I was working as an accountant then in of all places, South Boston for a small numismatic and philatelic company that was owned by General Mills. Just as the North End of Boston was mostly inhabited by Italians, South Boston was predominantly Irish. My opinion is that women who have any amount of Irish in their heritage are the most beautiful women on the planet. I love Irish women, especially Irish women with freckles.
Wilma was the manager of one of the retail stores that sold our collectibles. My job was counting inventory and because the inventory was so valuable and easy to steal, I took a physical inventory once a month and another inventory when the salespeople removed inventory from the vaults to take to coin and stamp shows and when they returned. Everyone wore security badges and I wore a red one, the highest color, that allowed me to go anywhere in the company including the vaults to count.
The first time I met her, I was squatting down by a counter in the retail store inventorying stamps. She leaned across to me from the other side of the glass display peering down at me.
"Hi," she said, "I'm Wilma, the manager." She smiled her infectious smile. "And you are?"
I stood and as soon as I stood, I noticed three things about her seemingly all at once. She was very pretty, had the most beautiful green eyes I have ever seen and I had an unobstructed view down her blouse. Along with a good portion of her bra, she was showing plenty of cleavage of her B sized tits.
"Hi," I said turning red, "I'm Freddie." As soon as we shook hands, we were friends. It happened that fast. She mesmerized me. She had a wicked fun sense of humor, a sense for the ridiculous, and an outrageous sense of teasing. If there was such a thing as love at first sight, I was in love with her.
Every day, I made an excuse to make my way out to her retail store on the pretense of needing to do something with taking a count of her inventory. I was in Heaven when they expanded the responsibility of my job to collect the cash receipts at the end of the day from the three retail stores for the daily bank deposit. I needed my daily dose of Wilma. She even joked about our names, Fred and Wilma, playing off the Hanna Barbera cartoon, The Flintstones.
Every day, she told me a new joke endearing her to me more. Every day, she accidentally on purpose flashed me a view down her blouse when she leaned forward to rest her forearms or up her short skirt when she squatted down to show me more than stamps and coins, but her panties. Every day, I wondered what color bra and panties she wore today.
She was pretty in the way that Tuesday Weld or Joey Heatherton was. Google those women if you need to know that they looked like because Wilma had that kind of a sexual attraction and sensuality that affected men turning them to quivering idiots. She was sexy. Standing about 5'5" with multi-colored blonde hair cut to her jaw line and that moved with her every motion like a shampoo commercial; she was my dream woman and my sexual fantasy. I took her away with me every night to imagine what it would be like to be in bed with her naked. She was my Mrs. Robinson.
After a few months of flagrant flirting, sexual innuendos, and pre-pillow talk, she invited me to her house in Hull one summer weekend. I had never been to Hull. She had this great place that was a street away from the beach. Even though, I had visions of the movie The Summer of '42 with Wilma as my Jennifer O'Neil, I was so naïve and too afraid to make a move.
I didn't know what to expect. I didn't want to ruin our friendship by making an unwanted pass that she didn't reciprocate. I never figured that she felt the same way about me as I felt about her. I figured we were going to talk about work. We didn't. Somehow alone with her in her little house, work never came up in the conversation.
I knew she was older than me, but I didn't know how much older. Her age was part of the attraction. I figured she was in her late thirties. She nearly knocked me off my feet when she told me that she had two sons, the older of which was only six years younger than me. She blew my mind when she told me she was 42-years-old and I couldn't believe it when I discovered, by the slip of her son's tongue, that she was 45-years-old.
