Rosie is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. I'm William Rivers and I'm married to Rosie. I'm biased, of course, but if you were to notice how other men, and most women, look at her, you'd agree with me. She stands five foot, six inches tall with a slim build and nice curves. She weighs only 135 pounds but, if you meet her, you can't tell her I know. It's one of her more closely held secrets although I haven't a clue why. It's a perfect weight for her.
She has dark, curly hair that she keeps in a sexy, Orphan Annie-like hair do. She has a monstrous, infectious smile that sometimes draws the attention of the men she meets away from her 34-23-34 body. She has C sized breasts and a seize sized ass.
Except for her lighter skin and larger breasts, she could be Whitney Houston's twin sister if Ms. Houston had been born fifteen years later in 1978.
I've told her that hundreds of times but she won't believe me. I've told her she's the most beautiful woman in the world and, of course, she doesn't believe me. I've modified it to suggest she's certainly among the top fifty most beautiful women in the world and she doesn't complain, probably just to keep me quiet. She's very self-conscious about her body and, while she's comfortable around the house with me, she dresses very conservatively whenever we go out for anything, including the super market.
That's my only problem with Rosie. I'm married to a top fifty woman and no one, except me, knows it. I'm a guy. I like to brag a little and I'd really like to show off Rosie. I want everyone; especially other men, to know how lucky I am and she should get the attention she deserves. I've repeatedly suggested she develop a sense of pride in her looks and show off more often. I've avoided "exhibitionism" to describe what I've suggested but that's what I, and others, would like to see. I'd like to transform Rosie and, until recently, I didn't think I'd get the opportunity.
Rosie loves to take care of the house. She's always looking for ways to improve its looks and comfort. The outside is no exception. She adores gardening. It's more than just a hobby. It borders on an obsession. It's also the one place outside the house where she doesn't dress to hide her figure. She doesn't dress to expose herself in any way either, wearing a floppy hat, long sleeved men's flannel shirts and loose fitting jeans.
Even dressed in shirt and jeans when she's outside, I've noticed men walking by on the street slow their steps to check her out. Last spring was unusually hot and Rosie would come inside after hours in the garden, sweating profusely and badly in need of a shower. I talked to her about it and suggested that she should dress more appropriately for the weather. The heat was oppressive and, rather than give up gardening, she listened to me. I suggested a t-shirt and shorts would be more appropriate.
Rosie disagreed and countered with an old lightweight sweatshirt and she would keep the jeans. I got a pair of scissors and took the shirt from her. "Hold on. What are you going to do with those?" she asked.
"I'm going the cut off the sleeves so it will be cooler for you," I replied.
"Okay. If you insist," she said. "But not too short."
I took the shirt and when I started to cut off a sleeve at the shoulder, she quickly pulled the shirt from my hands. "No you don't," she said. "I'll do it."
She cut off both sleeves about six inches down from the shoulder.
Two days later, after both days working in the garden, she was still over heated when she came inside. "You still need to lighten your clothing further if you want to work outside in this heat," I said. "You need a lighter shirt and dump the jeans."
"I suppose you have a suggestion," she said sarcastically.
"I think I do," I said. "Give me a minute."
I returned with an old t-shirt of mine. It had a crew neck, moderately short sleeves about the same length as the modified sweatshirt and it was long, well below her waist.
"Its light enough but no way I'm wearing that with this bra. You can see through it in the sun."
That night we went shopping for a suitable bra. Rosie bought one of those opaque sports bras. You know, the kind with super tight elastic that, if a guy had his hand under it, it would cut off the circulation to his fingers.
Rosie gardened like that for the next few days. She agreed she was cooler but the sweat pooled under her sports bra, ran down under her jeans and pooled in her underwear as well. That night, I distracted her and she didn't do the laundry. The next day, she was readying to head out to garden in the front of the house but she couldn't find her 'garden' bra. She found it in the pile of clothing next to the washing machine. It was a cold, damp mess. "I can't wear this like this," she complained.
"Look, Honey," I said sympathetically, "just wear one of you other bras. You'll be cooler and no one will notice."
Rather than not garden and between a rock and a hard place, she took my advice; picked out a full, opaque bra and headed out in the hat, t-shirt and jeans. I sat on the front porch, pretending to read but actually watching Rosie and the reactions of the few men who walked by. Their faces revealed they were impressed and one guy, walking by with his wife, got a stern tug on his arm when his gaze lingered too long. I walked around the yard and confirmed that, at certain angles, the sun shone through the shirt and her bra, and the breasts it supported, were nicely silhouetted.
I took the opportunity to complement her on her work in the garden and how nice she looked in the t-shirt and jeans.
"I was a little uncomfortable," she said.
"Why? You looked fine," I asked.
"I was afraid someone could see through the shirt when the sun was behind me."
"Honey," I said seriously, "You looked fantastic. So what if the sun shone through your shirt. You were more than adequately covered by your bra."
"I thought the men walking along the sidewalk were staring at me."
"They go by every day. They look to admire the beautiful work you do in the yard."
"But they can see my bra."
"Not really. You're wearing your t-shirt and it diffuses the outline of your bra and, even if they noticed your bra, they've seen bras thousands of times. Relax. Just do your work and not worry about what they think."
The next day, Rosie was again out in the yard with a similar t-shirt, bra and jeans. She came inside for lunch. "Bill," she said, "I think Harold, up the street, is some kind of voyeur."
"How so?" I asked.
"Normally he walks his dog, with his wife twice a day, mornings and afternoons. Today he walked by with his wife and, later, he walked by again with just the dog."
"How is that a problem?" I asked.
"Well, he's never done that before. You know, walk the dog twice in the morning and without his wife. I think he took the second walk just to look at me in the yard."
"Was that a problem for you?"
"It was. He was staring. It was one of those strange interactions. He was staring at me; I knew it and he knew I knew it and he didn't stop."
"How did you handle that?"
"I did something stupid."
"Stupid?"
"I stood sideways between him and the sun so he had a better view of my profile. He could see the outline of my body through the t-shirt."
"Bingo," I thought.
"Rosie," I comforted her, "You were just having fun. You assumed he was having thoughts other than walking the dog and you teased him a little. Probably made his entire day."
"I've never done anything like that."
"It's natural for a woman to tease a man that way. There's no harm done. What was he, probably thirty feet away? You probably had some fun doing it."
"That's the thing. I did have a little fun. I stood there for a few seconds, smiled and turned my back on him. When I turned around again, he was gone."
"See. No harm. It's like fishing without a hook. You dangle the bait in front of the fish but you don't expect to catch anything and if you did, its catch and release. You had a little fun. He had a little fun. How can that be a problem?"
