stay on target


She never explained what her work or business was except that it was in finance. She was home most of the time I was there. She had the occasional furtive phone call that she took downstairs in a room for that. They had another home for skiing. She had a big bland Mercedes SUV, grey in every way. She was a vegetarian, and her kids, by default, were too. Neutral was her color scheme for clothes, makeup, and decor, outside of the few paintings with colorful sailboats.

Pushing her way into her mid 40’s, she was too lean to sag much anywhere. I saw her thong underwear when I moved laundry around for her. I could never get used to those things riding up between my pink dimpled buns of glory. I’m sure she had a thigh gap to go with it. I have the opposite of a thigh gap, I have a thigh rub. They’ve rubbed against each other enough to wear through the fabric of my leggings on multiple occasions. 

Now I just hope to keep my boob to belly ratio in my favor. Your belly has got to stay smaller than your boobs, Alexine! 

‘It’s no good, I can’t maneuver away from this camembert and sourdough bread!’ 

‘Stay on target.’ 

‘We’re too close to the sauvignon blanc!’ 

‘Stay on target.’ 

I’m no Rebel fighter, damn it. 

Her husband, Geoffrey, is a pilot and is rarely home when I’m there. He has most of his clothes downstairs in the guest bedroom since he has to leave at unnaturally early hours, and she did not like to be awakened at that time. I imagine with her fairly consistent level of tension that getting back to sleep is not easy for her. 

I don’t seem to get those waves of blatant horniness much while house cleaning, like I would otherwise. I have the fleeting doggy style fantasy (one of my three fav positions), but then my shoulders start to ache from scrubbing or wiping or vacuuming. Being a born-and-bred elbow grease girl is wreaking havoc with my sexual delusions.

excerpt chapter 8: cold concrete & a furtive hubby

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