I texted Shari at the end of a long, stressful, fucked-up week:
Shari: “Hey. You OK?”
Shari: “Can I help?”
Me: “Not right now. You’re three hundred miles away.”
Shari: “There’s Facetime.”
Me: “Not the same.”
Shari: “What do you need?”
Me: “Your breasts. I want to stick my nose in between your twin peaks and not think about anything else for about a year.”
Shari: “That bad?”
Me: “That bad.”
Shari: “Come home, lover.”
Me: “Will head that way around nine in the morning.”
Shari: “I’m going to take a half day.”
Me: “Yeah? What’s the occasion?”
Shari: “You. I want you inside of me.”
Me: “That sounds wonderful.”
Shari: “See you tomorrow, stud.”
I didn’t sleep well that evening.
Visions of Mr Freddie Jones and his beloved Clara. Samuel and Greta. Shari. A clothing optional resort. And a swingers lifestyle website that scared the hell out of me.
What the fuck was Shari thinking?
I found out what she was thinking as soon as I got home Friday afternoon.
Shari was waiting for me. Polka dot bikini donned.
She handed me a glass of wine.
“Hey, baby,” I offered.
She pressed an index finger to my lips and shook her head left and right.
Silence was obviously her order of business.
We went to the hot tub. Soaked. Drank. She refilled our glasses. We soaked and drank.
Then Shari did a totally un-Shari thing. She climbed up onto my lap. Straddled me…