Dear Beautiful Loser,
I loved hearing about your (losing but winning) sex adventure out on the town with your husband. I would have loved to be there at the bar, sidling up close to you and considering the possibilities. But then I’ve promised to remain at a distance (alas), although I do occasionally come across you in unexpected ways. For example, I was at a party last night and your name came up in relation to some of the work you’ve been doing. I played dumb, of course, and said I’d only met you once or twice…but had found you charming. What would’ve given me away, if anyone was paying attention, was the bulge in my pants that had appeared so emphatically that I feared it would rise clear out of my pants and walk off to order its own drink. We both needed a drink right about then. You do that to a man. Continue reading The Sex Shop Experiment
Dear Fondled Femme Fatale,
Dear Delightfully Daring Lady,
Dear Mrs. Fantasy,
Dear Little Exhibitionist,
Dear Lady X,
Dear Mrs. X,
I shouldn’t have done it, but last week I opened my wife’s computer while she was in the shower. We’re both sex nuts, and the bedroom has kept us together through ten years of marriage, but we hadn’t even approached a kiss in weeks. Worse, somehow I didn’t mind. Something had gone wrong, something I couldn’t begin to put a finger on. She’s still one of the sexiest women I’ve ever met, dressing like a classic movie star – garter belts even, holding up exotic silk stockings whose swirling patterns I used to study, all hidden underneath some prim skirt by a French designer. She’s European (it hardly needs to be said), and we live in an exotic place under palm trees across the Atlantic Ocean that I’ll choose not to mention for the moment. Mostly, though, she has preferred not to wear anything at all. She tends to cavort around the house naked, relishing her body: blond hair, always red lipstick, pale skin with tits made for some mermaid bursting from the sea in a Renaissance painting, a round smooth ass, pussy showing pink through a few blond hairs, then firm legs down to bare feet with red-painted toes. She’s the sort of innocent thing on the surface who inspires dirty thoughts, and as far as I can see, she hasn’t aged a bit. But she’s stopped cavorting, and we’re hardly even talking. Her body’s becoming a memory. So what’s gone wrong? I opened her computer hoping to find out.