Before it blew up my life had been comfortable and easy. I lived in Mountain Brook, a tony suburb of Birmingham, Alabama, in a big house. I drove an expensive car. I wore beautiful clothes. I entertained extravagantly. My biggest complaint was that I spent too much time car pooling.
My name is Sharon. Ann was and is my best friend. Our husbands were best friends and partners in a financial advisor firm that made oodles of money. Our sons, Steven and Andrew, were best friends. We had been two inseparable couples
Then one night our husbands came home and announced they'd fallen in love with two young cuties from the office.
After several alcohol soaked weeks Annie and I opted for a measure of revenge. We fired our friendly neighborhood lawyer and hired one from Birmingham; the kind whose nickname is Mad Dog. We hit the gym. Our husbands' girl friends/fiances were young and beautiful; we'd never match their thick youthful silken brown hair or the strength and elasticity of their wrinkle-free skin, but come the wedding day we'd, at least, have better bods. We had kept in shape and still elicited second glances from the guys, but over the next months we were fixtures at the gym. On the date our husbands remarried we checked each other out in the mirror. Damn we looked good; at least that mission was accomplished
Of the two of us, Ann was the pixie. Five feet one inch tall, she kept her blonde hair cropped short to emphasize her round face, emerald eyes, high cheekbones, and generous full lips. She loved showing off the new look, wearing tight tops, short shorts, and work-out clothes that bordered on a second skin.
I'm seven inches taller than Ann. Unlike her, I keep my blonde hair long and wavy, it runs past my shoulders and compliments, I hope, my long face, wide symmetrical cheekbones, and full prominent lips. I'm more modest than my friend, although I do enjoy a slit skirt to show off a leg or a tank top to emphasize my full round breasts.
Our transformation was getting us more than our share of attention and Ann and I were hot-to-trot – it had been awhile – but Mad Dog had strict orders: no fooling around. Until the property was divided he wanted us loyal wives abandoned by middle-aged men chasing pre-pubescent tail. In this regard he was not entirely pleased by our new look. We were too attractive, not quite right for the role of the aging housewives dumped for young hotties. Nonetheless, he summoned us to his office for more consultations than necessary and his stares left little doubt what was on his mind. Ann, as always, was not above a little flirting to make sure our case remained foremost on his mind.
* * * *
Each July the two couples had rented a cabin on the Gulf of Mexico near Gulf Shores. Ann and I decided to continue the tradition. We loved the beach, didn't want our husbands to think we'd change our routine for them, and, to be honest, desperately wanted to get away; our divorces became final in June. Our husbands, I mean ex-husbands, had immediately remarried.
We also had an ulterior motive. The last few summers the boys had complained about the trip; they were of an age where they were more interested in hanging with friends than sitting at the beach with the parental units. So we figured when the boys complained we'd, after a mild protest, leave them behind. Annie and I could get out of town for a week. Mad Dog be damned, no one would know. Two horny hot unattached girls at the sea shore! We would have ourselves some fun.
Thus, we were not entirely happy when the boys said they were eager to go. We recognized the absurdity of our position: we complained when they didn't want to go and complained when they did, but still we complained.
Which is how we found ourselves sitting on the beach with our sons. Ann was laying on her back in a tiny red bikini. I studied her through my sunglasses. When we started reworking our bodies Ann wanted a six pack and to turn her belly button into an outie. She had achieved both goals; she was sleek, muscled, fit, magnificent. Her firm C breasts, which spilled out of her bathing suit, sat high on her chest.
I was in a one piece suit. I was curvier than Ann. My body was not susceptible to her kind of conditioning. After spending years trying to tighten my butt I had finally given up. I always retained some fat, but men seemed to like the gentle jiggle when I walked by.
Annie rolled over and sucked down the last of her daiquiri. I had finished mine and wanted another, but was too loose and lazy to get it. When the boys heard Annie's final slurp they offered to fetch us another. When I pointed out that they were 18, too young to buy alcohol, they guaranteed they'd be able to do so. We consented and Ann, sitting up on her elbows, watched the boys head for the cabana.
"Look at the girls checking out our kids, it seems they've turned into quite the hunks."
I surveyed the crowd. Ann was right. Lots of eyes were following our sons. "I can still she them as little kids, hanging together, scurrying in and out of our houses."
"Yeah whenever I laid down the law mine would threaten to run away to live with Aunt Sharon."
I laid back down, closed my eyes, and was rolling the memory around my skull when a shadow drifted across my face. It was Andrew; he sat down next to me. "Your drink mi'lady." My son, Steven, was handing a drink to Ann.
"Thanks. How did you guys pull this off, fake id's?"
"Nah," Steven replied, "All the bartender wanted to know was how Andy and I scored such hot chicks."
That got Ann's attention. "What did you tell him?"
"I said we're really good kissers."
I was now sitting up. "Have you boys been telling people we're your dates?"
"Well, it'd be more accurate to say people assume you're our dates and we haven't corrected them. It's doing wonders for our reputations. Why are you surprised? You girls look ten years younger than you are and are fricking spectacular in those bathing suits. Guys have been staring at you all day. Every dude our age wants a hot older chick. Everyone's thinking we're two lucky guys livin' the dream.
I folded my arms across my chest. "I don't believe you."
Steven, a devilish look in his eyes, replied. "I'll prove it. I'll kiss Mrs. Rocke. Mom, you scan the crowd. See what people do. If people think I'm makin' out with my mom there'll be some kind of reaction."
I was about to tell my son he was out of his mind when Ann jumped in. "Sure, I'll bite. But remember, you've got a reputation as a good kisser."
She straightened her sun glasses and faced my son. He put his hand on her leg and leaned towards her.
I'm not sure what I expected, but I didn't expect this. Steven kissed her nose, her forehead, and then, in a series of little pecks, covered her face – everywhere except her lips. Ann was basking in the attention, her countenance happy. While my boy was taking the lead, Ann certainly was responsive. He, with the tip of his tongue, traced the outline of Ann's mouth. She moaned and when he opened his mouth, she opened hers. They worked their lips against each other. Initially, when Steven tried to slip his tongue inside her mouth Ann pulled away, but only for a moment. She quickly returned, her mouth open. Steven captured her upper lip between his, pulling it into his mouth. Ann leaned forward, running her hand up his leg to his swim trunks.
Its hard to describe the effect this was having on me. Part of me was stunned; my best friend was making out with my son. She was old enough to be his mother. This was a crowded beach. There were hundreds of witnesses. Then I remembered the boys' challenge. I scanned the crowd. Some people were watching, but no one look horrified, some look aroused. A few men and women reached for each other, touching and caressing. The boys were not only pulling off this charade, they were inspiring the crowd.
I looked back to Steven and Ann. She was nibbling on his lower lip.
