It was a normal Friday night. Nothing special to celebrate, but the kids were gone for the weekend, so they could be alone. It had been a while since they had been able to have a date night together. It seemed that there was always a reason not to- the kids, activities, their work schedules, whatever. But she decided that enough was enough, and now they were going to go out, she was making it happen.
Of course, he was excited. He loved her, more than he could appropriately put into words. There were times he got frustrated, times he thought it would just be better and easier if they just ended the whole thing; surely there were times she did also. But he knew deep down that she was meant to be his wife, he felt that in his very soul. She had walked into his life from out of nowhere and pulled him out of a particularly deep and self-destructive place. He'd known quickly that she was different, special, and he longed to be in her presence. It might have been a surprise to some that they wound up together, but not to him. Every part of him- mind, body, and soul- wanted, no needed, to be with her, so he made her his partner.
But, no matter, like all relationships, it had its moments- burning passion, seething anger, deep frustration, unfathomable happiness, creeping doubt, unbridled joy. Good and bad would wax and wane like the moon, rise and fall like the tides, but they stuck it out, kept fighting to find the good in and for each other. So, perhaps it was "just" a date night, but was it ever, really?
It was only supposed to be dinner, and maybe a movie. He knew that what she said, he should take at face value. She wasn't one to mince words, or play silly games. But he also knew that it had been some time since they had been intimate, and he couldn't help but fantasize about what might happen after they got home- no kids, an empty house- plenty of opportunity. But he also knew he should guard his optimism. It wasn't the first time that they had the opportunity, but failed to consummate anything. The reasons, of course, were always legitimate, and always plentiful, but that made them no less frustrating to him. Such was the depth of his connection to her, he felt like an empty vessel when they woke up in the morning, still clothed, on opposite sides of the bed. So, he hoped, and fantasized a little, and tried not to let his emotions get the best of him.
The odds were 50/50, at best, but he still prepared as if it were 20 years earlier when the chances of success were much greater. He sometimes fantasized about her doing the same thing- remembering when they were younger and couldn't keep their hands off one another. The morning of their date he shaved himself. He said he did it "for her," but he knew she didn't really care. He knew he actually did it because he liked the feel of it. His tender flesh pressed tightly to hers, the feeling of nothing between them. If there was even a 1% chance of something sexual happening, that's how he wanted to be, because it helped turn HIM on, and he knew it.
He knew his fantasy of her doing the same was just that- fantasy. She had told him several times that she was done doing it. The kids and the surgeries had just made the feeling in that area too different for her- not painful, exactly, just not good. But he also knew that she knew that he LOVED her that way, and so he continued to fantasize about one day finding her if not shaved, well, then, perhaps at least a little trimmed down below.
There wasn't really any doubt as to what he would be wearing on their date. He laughed as he pulled them from his drawer and put them on. She called them his "fuck-me" panties. This was, of course, a joke at his expense. He had once casually remarked about her wearing "fuck me" panties all the time and him not getting to enjoy them. She had dismissed his comment easily, asking what made a pair of underwear "fuck me panties," while knowing full well what he meant. She had, at one time or another, possessed many "fuck me" clothes- skimpy thongs, see through lace, short skirts, midriff shirts. She knew how to use her sexuality to manipulate him. He knew she did, but he gladly let her. He loved her body, found her the sexiest woman anywhere, and still did, despite the age and inevitable changes time brings.
Again, he fantasized about what she might be wearing, were they to wind up in bed. He hoped it was her black lacy set. He loved her in black. It made her seem dangerous, dominant, sexually strong. He dreamed of feeling the soft warmth of her pressed against the thin soft fabric of his underwear while he felt the soft bumps and textures of her lace panties against his hard cock, intensified by his freshly shaved skin.
