When my twenties ended, so did my relationship with a complete slag of a woman that I affectionately refer to as "HatchetSnatch."
I, then, began a period of dating...aggressively. or, sexually acting out. It's unclear. I moved back to my hometown. Found an apartment. Then started plowing through the local population. At the local bar, I quickly became the guy that the women would gather and trade stories about. I was quite popular. And not in a good way.
During this time, I was doing my best to numb the pain and anger I felt over my relationship ending. It was a dumpster fire. But it was my dumpster fire. Plus, I was working for her dad. I would absolutely dissuade anyone from working for their ex-inlaws. I was on the second shift and mostly worked alone. So by six in the evening, I was well into the case of beer I always had in my truck. Four out of five work days, I was piss drunk by the time I'd clock out. The fifth night out of five, you ask? I would get off of work, get home, hop in the shower, and drink a half bottle of vodka before the water shut off. I was in fairly bad shape.
I'm at work one day. A Tuesday. I remember it like it was yesterday. I meet the new nursing department secretary. Twenty-seven. Five foot, seven Inches. 135 pounds. A perfect hourglass figure. Emerald green eyes. And beautiful red hair down the middle of her back. That day, she had on this beautiful navy blue dress that fell to her mid-calf, nude seamed stockings, and navy blue four-inch heels. But for me, the cherry on top was that she was a tried and true, down-home country girl.
I was stopped dead in my tracks. I'm a fairly chatty guy. But with her? I couldn't form an intelligent thought. Let alone, strike up a conversation.
I finally made up some reason to talk to this lady. It started out innocent enough. Then it slid down to joke-type innuendo. Then straight-up flirting. I did notice something peculiar, though. Whenever we would talk, she would slip off the doorknob-sized diamond ring her husband gave her.
Oh, yeah. She was married with a two-year-old daughter. Since I was in my sexually acting out period, I had the thought that sickens me to this day. I justified this behavior by saying "I don't know this cat. I don't owe him a God damned thing.". That was all I needed to hear.
Then, one very lovely Saturday evening, I get the call. Not "a" call. I got "THE" call. Her old man was leaving in half an hour, and will be gone for two days. She gave me her address. We set a time. And she asked if there was an outfit I had in mind. If not, then a favorite color.
We were set for ten that night. I show up and she answers the door in an ensemble that made my jaw drop. From the floor to the top of her head. Every bit of her was made up exactly as I asked. A royal blue bra, garter belt, and bikini-cut panty. Black seamed stockings and matte black five-inch heels. I couldn't have dressed her better if I had done it myself. Plus, also for me, she had on just the bare minimum amount of makeup. She really was a naturally pretty girl. And I've never been a big fan of War paint that's applied with a fuckin trowel.
She led me through the foyer to the great room. Then to the adjoining kitchen, where she produced a pint bottle of Southern Comfort that she had in the freezer. I was impressed. I had mentioned freezer-kept So Co to her once, a few months back. She pours herself three fingers of Jim Beam. Again, I was impressed.
We take our drinks and make out way to the living room. She sits down, crossing her legs, in the recliner. I'm on this couch-type piece. I down my So Co. and then walk to her, taking her cheeks in my hands, I lean in to attempt "my move". Yes, I had a move. Just one. I have never seen it fail. While never losing eye contact, I went in slowly for a kiss. When I could feel her bated breath, I went in just a hair farther. When I could feel the heat from her lips, I just barely brushed up against them.
She melted. Every nerve in her body was in the palm of my hand. Her breath was staggered. She had goosebumps. Even through a ber expensive Italian bra, I could tell that her nipples were now perfect pink pencil erasers. The muscles in her thighs twitched uncontrollably. All the while keeping eye contact, I smiled and went in for a proper kiss. She went limp. I did not, let's say.
After I was sure she wasn't going to pass out, I pulled her to her feet. Now sitting in her recliner, I couldn't help but notice an impressive wet spot she left behind. Facing me, again with eye contact, I hooked my two index fingers inside the elastic of her panties. She whimpered as I started to slide them down her perfectly formed legs. Having her then step out of that soggy garment, I had her put her right foot up on the coffee table that was beside her. Without saying a word, I slid down onto my knees.