Such a funny thing, how very wrong one's perceptions can be.
Case in point: our very good friend, Elizabeth Stanton. She's a funny girl, our Libby: very stiff-upper-lip, born-with-silver- spoon-in-gob, haughty and snooty and how-to-do. She's the very definition of a rich snob: delightfully misanthropic, wickedly xenophobic and extraordinarily blinkered to the workings of the world in general. She is very nearly a caricature of the upper class -- yet somehow, she still manages to be fairly likable.
Despite her long list of shortfalls, she's not all bad. She is kind and loyal without fail to her friends, most notably to my wife (through whom I came to know our Libby), and there's something about the way she states her profoundly right-wing old-school beliefs that amuses rather than offends. Her being in possession of a fairly pretty face and long flowing blonde hair, along with a nice-and-tidy gym-honed body, shapely rump and generous bust probably helps in this department.
Not that I have ever held any seriously lecherous desires towards our Libby. I love my wife, you see, and I'll be forever loyal to her. And while Libby's behaviour is amusing in short doses, I've found myself over the years feeling sorry for her many and varied man-friends; it seems to take only a few weeks with Libby before they develop that pained, hounded, 'why-God-why' expression that marks a man as Libby's Current Beau.
So it came to pass one day -- ten years into my marriage and thus ten years after having first met our Libby -- that Libby came to stay with us, following the dissolution of yet another relationship with a live-in boyfriend. His tolerance of her whimsical (and not always faithful) ways had finally run dry, and to my secret amusement and admiration he had run her out of his house, depositing her furnishings and belongings in the front yard in a less-than-gentle fashion.
As often is the case in this situation, our Libby came to my missus for solace and comfort; and as has increasingly become the case since I made my millions and foolishly purchased a six-bedroom mansion half-way up a picturesque mountainside, the missus declared that of course Libby could stay with us while she sorted herself out. My missus's generosity knows no bounds. Especially when it comes to her generosity with my house, my belongings and my money. I still love her, though.
On one particular sunny summer's day during Libby's stay, with the missus gone to work and the kids gone to school, I had assumed my traditional work-day pose: parked in a sun-lounge by the pool, with a large pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea to help me brace for another hard day's work, and a laptop standing by should I feel the need to actually achieve anything. Life's hard for some of us, don't you know.
Hardly had I poured my first tall glass when Libby graced the scene, clad scantily and alluringly in a skimpy bikini and a sheer wrap-around sarong, which was hitched in a petite knot just above her shapely hips. "Well hello, Tom," she greeted, pulling her oversized sunglasses down to peer more obviously at my refreshments. "We're starting on the booze early for a Monday morning, aren't we?"
"Not at all, Libby my dear," declared I. "I find a few good 'Long Teas' are essential to brace against a busy week."
"Can I assume the spare glass is for me?" she asked.
"Either you or the poolboy," I grinned. "First in, best refreshed."
And so the drinks were poured, my laptop was ignored, and as we drank Libby and I talked about various banal trivialities, most of them involving herself. She is awfully good at talking about herself, our Libby. For shits and giggles I steered the conversation onto the topic of her latest break-up, trying to ascertain what level of blame -- if any -- she was willing to apportion herself.
"Oh Tom -- I just don't understand men," she said sadly. "I mean, Glen and I --" Glen being her most recent boyfriend "-- Glen and I were going so well! And then he just turns around and throws me out of his house! I just don't understand," she said again, punctuating her profundity with another sip of long tea.
"Could it have had anything to do," I ventured, "with your 'dalliances' with his best mate?"
"Oh Tom: really," she scolded, disapprovingly. "Now I know you and Kelly --" Kelly being my wife "-- you and Kelly store great stock in loyalty and faithfulness and all of that. And I think that's great," she added, in a terribly condescending tone that I just had to grin at -- as though she was declaring a toddler's few smears of blue paint on a crinkled canvas an artistic triumph. "That's really great," she reiterated. "But for some of us, a little bit of hanky-panky isn't really that bad. And it's not like I blew up when he kept going back to his ex-girlfriend for a bit of 'reminiscing'," she added.
"Oh no," said I, by way of agreement. "No no, you didn't blow up at him at all -- but me and Kelly heard all about it. And bloody ad-nauseum, too."
Libby's jaw dropped in mock outrage. "Tom!" she scolded, throwing a slice of lemon at me. "You know, you get quite the wicked tongue when you've been drinking."
"As opposed to you," I returned, "whose tongue turns positively saintly after a few brews."
"I don't hear too many complaints about my tongue, thank you," she said, with an immodest grin. "In fact -- have I ever told you about the time Glen said I should have my mouth insured?"
"Actually, yes you have," said I -- Glen's declaration referred to Libby's apparently priceless skill and ability at the fine art of fellacio. "You are simply too modest for words, Libby," I added.
Libby grinned, but it was a short-lived grin as she returned to her moody broodings. Her eyes fell to her own chest -- as they so often do; our Libby has forever been clearly and obviously infatuated with herself and her body, taking any and every opportunity to make eyes at her own reflection, or peer down her own cleavage, or occasionally even run a finger up and down her inner thigh when she (wrongly) thinks no-one is looking. Lord knows how she gets anything done when she's alone with herself; if God truly does kill a kitten every time one masturbates, then Libby must have a million dead cats on her conscience.
"It's because of my boobs," she suddenly said, which threw me somewhat from my thoughts of mass felinicide.
"How's that?" I said, spluttering from a little bit of inhaled long tea.
"Glen's ex had the biggest boobs," she explained. "He probably let her get away with anything, with tits like those. But poor old Libby, with these little puppies..." she said, grabbing her bikinied bosom and giving them a sad little jiggle "...there's no leeway for me."
Well, I thought. What was there to say to that? Libby's tits were by no means little or puppy-like; she was quite generously equipped with nicely round and fulsome C-bordering-on-D cup-fillers, and crammed as they were into her C-sized bikini top they were most pleasing on the eye. But even as she started saying "...maybe it's time to start saving up for the surgery... how much do fake tits cost these days?" I found myself wondering: how best to console Libby, and assure her of the perfect adequacy of her breasts, without crossing the line?
"Come on now, Libby," I scolded. "Let's have no more of that talk. Speaking as a guy, and as your friend -- and the husband of your best friend," I added, to dispel any possible dodginess ahead of time, "I can assure you that your tits are really, really nice."
Libby's face broke into a smile of relief. "Really?" she asked, heartened.
"Yes, Libby," I promised her, in as reassuring and brotherly and platonic a fashion as possible. "They really are a top pair. Don't you even think about putting them under the knife -- surgery would ruin them, they're already perfect as they are. Okay?"
"Okay," she nodded, visibly gladdened by my reassurances. She took a big sip of her long tea, as though she were steeling herself, and she put it to me: "Would you like to see them?" she asked, hopefully.
"See what?" I asked, frowning slightly.
"My tits," said Libby, brightly. "I'll show them to you if you'd like..."
My shoulders fell. 'Yes. Yes! YES PLEASE!' was the response issuing from my pelvis; 'No, no, I can't,' was my more rational, cranial response.
I sighed as I looked at her. I knew Libby wasn't being lecherous in the strictest sense, or intentionally disloyal against Kelly my wife in offering to flash me; she was just looking for affirmation, for a reinforcement of the support and encouragement I had already given. But I knew I couldn't let her do that. To agree, to say 'aw, okay, go on, show em to me' would be lecherous on my part, very lecherous -- I'm not that great a guy that I could let a girl show me her breasts only to help her feel better about herself. And if such a guy exists, I'd advise him to check himself for a pulse.
So I thought quickly, and came up with a way out of this moral quagmire that would leave the both of us relatively clean. "Now Libby," I said, gently. "You don't really want to show them to me, do you?"
"Well..." she said, reaching hesitatingly for the clasp on her back, making her breasts stand out and say 'hello!' in a fashion I tried desperately to ignore. "Kind of..."
"No you don't," I told her, kindly. "You just want to show them to 'somebody', don't you? You just want somebody, anybody to have a look at your tits and go 'phwoar!'. Don't you?"
Libby's face fell, and so did her arms, letting her breasts -- and myself -- relax. "I'm sorry..." she murmured.
"No no!" I quickly told her, before the tears came. "It's okay, Libs! It's fine, I understand. I get that way too, sometimes," I assured her. "Lots of people do. You just have a bit of an exhibitionist streak in you, that's all. You know what I mean?"
She looked at me, thinking on what I said. "Aw," she began. "I'm not sure about 'exhibitionist'... I mean, I'm not a deviant or anything," she added, lending a specially vindictive emphasis to 'deviant': making it sound as though these naughty exhibitionistic deviants were the scourge of the earth, hiding behind every rock and tree, prepared to leap out upon unsuspecting villagers and do wicked things to them.
"No, of course you're not a 'deviant'," I grinned. "But we all have a bit of that compulsive streak in us, you know? In all of us there's a little part of us that wants to show off our assets, to whip out our tits or our cock and ask a passer-by 'excuse me? Um... what do you think? Are these alright?' You know?"
Libby nodded along. "Yeah, I guess..." she allowed. "But what can I do? I'm sorry I asked you, Tom, I shouldn't have done that... you're my best friend's husband, I'm so sorry..."
