I had seen her in a long flower-print dress at the rehearsal dinner the night before, and she looked great. However, in the red dress at the wedding reception she looked fabulous, yummy, exotic, spectacular – any other superlative that you want to use.
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While all of my physical characteristics and every date I had from High School to the present are not important, some background is needed to understand my story.
I never liked the name that my parents gave me – Winston Spencer Churchyard. It was too much like that World War II famous dude's name, plus I considered it pretentious. Therefore at the age of majority I changed my name to Blake Churchyard Winston, my given name retained as a surname and the "Churchyard" just to placate my parents, although I always only used just the middle initial "C" and not the unfortunate full middle name.
I married Cynthia Judge when I was twenty two, she twenty three. Our first seven-ten years of marriage were – at least as far as I was concerned – good ones. However, in my mid-thirties to early forties I had some health setbacks, simply put got fat, and my self-image and self-confidence suffered. Cynthia did not experience similar problems; she remained as attractive as the day that I met her.
I became certain the Cindy was cheating on me, which made my situation even worse. I never got ironclad proof, primarily because I didn't really want to find out since my self-image was so bad that I reasoned that she was justified in doing it. One guy in particular I was sure was porking her; Clyde Bristow, a tennis junkie from the club that Cynthia belonged to. I hated him. Fortunately, he moved out-of-state just before my health scare.
I'm sure that Cynthia would have divorced me if it weren't for our three children. She came from a broken home and didn't want that for her kids; and about the only part of my life that I didn't lose confidence in was child-rearing. I was always a good and attentive father, and having the kids probably also prevented me from just throwing in the towel.
A near-death experience when I was forty two changed my life. I learned a lot about near-death experiences after the fact.
Dr. Sam Parnia, the director of resuscitation research at Stony Brook University School of Medicine, has conducted a scientific study on resuscitated patients in an attempt to try to unravel the mental and cerebral experience of dying. As part of his research he's interviewed more than 200 people who've been brought back to life after suffering from a fatal cardiac arrest – including me. In his study he found that nearly half of the near-deathers have some memory, ranging from terrifying to blissful, associated with their death.
I had what Sam has determined is the least common near-death experience – recalling events post-cardiac arrest (the most common being the "light at the end of a tunnel"). Sam considers my uncommon experience the most fascinating because I (and the only other person he interviewed that had this experience) was able to recall the events that happened after I had technically died and, according to most scientists' understanding of the human brain, I should have ceased to be aware. While technically dead, among other things, I saw and heard my kids' sorrow; and saw and heard that Cynthia's sorrow didn't match theirs in intensity.
After my near-death experience I became a different man. As soon as I recovered from my cardiac issue I started exercising daily. Within a year I was religiously doing cross-training, and within three was proficient enough to be an instructor. I got my kids into cross-training too, with great success both for them and for our relationship. Within fourteen months my sexual vigor didn't just return, rather it far surpassed what it had been before. I strangely found, however, that while the physical aspect of sex with Cindy was the most rewarding that it had ever been (seemingly including for her), the "love" portion, at least to me, was greatly diminished.
My physical rebirth (in High School I had been an excellent basketball and baseball player) was soon matched by my mental rehabilitation, and my self-image and self-confidence didn't just return but exceeded any that I had had before, even my youthful basketball and baseball tenacity. My languishing business career skyrocketed with my physical and mental progress, and at the time that I encountered the red dress I was at the zenith of my profession.
In other words, at 55 years old I was in the best shape, position, and attitude of my life, 190 pounds with 8% body fat, all of my hair which was mostly still blond, and a kick-ass confidence that was apparent to all who met me, yet tempered with a humility borne from the desperate situation of my "lost years" as I referred to my sickly, fat, time. I was proud of my three kids – who were now college graduates and doing well on their own. The only part of my life that was less than stellar was my marriage; the better I felt the more difficulty I had in dealing with Cindy's past cheating, and my view of her while I was officially "dead."
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The destination wedding was of the twenty-something daughter of a long-time friend. Cynthia and I probably would not have been invited if it were an exclusive affair, however given that there were 200 guests our inclusion was to be expected.
At the ostentatious reception, I was able to cleverly maneuver myself to one of the bars at the same time that the red dress was approaching it, apparently having left her seemingly disinterested (not that I was closely observing her...ahem) husband to seek her own libation. As we passed I gave her a big smile, which she returned. I assume that she had heels on, although I couldn't see them because her dress was full length, because she was almost at my eye level and I'm six feet two inches tall.
After she got her drink I approached her. "I have to compliment you are your taste in dresses. This red one is spectacular, and – didn't you have a floral print on last night?"
"Yes, I did – how observant," she chuckled.
"Well both the floral print one and this one are truly elegant. Are they Paris originals?" I continued, the question delivered with an impish look.
"Don't I wish," she laughed. "Not Paris originals, but they seem to fit and look pretty decent."
I wanted to say "That's the understatement of the century," but held my tongue.
We engaged in very pleasant conversation for about five-ten minutes, although it may have been longer because time flies when you're having fun. The entire time I was trying not to stare – whether at her exotic face, full cleavage, or shapely middle – and I think that I was successful; at least she didn't slap me or call me a pervert. I simply made and broke eye contact as we chatted.
Just as the conversation was getting really enjoyable her petulant husband approached, and in a gruff manner asked her to go with him back to their table. I offered him my hand as I introduced myself – simply as "Blake." He smirked at it like it was a piece of dog shit, but after a look from his wife lowered himself to shake it. His grip was like that of a dead fish – I hate people with limp handshakes.
I got little personal information from the red dress during our discussion except for her first name; "Lisa."
Over the next six months the only time that I saw Lisa again was when I was imagining that Cynthia was her while doing my best to overheat Cindy's pussy with my tongue or dick.
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Imagine my surprise when I saw that Lisa was at the airport closest to my house while waiting for a Southwest Airlines flight for a business trip to Memphis. She was apparently travelling for pleasure, not business, since she was casually dressed. I was pleased to see that her legs – highly visible extending from her shorts – were as attractive as the rest of her. With cross-training shoes on instead of high heels she appeared to be about five ten or five eleven. Her exotic face, major cleavage, and sultry manner were as revealing as when she was in the red dress.
I was surprised at how enthusiastically Lisa greeted me, including with a hug which caused an unwanted "boing" at my crotch. We chatted as we waited to be called into our boarding groups.
"What's your boarding number?" she asked.
"Since I'm on business and paid extra, I'm A-17," I replied with a smile. "What about you?"
"B-32, just like the infamous bomber" she snickered. "Save me the seat next to you," she smiled as she touched my arm.
There was a 100% probability that I would be doing that – although I didn't say it, but merely smiled back.
Because of the pleasant conversation – and even more pleasant view – the trip to Memphis seemed to last minutes, not hours. I found out that Lisa lived about 90 minutes west of our home airport while I lived about an hour east of it. She seemed to ask just the right questions – almost like she knew some of the answers in advance – and I never got tired of her smile, chuckle (she didn't actually giggle – she was too sophisticated for that), or laugh, especially the way that her eyes crinkled when she said something funny or provocative. Assuming that she graduated college in line with people her age (of course I would never ask her age outright) she was 38 years old (which surprised me since if I had to guess I would have speculated 28-32).
As we landed she asked what car rental agency I was using. When I replied "National," she said "Me too. We can walk together – do you have checked bags?"
"No, just carry-ons," I replied.
"Ditto," she smiled.
When we got to the rental car desk, as she fished through her purse, she let out a moan. "While I brought my driver's license I forgot my wallet with my credit cards and cash," she exclaimed, on the verge of tears.
"No problem," I replied like Sir Lancelot. "I'll use my credit card and loan you some cash. You can call your office or husband and have them expressed to you and then pay me back."
"You wouldn't mind?" she asked, seemingly holding back tears.
"I'd love to help a damsel in distress," I joked.
There was another complication when the agent couldn't find her reservation, but since they had cars available it turned out to be irrelevant. She waited while I got my car and we walked to the garage together. I got a "thank you" hug as we said goodbye after exchanging hotel information and cell phone numbers. Again I had an unpleasant "boing" at my crotch.
Lisa and I touched base on the phone the next two days. Despite my assumption, she too was on business – she just travels casual (I had no problem with that given the view of her legs and chest that I got). The third day when we touched base she said she had gotten her checkbook and credit cards and wanted to pay me back – she was leaving the next day while I had to stay one more. She insisted that she come to my hotel that third night.
