Overall, I looked pretty decent for a 50-year-old desk jockey. I stood in front of the full body mirror in the resort suite's bathroom and assessed myself as honestly as I could. With one hand on the towel around my waist, I wiped the fog off the mirror, revealing the marble shower behind me. Five-ten, not too much overweight, muscles under my fat - I could definitely stand to be in better shape, though I had a fairly good dad bod. Still, when I think about the my wife that I pulled, I must be doing something right. We were two days into our 20th anniversary trip to an all-inclusive resort in the Bahamas, and it had been amazing so far. Drinks on the beach all day, gourmet dinners, sex in our private hot tub every night.
"Paul. What. The fuck. Is this?"
Rebecca's voice came from the other side of the door. Shit, she wasn't supposed to see that.
I opened the door. "Shit, you weren't supposed to see that."
She was holding the small packet that I had bought that afternoon. When I said I pulled well, I meant it. Even at 49, she was in great shape from regular marathon training. Her long legs looked incredible in heels, and I'll admit it, I was a little turned on when her heels put her an inch or two taller than me. She had never been curvy, and her exercise routine had trimmed even more fat from her frame. Her bright, engaging eyes revealed the intelligence that had propelled her career. I was so proud of her - and frankly, thankful for her corporate bonuses that paid for trips like this. She was wearing one of my favorite dresses, a backless black number with a slit in the thigh. God, her back looked amazing--defined traps and delts, with a V cut down to her ass.
She waved the packet at me. "I repeat. What the fuck is this?" I couldn't tell if she was mad or amused.
"I bought it this afternoon from one of the shops in town. I, um, thought it was funny?"
"You don't think this is real, do you?" She examined the instruction on the packet and read them out loud. "'Tropical Magic. Transform you or your partner into the person of your dreams. Simply write your desires on the enclosed special paper, burn with the enclosed candle, and mix the ashes into your favorite tropical beverage.' Seriously?"
I blushed. "N-no. It's just a joke. Maybe a fun way for us to talk about our fantasies and maybe do some role play." I paused. "And if it IS real..."
She scoffed. "How much did this cost?" She pulled the receipt out of the paper shopping bag. "$100!?! Are you insane?"
I rushed to her side, holding up my towel with one hand, and put my free hand on her waist. "I paid for it out of my account, not the shared one. Think of it like cheap sex therapy. You know how hard it is for us to talk about, you know, stuff. It's an excuse to talk dirty after dinner."
She gave me a side eye. "Maybe. Speaking of which, we're going to be late for our reservation. Get dressed."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you're paying tonight!"
----
At the resort steakhouse, Rebecca studied the packet while I worked on my ribeye. She held it up to the light. "How is it supposed to work?"
"Beats me. The guy at the shop called it 'sympathetic magic.' He seemed pretty convinced it was real."
"Where did you say you bought it?"
"One of those little shops down the beach. The guy was selling cheap jewelry, shells, charms and beads and shit. He said it took effect overnight, but the magic only worked on the island. Once we leave, everything goes back to normal."
"And you wanted to use this...on me?" She gestured down at her trim physique. The little black dress revealed a hint of cleavage, emphasized by a diamond pendant hanging above her breasts. Damn, she looked good. Much better than I did.
This was the moment I feared. "Uh...yeah? I mean, if you want to use it on me, I'm cool with that too. But, well, women are less shallow than guys, you know."
"Please. Did you see the buzz online about that Jeremy Allen White ad?"
"I would have bought two, but, well...I couldn't afford it." This was the one part of our relationship that embarrassed me. Rebecca made so much more money than me. We shared all of our common expenses, the kids lacked for nothing, and she never made a big deal out of it, but there was a reason she drove a brand new BMW and I drove a ten-year-old Honda.
Rebecca thought for a minute, then took a deep breath. "Ok, I'll do it."
"No, I understand--wait, what? I mean, that's awesome. Thank you, honey."
"With one condition. Two conditions. You have to be completely, one hundred percent honest about what you want. And I get the final say over what we put on the paper."
"Of course."
She downed the rest of her wine and threw her napkin on the table. "Now pay this check and let's go fulfill some fantasies."
----
"Why does it have to be a tropical beverage?" Rebecca asked as she ordered two piña coladas from room service. I was laying out the pieces of the magic spell on the coffee table.
"I don't know. Magic?"
We had changed into our pajamas, me in my cotton pants and old Zeppelin shirt, she in a silky negligee. Rebecca slid up next to me on the sofa and pulled the pencil and paper out of my hand. "Alright, mister. Tell me your fantasy."
"You know I love you, and I never want you to change. This is **just** a fantasy."
