Not a true story, but something about the forbidden fruit is undeniable...
I hadn't seen her since high school, and even then I didn't think she noticed me, so the friend request on Facebook was a pleasant surprise. Memories came flooding back of those hot spring days when I'd sit on the bleachers and watch her in track and field, her olive skin glowing in the sun (many's the time I'd rush home to my bedroom and concoct my own private fantasies).
20 years and she'd filled out a bit with a few kids, but she still looked fantastic. Even better than before; a real woman. We got to chatting a bit and caught up; kicking myself repeatedly when she said she was a fan of my little rock band that I'd started back in the day. Still, she looked like she had a good life with her family and the conversation was innocent. Then little hints started cropping up: She'd had a long day, was tired of making decisions... I was sure that I was definitely reading too much into it and my perverted mind was looking for any reason to bring back the old fantasies of tying her to my bed in her old track short-shorts and tanktop. I hinted back with jokes about 50 Shades and "cracking the whip," but she didn't seem to pick up what I was putting down. Until one day when she suddenly chose to confide, "My husband isn't dominant at all." I chose not to push it as it sounded like a bad day, but I also filed it away in the memory bank. It would be so wrong to get into this conversation with a married woman, much less do anything about it... not to mention the fact that she lived across the country... but the thought still brought out something new in me. Something forbidden.
We were both busy for a few months and suddenly she texted me to say she was in town. Needless to say I dropped everything (after acting cool and pretending I had to clear my calendar, of course) and met her in a restaurant downtown. I arrived first and she arrived in a lacy black sleeveless short dress. I somehow must have made decent conversation despite my initial stunned reaction, because she invited me back to her hotel room to look at the yearbook and reminisce.
"There's no yearbook," I thought... and wondered if we should go through with this.
"There's actually a yearbook," I corrected myself as we arrived at the room. We sat next to each other on the bed like a couple of teenagers and scrolled through the pages. I had such a fun time strolling down memory lane I almost forgot about her toned legs under the yearbook on her lap. Then the book closed and exposed her thigh as her dress had ridden up a bit. She turned the book lengthwise to cover and we both felt an awkward silence.
"So... you tired?"
"Nope. Why, are you?"
"Not at all."
My God, it WAS like being back in high school.
"So what now?" she asked.
"You're asking what I want to do now?" I brushed strands of her brown hair from her neck.
"Yes."
"You're asking me to... decide what happens now." I took the book from her lap; my first decisive gesture. I could tell it excited her.
