My second wife recently divorced me. She just didn’t want to be my wife anymore, she said. It wasn’t that we didn’t get along. We’d traveled and socialized a lot though we’d decided against having kids, since we’re both professional people. An earlier marriage had produced all the progeny I wanted. But, not having a family with this spouse probably had been a mistake, since I’m 40 and her biological clock at age 34 most likely had been ticking inexorably toward that fail-safe, go-no go, point that seems to occur in every woman’s reproductive life.
The thing that really hurt, since we were very compatible – sexual and otherwise – was that she’d gutted my business financially. She’d walked into the marriage with the princely sum of $200 in a savings account, twenty shares of over-priced stock in a private winery, and some junk furniture that was beneath the decorative taste of a college sophomore. But, I’d loved her, and had been forced to walk away after eight years, licking my wounds after her attorney garnered her $1.5 million in cash and real estate assets, mostly from my custom home design business. At least there was no alimony. I’d believed in justice before I’d experienced divorce courts and the lawyers who make their excellent livings therein.
So, I bought a bachelor house twenty-five miles away, moving into a post-WW II suburban neighborhood that was beginning to turn into a haven for divorced folk. The original homeowners in the area had either died or sold to young, 30 and 40-somethings before they moved into senior centers. I was one of the new buyers, but on my street there were four others, all of them female businesspeople. Across the street there was still a family of grandparents who had a couple of grandchildren living with them, because of the questionable mating habits of their “trailer trash” daughters who were fond of recreational drugs, according to the gossipy old widow next door. The rest, as I’ve said, were women, all undeniably attractive.
When I moved in, though, I didn’t fit the mold of the archetypal, horny, divorced man. The residual pain of the separation was still with me, and sex had taken a distant second or third place behind reviving my business from the financial hits it’d taken. This was a departure from my usual behavior, since I’d always been sexually active…rather anxious to push the edge of the matrimonial envelope when it came to infidelity. In any case, “dating” was not a word in my lexicon, since I bore a good bit of mistrust regarding close relationships. I had let down my guard once, just days after I moved in, when one of the disreputable daughters from across the street – the tall, blonde one – invited herself in and, after she’d snorted a line of her stash of cocaine on my glass coffee table, proceeded to blow me to a very satisfying orgasm. Since that occurrence I hadn’t seen her, though the widow next door told me that the police had picked her up one day and she was now languishing in a drug rehab center.
In any case, I was settling into my new neighborhood, busy with all the details of a new arrival’s life: where to have cars repaired, have dry cleaning done, whom to get as a dental hygienist, etc. Much information on these minutiae was given me at a party thrown for me by the divorced real estate agent – Carrie – living across the street and down a ways. She lives with her brother, a divorced, retired deputy sheriff, and is built like Dolly Parton. She’d invited all the single women in the area to the party, and I felt as if I were a slab of meat on display in a butcher shop, being picked at and stroked by hungry females who could hardly repress their fascination with all aspects of my past life. I’d had some experience with this mating ritual and, though sorely tempted, escaped unscathed with my abstemious virtue intact. Nevertheless, though, Carrie and her attractive army still find legion excuses to visit me at almost any hour that I’m home. But, one can eat only so many cookies, pies, and loaves of nut bread provided by even the most comely of ladies.
I’m 6’2” tall and weigh in at 200. I’m good looking, I’m told – in a WASP sort of way – and still have all my hair. But the pervasive sick feeling one has when going through a divorce has taken its toll, and I’ve lost 30 pounds over the past many months. As a result, my wardrobe hangs on me like a scarecrow. Rather than spend several grand to replace my suits, I decided to have them re-tailored to my slimmer frame. A woman at the party had provided me with the location of a dry cleaner who did alterations, so I took one of my suits along with some shirts that needed laundering. This was on a Thursday evening a little before six.
The shop was empty, save for a petite, youngish Chinese woman. She had short, thick hair, obviously carefully tended by a professional, and creamy, light skin that – on this night – contrasted attractively with the all-black turtleneck sweater and pants she wore. Though she was behind the counter, I noticed that her five-foot-tall body filled her clothing nicely. Her makeup was flawless on her unlined face, with lips highlighted by a dark, almost violet, color. She wore stylish, black-framed glasses that accented her nearly black, almond-shaped eyes, which were further enhanced by pearl-colored shadow. Uncharacteristically for an Asian, diamond jewelry studded her ears, a necklace around her neck, and several rings, one jade, on her fingers. The dry-cleaning business must be good, I thought. As I looked at her, I remembered one of the greatest and perhaps the saddest loves of my life, a stunning girl from Thailand who’d died tragically.
This woman’s attractive appearance belied her brusque manner, however. As is the case with so many Chinese originating outside the U.S., she addressed me a bit loudly and in a clipped, no-nonsense, way. I knew she hadn’t been born here, since her speech was what Anglos call “broken” English. “Heavy starch, yeh?” she asked. “Dry clean suit?”
“Uh, no,” I corrected, “I’ve lost some weight and understand that you do alterations.”
“You wan’ try on?” she questioned. I nodded, and she pointed to the back, “Dressing room back there.”
I went to the little cubicle and changed into the baggy suit, emerging to almost run into her. “Had to lock front door,” she said, quickly. “After six,” she explained, as she pulled me in front of an enclosed three-way mirror to stand on a raised platform.
“Mm,” she said, “need lot o’ work!” as she placed some pins in her mouth. “Take off coat. Do pants first.” I disposed of the jacket, and she turned me around to face the mirror, sticking her small hand deeply into the back of my pants. I was wearing a polo shirt with the tail out, and her fingers had plunged into my boxers as well. They felt good as one brushed the top of my crack. “Oh, sorry,” she said, giggling, the first time she’d shown any semblance of levity. She pinned the back from the waistband to down, under the seat, then said, “Turn ‘roun’.”
This time she was more careful with her hands. She slowly placed them in the front and looked up, asking, “Tight enough?” then withdrew her hand to place it in my crotch, at the top of the inseam. My balls were resting on her two fingers, and she moved them slightly, softly inquiring, “You dress to right or left?”
Remembering that this meant, “Which pant leg does your package normally hang down?” I responded, “Uh, to the right,” and instantly felt myself getting erect, except that my cock was in my left pant leg.
“You sure?” she asked.
“Yes, normally,” I said, embarrassed, as I grew larger.
Barely perceptibly, she touched my growing member in my left leg with the back of her fingers and hesitated, blushing…uncharacteristic for an Asian, I thought. She then withdrew her hand and said, “Well, bettah put it there.” I did, thrusting a hand inside my pants and awkwardly pulling my cock from one leg to the other, which tented the front of my right leg since I was now fully hard. Squatting ass-on-heels, she leaned back and said, “Wait few minute. Then we pin.”
“Aaah…is this your shop?” I asked, desperate to distract her attention in the palpable silence.
“Yeh, I own,” she said. “All mine…no husban’,” she added, almost proudly.
“Widowed?” I asked.
“Huh?” she asked, not comprehending.
Trying again, I asked, “Husband dead?”
“No! Divorce!” she exclaimed, as though still as happy to be rid of him as she was on the first day.
“Oh,” I acknowledged.
“Yup…two daughter, in college,” she said.
“Really!” I said, shocked that this stunning woman was about my age, at her eldest. “I only have one daughter.”
“Oh, yeh? Big guy like you? Well, who need marriage, yeh?” she grinned, looking directly at me for the first time.
