Everyone wants to be near her. I don't blame them because I do too. My wife Marisa, at 46 years old, is still the hottest woman in the room.
We have these neighborhood get-togethers a couple of times a year. It's an opportunity to get just a little dressed up and spend some time away from kids and jobs and the other worries of living. Have a drink or two, some potluck nosh, and catch up with what everyone has been up to.
I'm over by the island in the kitchen, looking into the living room. Tonight she's wearing a hunter green dress with pleats on the bottom half, down to just about the knee. The shoulders are bare with a plunging neckline showing a generous taste of cleavage. Her petite frame looks as magnificent as it did the day we met.
Marisa is standing talking to our neighbor, Leon. I'm chuckling to myself because he's trying so hard not to let his eyes wander down to her chest. He's focused on her eyes, locked in conversation. Oops! A little glance and he's back to her eyes again. Oh go ahead, Leon. Take a good look. You know you want to.
Indulging in a little fantasy, I imagine Marisa looking up at him and pulling the top of her dress to the sides, exposing one bare breast, then the other. Leon looks at her with lust and leans down to start sucking on them, trying to devote equal time to each.
Now I'm imagining her reaching over and rubbing his crotch. I can see the ecstasy on his face as his eyes close. She undoes his fly and reaches inside.
I'm snapped back to reality by our host, Angie, who has come to get some more chips.
"You OK over here, Nick?" she asks. "The party's over there."
"Ah, you know me, Angie. More of an observer than a participant."