Cynthia Adams (her friends called her Cindy), drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she waited out the stoplight. Cindy was a 42 year-old married white woman who, as the younger crowd would say, was some kind if MILF. She kept her figure in line with thrice weekly workouts and had treated herself to breast enhancement last year as she began to notice some sag. The result was a middle-aged woman with the figure of a thirty year old.
Beep! She was brought back to attention to driving by the driver behind her, honking his horn to have her go with the now green light. Despite her physical appearance that most women her age would die for she thought to herself, I feel miserable, again.
And why? She had a good-paying career as a paralegal, a new BMW 530i, a nice house and, best of all, 2 kids who were away at college.
She was miserable because it had been six months since she had any kind of sex, unless you count her nightly encounters with a vibrator. Her husband, Philip, was the prototypical salesman, gone 90% of the time, who knows where. Even when he was home he paid little attention to her. God, she thought, what I’d give for a nice big cock to play with. That started her giggling as women like Cindy weren’t allowed to be bad. Just once, she thought, I’d like to be really, really bad.
It was eight P.M. and she was late going home because of a project she had been working on. As she drove she thought to herself, I really don’t want to go home to an empty house again. And that vibrator just wasn’t cutting it.
Just then she saw a bar on the right side of the road. Foxy’s, it was called. Several of the other women in her office had talked about going to Foxy’s after work but she had never joined them. Why not stop in, she thought. And she did.
Foxy’s was like any other bar; long winding counter with stools and a dance floor surrounded by booths. She sat at the bar and ordered a banana daiquiri, then turned to take in her surroundings. It was about half-full of patrons tonight and they were a mixed crowd. She saw a professional type, thirtyish, sitting in a booth alone with his tie loosened, nursing a drink. Across from her at the bar was a blonde woman, maybe twenty-five, who was showing just about as much cleavage as was possible without her store-bought tits bouncing out of her top. A black couple occupied a booth, in their late twenties, early thirties, and she marveled at how much the woman resembled Whitney Houston at her prime. At a booth in the far corner, two women in their forties were talking animatedly, as they drank. Clearly, they had been drinking for some time.
As she finished her drink and was ready to leave, the bartender placed another banana daiquiri in front of her.
“I didn’t order another round,” she said.
“It’s been paid for,” said the bartender, “Read the note.”
Cindy picked up the drink and looked at the note. “Want some company?” was scribbled. She looked around the bar and saw the person who bought her the drink waving.
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