This was not my idea, or plan! Who knew? Now I know, but it's too late, I think?
My wife left me to 'find herself' and with the boys out of school, I packed up and headed south. I can make mid six figures anywhere that has a decent commercial real estate market, so I settled on the Southeast Coast.
I asked a new client to refer me to a dentist and he says his guy has a bodacious hygienist and she makes going to the dentist 'a whole new experience'. So, he's right. Catherine is a spectacular Italian bomb-shell with legs up to there, raven hair, smashing tits, and stunning smile. After laughing and talking with her through a 'prophy' I was in love. Trouble was, she was the Mrs. of the dentist, and you don't want to piss that guy off while he is running that drill in your mouth.
So, I see her every three months and do a million dirty things to her in my mind between dental visits. Then I read one Sunday in the paper that the D.D.S. flipped his Ferrari Friday night and is dead as Hector. And, he has, get this, a female companion (dead also) with a Las Vegas address.
Well, schmuck that I am, I instantly start calculating the odds for winning the widow, and hey, it don't look so bad. I'm no Bobby Adonis, but I have 'my ways' and anyway, 'faint heart never fucked the up-stairs maid.' So, send flowers, card, visit the funeral home, which was mobbed, and didn't she look smashing in widow's weeds. Just your basic little black thing with black lace everywhere else. Maybe I sound like a heartless scheming bastard, and I don't deny it, but if you saw her piping her eye with her silk hanky and sniffing through the sermon, well who could blame me?
Remember the circumstances? The good doctor killed himself and his Las Vegas showgirl doing 100 plus, and that was just the vodka, while his brain was swimming in a soupy sea of illegal chemicals. As Catherine later shared her sorrow with me, and dished me all the dirt, she admitted that her funeral tears aside, she was mother-fuckering her deceased spouse through the whole spectacle.
Fast forward past my letter of condolence, e-mail dialogue, lunch(s), dinner(s), and about a hundred grand in 'travel & entertainment' expenses reported to the IRS as business related, to my honeymoon with Catherine. We spent a month naked in the islands and if you believe the old canard about sex with a goddess goes stale, well then, you were never there.
Did I mention that the deceased doctor of dentistry was well insured? Or, that he accumulated a fantastic collection of stuff during his very productive second decade in dentistry? Catherine sold the house, huge, and downsized to a mere mansion. I must admit that my work ethic suffered somewhat from my romantic pursuits and I went from a star producer to an also ran at the office. But hey, we had the cottage at the beach, a ski condo in the mountains, and Catherine loves Europe, so I had a lot on my mind.
One task that required attention was sorting out my predecessor's cool toys. A superb gun collection, coins, stamps, books, and more all purchased en masse as investments and stored in his 'vault'. This was a fancy version of the u-store-it units, but this was climate controlled with high security. People kept jewelry, furs, and other valuables and Jesus, was 'ours' filled with valuables. And, my job was to sort through all this 'stuff' as Catherine called it, and 'get rid it'. Did I mention that Catherine trusted me totally?
Here the plot thickens. Catherine was still pissed at the dead/ex, and with good reason. She wanted any sign of him gone so out went the boat, motor cycle, plus a whole set of cars. It was up to me, three years after he was dead and way past our first anniversary, mind you, to 'clean out the vault'.
So one Saturday as the lease was about to expire I went to the vault to take an inventory. Catherine had been here with me several times and I had noted the gun racks, and what looked like treasures to me. Lord, was I right about that, but not the kind I expected.
One cabinet had an exquisite collection of cameras. A couple dozen vintage German, Swiss, and Japanese cameras that I started to fondle and fiddle with. Opening the bookshelf door, I see what looks like a dozen leather photo albums. I pulled out the first one labeled No. 1 and opened it.
Now, check this out. I have not dwelt extensively on Catherine's appearance, but here she was laid out a la Marylyn Monroe and buck naked across a double page spread in a bound (damn if it wasn't Moroccan Leather) photo album. I gasped as it simply took my breath away! It grew labored, my stomach did flip-flops and my knees wobbled as I slumped to the floor with her nude picture in my hands.
I don't know how long I sat there mesmerized by her gorgeous nude photograph from, I guessed, ten years or more ago. Her hair was straighter and shorter and maybe she has added five wonderful pounds, but that was my wife all right. My hand trembled as I turned the page and I, no shit, closed my eyes. There she was, naked as the day she was born laid out in the Duchess of Alba pose that I had seen in Florence. She was nothing you can imagine, except her ex-husband had quite a taste for photography, and old masters, which helps. In volume No 1, Catherine was laid out in every classic nude pose from antiquity to Salvatore Dali. I had to change my shorts before going home, and I didn't have the energy afterward to look at any of the other eleven volumes. Truth is, I was afraid to, and at the same time, I wanted to savor them over time!
Which brings me back to that evening at home? Catherine was marinating some mystery fish that we were going eat, I swear to god, raw. I was hip to this, of course! Compared to some of the shit I had been through in order to marry Catherine, eating raw fish was a 'piece of cake' if you get my drift? Anyway, I was filled with tumescent rage when I walked through the door, and I had her, the real thing, naked and squealing in bed within minutes. For sure, you get all that?
