I hadn't had a lot of luck with Craigslist, so when I got Claire's pictures, I initially thought they were too good to be true. She was exactly what I'd been fantasizing about: a true MILF, 40 if that, strawberry blonde and gorgeous, like a grown up version of the cool girls from my high school. Though at 30 I wasn't that much younger than Claire, I felt like we were worlds apart: she lived with her husband in the suburbs, had two kids at sleepaway camp, bought paper towels in bulk. I was finishing art school, living with two roommates in a live/work loft; I had the feeling we might be each other's fantasy come to life. So I wrote back. She was kind, not great with words but better on the phone when we awkwardly arranged to meet. "I need David--that's my husband--to be involved," she said. "He doesn't have to do anything, but he'll want to watch." Fine by me. The idea of playing with Claire's tits while her husband's balls tightened made my vision swim.
A week later I stood on Claire's doorstep in the clothing she'd requested, in detail, in her last email. A navy pleated skirt, a soft white blouse, white cotton panties, no bra. I wore high heeled black ankle boots and straightened my black hair, to make it look a little longer. It almost hit my nipples, now. I was young looking enough for it to be a relatively authentic schoolgirl vibe, if a little gothy with my purple nails and rows of earrings. I loved that she'd specified an outfit, like I was a meal made to order.
I shivered under my coat.
Claire appeared, smiling in a printed wrap dress. "Claudia." She looked me up and down, and took my hands in hers. "Wow. You're so beautiful. Thanks for coming." I stepped in. Even in heels, we were about the same height.
"Thanks for having me," I said automatically. She laughed and took my coat. She led me into the living room. Two glasses of red wine waited on the coffee table. I took one and sat on the couch, feeling a little dwarfed by the hugeness of the house. I looked up through a skylight.
Claire sipped her wine, looking at me, and I met her gaze. She really was beautiful, in a complete Real Housewives way: the smooth self-tanned skin of her toned legs, the slightly frosted pink lipstick. Everything about her looked normal and expensive. I wondered if she'd done this before, once or one hundred times, and as if she could hear me, she leaned in and said, "Don't be nervous."
I could tell that meant, act nervous, I like it. I smiled and she started touching the hem of my skirt almost absently with her fingers. "I hope it wasn't a long drive for you. You've probably never even been out here." "I actually grew up not far from here," I said. She playfully narrowed her eyes. "Is that right?" I laughed and tugged my earrings. "I know, 'the city has changed me.'"
