She stood in my bedroom doorway clutching her pillow. "May I sleep with you," she asked.
Now that she was here, there was so much I didn't know about her and so much that I needed to know, the little things that suddenly become so important, when they're missing from your daily routine. Does she drink coffee? What does she eat for breakfast? What time does she go to bed? What time does she get up in the morning? What does she look like in the morning without makeup?
There was so many things to learn about her. Which programs does she watch on television? Does she like watching baseball, the Boston Red Sox? What about football, the New England Patriots? Basketball, the Boston Celtics? Hockey, the Boston Bruins? It was then that I realized that I needed to get a life, instead of living my live vicariously through the lives of professional athletes.
My quandary about her private life continued in my mind. What kind of music does she like? Which side of the bed does she prefer? Does she sleep in pajamas, a nightgown, or in the nude? I could only imagine the image of her sleeping in the nude. Okay, the last two questions, I admit, are premature, but maybe, if it was to come up in conversation, in readiness of her sleeping arrangements, I'd make special note of her preferences.
I helped her with her things, moving what she needed me to carry, lift, and move, and helping her to arrange the empty closet in the guest bedroom. No one has been here since my girlfriend moved out last year and before that, my twin daughters stayed with me, until they got their careers going. I was not only excited about having a roommate but also excited about specifically having her as a roommate. If nothing else, an understatement, it was someone to talk to on a daily basis. It sometimes gets lonely living alone and, as much as I hated to admit it, I was just beginning to get used to the quiet, emptiness that my life had become, without having a woman in my life.
I had to make a conscious effort not to stare at her, she was just so damn beautiful and I was so damn attracted to her that I could not help myself from staring. Afraid of ruining this temporary arrangement by making her feel uncomfortable, continually, I told myself not to stare at her but to play it cool. Only, inside, I was dying. I was dying to touch her, to hold her, and to kiss her. She consumed my every thought. I was falling in love with her.
She grabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from her suitcase and came over to me and turned around.
"Would you do me the honors?"
It had been a while, since I've been with a woman and, at first; I didn't know what she wanted me to do. Then, she pointed to the back of her dress. I unzipped her dressed and was rewarded with a view of the back of her bra. Frozen in place, I stared at her back. I had a view of the top of her panty while imagining showering her neck and back with kisses. Then, I could not believe it when she leaned down, pulled up the hem and lifted her dress up and over her head.
She turned to face me and smiled. There she stood not three feet away from me in her low cut, sexy lace bra and bikini panty. As if she was standing before me fully clothe, she talked, as she dressed.
"You have a beautiful home, Freddie."
"Thank you," I said telling myself not to stare at her semi-naked, underwear clad body, but I wasn't listening to myself. I stared. I stared at her bra and I stare at her panty, while wondering what were beneath those oh so thin and oh sheer silk and satin pieces of material.
Boy did she ever have a body. She had a Playboy magazine body, but without the phony tits. Everything about her was real, genuine, and sincere. Just as I thought that, I realized that I was putting her high up on the pedestal, as I did with my ex-wife. and as I did with my ex-girlfriend. You'd think that I'd have learned from the bad experience I had with my ex's. I needed to stop doing that. No doubt, she's just like me, human with all of her foibles, yet, she was worthy of that lofty pedestal position. Only, one of the things that gets me going is seeing a shapely woman in her panties and bra and she was certainly shapely.
"I'm sorry," she said laughing. "Did I embarrass you?"
"No, no, not I all," I said, while thinking that arousing me was more the word. "I have to sit down before I pass out," I said suddenly hot and waving my hand in front of my face, while discreetly making an adjustment to the position of my growing penis. "Actually, yes," I said. "I'm not accustomed to seeing a woman strip off her clothes in front of me."
"I've never harbored any inhibitions, when it comes to nudity." She laughed, again. "That was one of the things that drove my boyfriend nuts," she said shrugging her shoulders, before shimming her t-shirt over her head. "For an artist, he's such a prude."
I figured from my first assessment of her that she was a very modest and private person. Now, I know better, I was wrong. Already my pedestal that I had put her on had a crack in it. Yet, I preferred a woman, who didn't have too many inhibitions and was more open with her feelings. I watched her as she wiggled her round, panty clad ass in her jeans. I wondered if she was shaved, trimmed or bushy. Since there was no evidence of errant hairs or a dark shadow, I ruled out bushy.
"Prude? I'd more like to think of him as an asshole," I said with a chuckle.
"All of his friends have seen me naked," she said with a shrug.
"Naked? Really? How?"
