I've been watching her for days and I don't know why. What was it she had that made my colleague, Fran, employ her? She was average looking at best and her figure was nothing special, not that you could really see that much of it as she kept it covered up at all times. Her fashion sense at times seemed frumpy and old for a younger woman. Her name was Claire and I'd say about twenty years my junior.
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In April 2004 my husband announced that his 25 year old secretary was 6 months pregnant and he was leaving me and our two daughters to be with her. Apparently I'd become boring and had put on weight – no longer the slim nymphomaniac that he had married 21 years previously. To say that I was devastated would be somewhat of an understatement. I thought that I'd been as good a mother and wife as I could be while also holding down a career as an accountant with a pretty large clothing company.
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It was 1959 and I was 19 years old. I had left London and had accepted a position as a junior clerk in a large company in the north of England. I found a small, cheap bed-and-breakfast hotel run by Mrs. Johnson, a friendly motherly type, who made me feel instantly at home. I decided to stay there for a couple of weeks until I found a flat to rent. It was Friday and my first night in the city.
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"Carly!" Gina had never learned any other way to start a phone conversation than with an exclamation point
"Hey, guess who's going to be back in town tonight?"
That could only be the third member of our little band of confidants, Maryanne. The three of us had always been tight, all through high school. We had other friends, but we three shared the really close in feelings and stuff.
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Your heart is thumping, the adrenalin and anticipation beginning to be usurped by arousal. This whole scenario has an element of the surreal, and yet you stay fixed to this spot. He stirs behind you, moving close enough for his cologne to caress your senses, even if his hands are yet to.
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My affair with Stevie; if that's what you want to call it is still going on today. It's not an affair in the conventional sense as there is absolutely no chance that he would ever buy me flowers or take me to a French Restaurant. Nor would I want him to. We are as he quaintly calls it – 'fuck-buddies'.
We still occasionally go to the derelict factory on a Friday afternoon and the odd evening after work.
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Andrea and I have been friends for almost ten years. We met when she started dating a friend of mine. Andrea was fresh out of high school then and the first thing I noticed were her flawless sized seven and a half feet. Being that we live in Florida, Andrea was always wearing flip flops and showing off her amazing feet. Andrea is a beautiful girl besides just her feet.
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Linda Jones was in the grocery store picking up a few things when she saw her friend Lisa Miller and her son Tommy. Lisa was supposed to come over later in the afternoon with a few friends for bridge club. "Hi Linda," Lisa called out, waving at her in the produce aisle. "Tommy, you remember Mrs. Jones don't you? Be a good boy and say hello."
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Guys are normally so predictable.
Flirt with them, joke with them, be interested in "their" sport, and all of a sudden a girl can have them groveling at her feet. Give them a glimpse of leg and they will actually slobber.
At least the majority of guys are that way.
Occasionally there are the mutants. They are hooked to a specific girl and won't tell you the time of day. They might be totally devoted to work. They might like guys. Whatever.
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It had started as a playful exchange online, but each seemed to know the rules and what was expected. The inevitable meeting 'for coffee' had been eagerly anticipated by each and the time spent in each others company had been as expected; polite, amicable, flirtatious and with a building tension of expectancy.
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