He turned me onto my side, sat down next to me on the side of his bed, and kissed me appreciatively. “How would you have liked it if I came on you instead?” he asked. “If I wasn’t dressed or had something else to change into, that would be hot,” I said. He grinned and said something about underestimating his instincts about me. I’d have to ask him about that sometime when he wasn’t preoccupied with untying me. He gave me a nice rub-down on my lower back, which was starting to feel strained. He seemed to know just the right spots to hit. It was all so nice, even though he left me totally unfulfilled. He got dressed and asked me where I wanted to go for breakfast. After what I did for him, I made it someplace nice, and not some greasy spoon. Besides, I was in the mood for a Chicken Marie Frittata and mimosa, and I figured he’d appreciate the place. He did, especially the toast and mushrooms. It was something I never heard of before, but he told me it was a traditional English dish that. My wife Broomhilda (we will call her that) often joked, “I’ll face the wall and think of England.” She was a dead fish in bed and knew it. Don’t get me wrong, the dead fish thing will work if I just need a release. Sometimes I only want that warm wet place. All she had to do was lie still with her eyes closed, let me spread her legs, lube up and slip it in. She didn’t like anything about anal or giving or receiving oral sex. Boring missionary was about it. Her sex drive was low and getting lower over time. That is when I started fantasizing about Alison. It became a lot more than fantasy very soon. That is where my story really begins. Like us, Alison was married with two kids. She and her family lived across the cactus and mesquite lined streets of our quiet neighborhood of flat-roofed, slump-block, Santa Fe style houses. Her husband was a big jock type and I liked to imagine he couldn’t satisfy her. Alison was not a supermodel by any means, but had very nice silky toned legs.
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