Halloween is a great excuse for being mischievous and having a bit of fun. And as we do believe that even grown-ups need a treat from time to time, here is a special gift from the American erotica writer and late bloomer Stella Fosse to all of our Crunchy ladies. It could be a great way to spice up your after-dinner party with your partner but you can also consider it as a little secret to keep for yourself. Just enjoy it!
She was a happy grandmother, slightly old-fashioned, the sort who bakes cookies at Christmas and helps the children make Valentines. Every October Nora led her grandsons around the neighborhood and hovered while they collected treats from the neighbors. Then she walked them home, where her son and his wife waited by the door, passing out treats of their own.
On this Halloween, Nora felt a bit risqué, and on a whim, fastened a small pumpkin under the skirt of her witch costume.
“What exactly are you, Mom?” her son Arnold asked, glancing away from the bulge under her gown, while Mike the Robot and Greg the Lizard bounced on the front porch, ready to run.
“I’m a pregnant witch,” said Nora, proudly.
“Aren’t you too old for that?”
“Yes,” she said, “and that is why it’s funny.”
Not to Arnold, apparently, but he dropped it. And off went Nora and grandsons to hunt chocolate by moonlight.
“Back by eight!” she called over her shoulder.
“Seven-thirty!” Arnold called back.
“Right!” she said.
The streets were lit like magic, and the boys became who they were, Mike grinding his gears and Greg growling a lizard-like growl. It was a merry night.
“This is my favorite holiday,” she told them.
“Mine too!” “Mine too!” they said. It wasn’t just candy, it was enchantment.
At seven-thirty on the dot, Nora deposited the boys on their living room couch to sort out treasure. Their mother was still on the porch amidst the older trick-or-treaters.
“Would you like me to walk you home, Mom?” Arnold asked.
“No, dear, I’m fine! It’s early yet, and the streets are full of people.”
“Alright,” he said. He kissed her cheek, and turned his attention to his sons, whose chocolate trade wars had started. And off Nora strode into starlight, the tiny pumpkin strapped to her middle, the tall hat pointed at a rakish angle.
She passed a man she thought was her neighbor George, dressed as a Fool with a mask around his eyes. His clothes were harlequin diamonds, pieced together, and his jester’s hat jingled.
“Well met,” she said, “but I believe you are no Fool.”
“My lady,” he said, doffing his hat, “And you are the mother of a pumpkin-child.”
She laughed, and fell into easy steps beside him in the balmy evening. “How did you know?”
“That was easy,” he said, “For I am the father.”
This struck her as less amusing, but she smiled to humor him.
“Did you know,” he continued, “that a pumpkin can be the whole world? Or the sun? And its seeds all the wishes and might-have-beens that ever were.”
“No,” said Nora, “I never thought of it that way.”
“You are a risk taker,” he said, “I like that.” And they reached her door, and he kissed her hand.
“I had no idea you were poetic,” she said. “And I like that.”
Thus encouraged, he kissed her lips, and she caught her breath. Then she kissed him back.
It was a magic night, after all.
Somehow they were In her house, where she lived with her cat, but her cat was nowhere to be seen. Somehow they were in her bed, and she with nothing on except, how odd, the pumpkin still strapped to her middle; and he with nothing on except, how odd, the mask about his eyes, so she was not quite sure he was George. Nor was she quite sure that she was Nora, whose menses were long past, now that she felt the remembered bulge on her abdomen, just the shape that Arnold was, before he was born.
It had been a long time since she had loved, and her body was hungry. They made love and made love again, then slept a bit and then yet again. He lay behind her as a man would do with a pregnant wife, and cradled her breasts and her pumpkin-belly in his hands, and kissed the back of her neck, and came into her gently, as if not to disturb the world and the wishes she was growing. He said soft things. It was rapture.
In her dreams that night, sperm shaped like pumpkin seeds swam in her blood. She woke to find his mask by her pillow. The pumpkin, though, was gone.
Nora was not surprised to learn that her neighbor George was in Italy, and had been since before Halloween. Nor was she surprised when her belly began to grow, although she was 52 and had not had her monthly flow in years. When the doctor suggested a sonogram, she wondered what exactly they would see, but it turned out to be a boy baby, quite an ordinary one, no horns or scales. How would she explain this to Arnold? It turned out he did not want to talk about it, and especially when she told him the due date. She could see the wheels spin in his head, and wondered whether he blamed himself for not walking her home on Halloween. Better not discuss it, she decided, leave well enough alone. She had plenty to think about, what with wondering whether this baby would emerge with skin like a pumpkin.
She looked up names of famous fools – Rigoletto and Perkeo and Tanali – and decided on Nicola. “Nicola, my son,” she imagined saying to him. But when he was born with a shock of pumpkin orange hair, she laughed and said, “There is only one name for this one. Welcome to the world, Loki my son. Let us do some mischief.”
And they did.
Stella Fosse is an erotica writer, the author of Aphrodite’s Pen: The Power of Writing Erotica after Midlife, and a late bloomer whose erotic life blossomed in her late 50s. In 2016, Fosse and Lynx Canon founded a group for women over 50 called Elderotica Writers, with monthly meetings to share story writing and friendship. Fosse advocates writing erotica as a great way for older women to push back on ageism and sexism. She is retired from a career in biotechnology and lives with her partner in North Carolina. Follow Stella on Facebook,