Weddings, John decided as he propped himself up on the bar at the country club reception and surveyed the gathering, were enjoyed only by those under twenty-five or over seventy years of age. Those two distinctly different demographic groups shared two common interests at events celebrating inevitably short-lived matrimonial harmony, free booze and immunity from being ridiculed by their embarrassing exploits on the dance floor.
For the majority of guests who were in between the life stages of young adulthood and septuagenarians, most had already unsuccessfully ventured in and out of the black hole of the supposedly sacrosanct institution of marriage, at least if one were to believe national statistics. Accordingly, the occasion provided only one viable reason to attend, at least in John's admittedly sometimes cynical perspective. A chance to get laid.
John watched his beaming bridegroom buddy Pete, approaching his fiftieth birthday, dancing with somebody's chunky old aunt in the taffeta dress that was two sizes too small for her, and reminisced at the distant memory of having been in Pete's initial wedding party almost thirty years ago. That was three marriages and two wives ago. Yep, Pete had married the same woman twice in the eighties and nineties, and John had won the pool that garnered him a few hundred dollars when the sequel between Pete and Alison had lasted less than two years. It was small payback indeed for the various wedding gifts that he had bestowed over the decades.
But, this was the first time that Petey's new wife had dipped her toes in the marriage pool, so a few of Pete's grudgingly loyal remaining friends had to make the trek to Dallas for his fourth throw at the brass ring and try to suppress giggles and guffaws as he had the chutzpah to say to the minister, with unfettered temerity, "I do." And, no doubt, in Pete's mind was the delusional thought, "And this time, I really, really mean it."
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the alluring guest for the first time while nursing his third beer. She must have been a late arrival to the festivities because he surely would not have missed this vision of little-black-dress loveliness. He absorbed the vision, his trousers noticeably tightening in the seam for the first time tonight. Her ample full breasts virtually strained to be released through the sheer material, and the dress stopped just above the knee to display a pair of sexily stockinged legs. She licked her bright, ruby red lips and displayed a wickedly seductive grin as her own dark, smoldering eyes caught his own gaze and their eyes locked.
John made a mental summary in an instant. She was a handful, a tease, an intelligent, successful, confident woman in perhaps her late thirties who would not be easy to woo, no pushover this one.
John's kind of woman exactly.
Not one to waste time nor opportunity when it knocked, especially in the form of nice knockers, John sidled over to her without taking time to rummage through the inventory of opening lines that eh had stored up through the decades, so as he approached her, he made a split-second decision to stick with old reliable.
"Hi," he said cheerily, as she eyed him warily, unsmiling.
She replied quickly, raising her wine glass to those, oh, so suckable lips. "That's all you've got as a pick-up line? 'Hi?' What kind of pick-up line is that? Lame."
John recoiled a bit. This was going to be more difficult than he though, especially at a wedding. Geez, weren't people all supposed to be cordial at a celebration of mutual friends' matrimonial bliss, even if it was the fourth toss at it for at least one of the participants?
John offered meekly, "What makes you think I was trying to pick you up?"
She took a long gulp of her chardonnay. "Why else would you approach me?" John pondered that very legitimate question for a second, and she took advantage of his hesitation. "Try again," she demanded.
"Try what again?"
"Try to pick me up again." She folded her arms across those magnificent tits, her cleavage spilling more liberally from her dress, and tapped her stiletto on the hardwood floor.
John stared at her blankly, the index cards of witty, charming lines that were usually stored in his brain and normally readily accessible for just such an occasion apparently on momentary freeze. He cleared his throat and extended his hand. "I'm John, what's your name?"
She shook her head vehemently, her brow frowning in disdain. "No names, what is this, fifth grade? Strike two." Her toe tapped more impatiently on the floor, while her arms folded more tightly across her tits. John liked the second reaction better, his eyes now riveted on her chest.
John realized that this was a pitcher's count, to use a baseball analogy, he was down oh-two to this crafty pro. So, he decided to go with a fastball down the middle.
"Think of a number between seven-and-a-half and seven-and-three-quarters."
This got her attention like a high, hard one under the chin. She cocked an eyebrow up while he continued.
"Inches, that is."
Her arms dropped to her side and her countenance lightened considerably. Hell, she damn near chuckled.
"Now, that's better, much better." She clapped her hands softly together, applauding the start of the game. "That's a lucky number. Now, we can play." She wagged a finger at him. "But can you back up such a claim, slugger?"
John felt the blood rush from his flushed face directly to his groin, his embarrassment temporarily abated and replaced with the more comfortable rush of hormonal adrenalin. "Fortunately, yes, I can. One should not make such a statement without being ready and able to back it up." This did indeed evoke the first hint of a smile from her.
He glanced down again to her fantastic chest. "Besides, there's something wrong with your tits."
