It has been six years since my husband's death. I do not normally begin on such a morbid note, but I simply wanted to keep you from judging too harshly. My name is Aine. My mother named me after the Celtic goddess of brilliance, splendor and joy. In the Celtic mythology, Aine was a gorgeous fairy who mated with several humans to create a new race of men. I am petite – 5' and I weigh 101. I was fortunate enough to be born with red hair, which places me in a category which occupies less than 1% of the human race. I have round hips, a 24" waist, and ample breasts. My skin is alabaster, punctuated with thousands of rosy freckles. There are many myths surrounding redheads.
I married my soul mate, but he was taken before his time, much to my grief. He was perfection – especially in the arts of love. I was a virgin when we met, but he soon unlocked a passion I never knew existed. I have heard other women complain; their bodies jaded as their memories of sexual delights fade into the realm of routine and old age. I have listened to their laments concerning their over-arduous husbands and boyfriends. I never said a word, for I knew I was different. For me, sex was the greatest of adventures.
It was over a year ago when my conversation with a dear friend turned to sex. My girl, Sophie, was very unhappy with her husband's advances. "It seems to me our marriage is perfection, save for the physical part. He leaves me alone most of the time, but he is a man. He wants sex. He wants love. I could care less anymore..." I had heard such complaints before, but I listened intently to this woman, for she was as trusted as a sister. I had known her since grade school. I also knew her husband very well. Jokingly, my friend said, "If I could just find a woman I trusted who could pleasure him then our marriage would be sublime. Not a prostitute – someone I knew..."
Looking back, I sincerely know my dear friend had no such person in mind. She was airing her dissatisfaction. However, there was a long and quiet moment which followed her statement. She looked at me with surmising eyes. She searched for an answer. I watched her face as she put first one thought together, then another. She built up her courage. After all, she knew I would never condemn her. We loved one another too much for such hateful inconveniences.
"Aine, would you even entertain the thought of pleasing my husband – whom you know I adore. I trust you, Aine. I mean, Andrew is gone, I know, but think about it. Trustworthy sex – you would be doing me an enormous favor! You're the only person I trust! I would be forever grateful – and no harsh feelings ever – if you would do this for me. Aine, please consider doing this for me. I will favor you in any way you desire..."
It took me three weeks to digest such an offer. I ran through the mental tryouts, exploring every avenue of trust, pleasure, difficulty... Sophie was earnest in her plea, and I made up my mind that my long overdue fantasies, combined with my longing for Andrew's touch, could possibly culminate into an occasional tryst with no ill effects. I had never been unfaithful before, and this wasn't adultery. I made up my mind to think of Andrew each and every time. Mixing the old with the new sounded very adventurous, indeed.
The first time I allowed myself to be "loved" for a little while was when I fulfilled Sophie's wishes. Obviously, Sophie had a conversation with her husband about her idea, and yet his face showed shock and incredulity when he found me on the doorstep. Perhaps, that first time, he still couldn't believe it was true. I was in my turquoise shirtdress – the kind June Cleaver used to wear on television. This dress made my eyes a matching hue. Red hair styled in a Veronica Lake wave, blue dress, blue eyes, kitten pumps, and mascara. I was classic.
Sophie's husband was Darren. He was a stolid man, having worked in the construction business for years. Married life with Sophie pleased Darren, and his belly showed it's appreciation for Sophie's meals by growing into a lovely bump over his belt. His hair was thinning at the top, and his hands were rough from years of manual work. It was that evening that I learned to look not at the body (for Andrew was an Adonis!) but instead I looked into the eyes, where I found fire and spark. Darren's eyes were ablaze with fear, excitement, anticipation and indecision. I was smitten.
Sophie, Darren and I ate dinner together, as we had 50 times before. Sophie made lamb and a medley of fresh vegetables. There was wine and tea. We sated ourselves silly, enjoying friendship and laughter. After dinner, Darren excused himself to bathe. Sophie looked at me and winked. I winked back. "All yours," she said with a giggle. She was enjoying this.
Twenty minutes later, Darren was in his room, wearing a towel around his waist. Having nothing to go by, I slipped into his room and quietly shut the door. When the latch clicked, he turned half way and froze. I walked around the bed, standing in front of him. He opened his mouth, but I quickly pressed my finger to my lips. "Shh" I whispered. I patiently untied the bow at my waist, allowing it to unravel. I reached around and unzipped the back of my dress. With a fluid motion, I rolled my left shoulder and felt my dress slither to the bedroom floor. For several moments, I stood posed for him, wearing only my black strapless lace bra, my black lace boy-cut panties and my kitten pumps. His eyes explored every square inch of my body. He stared at me panties, my hips, my flat belly, my cleavage, my wrists, my legs. Darren tilted his head to the right, and so I turned to the side, where he could see me in profile. He took a long look at my round backside, which was toned and filled in the void where my ample hips took shape. I saw the left corner of his mouth draw up into a private smile.
