Mr. Hahn, how should I address you?"
"Oh, I hadn't thought about that. This will be unusual because of the Hahnestery's isolation."
"Hahnestery?"
He stroked his chin. "Years ago someone remarked how the Hahn residence was like a 'monastery' because of its isolation. 'The Hahn Monastery' became... 'the Hahnestery.' The name stuck. In a sense, those who live there become 'monastics.' The word derives from 'mono'—meaning 'one.' A monastic focuses on a *single* centrally unifying principle. It has nothing to do with religion or even isolation. It's about *trying to* focus on one particular thing, like a personal mantra. Doesn't matter what or how. It simply needs to be your primary passion. There's even a book called something like *How to Be a Monastic and Keep Your Day Job*. In my case, it's writing. As much as possible, that's my primary focus. Lorraine's interests are more diverse. You'll see why once we get there."
He continued, "You'll have lots of free time with no one to share it with. You'll be your own mono. Solo. Hopefully you have some hobby or activity to consume your passions and time?"
It was a probing question.
"Mr. Hahn, I like solo. I prefer it. I'm an avid reader and do a little writing, which could be developed. Also, I'm no expert, but I can spot bad spelling and grammar fairly well. Perhaps you or Lorraine could use an extra set of eyes proofreading rough drafts."
"Hmmm. That's possible. During the day, when you're on duty, address us as Mr. or Mrs. Hahn. That'll signify 'business mode.' When you're on duty, you're 'The Housekeeper' and we're your employers. Strictly business. You'll be on duty 8am to 6pm Monday through Saturday. Don't worry—'on duty' simply means you're available to work. It doesn't mean you'll actually *be* working all the time. Honestly, I think you might only work 2-4 hours daily. Besides, it's just Lorry and me. We don't generate mountains of laundry or mess up the house much. *Your mandate is simply to 'keep' our house as if it were your own.* This is salaried. You'll pretty much be your own boss, managing your own time. Lorry or I may have occasional special projects, but most of the time we'd prefer to be left alone while you keep the house."
His expression softened. "But at meals and any other time, we're just James and Lorraine. Don't get hung up on any of this, though. Neither Lorraine nor I care much about formal relationships, so don't lose sleep over it. This is sort of an experiment. Let's see how things evolve."
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