Friday I missed my lunch. It had been turning into a date I looked forward to. But I settled for a sandwich over the carburetor bench so I could get out early. At 4:00 I called “that’s the week, good job guys,” handed out paychecks, and locked up.
When I got home Bonnie was putting the finishing touches on her face and hair. She smiled up at me in the mirror as I walked into the bedroom where she sat at her little makeup desk, and touched her shoulder.
“Don’t fuck up my handiwork,” she said, touching my hand lightly, “and for God’s sake, wash your stinky ass.”
I laughed and headed into the bathroom. I tossed my clothes into the hamper and got into the shower. I showered and shaved, trimming my goatee to sharp lines, and ran my fingers through my curly hair.
By the time I walked out of the bathroom Bonnie was ready and she looked good. She DOES know how to make the best of what she’s got. Her great mane of auburn hair was done in a fluffy cap, not quite a country singer’s “big hair,” but enough to draw attention. A tight blouse with the top three buttons undone showed the cleavage of her small breasts with just a peek of her red WonderBra showing. The blouse was white and semi-sheer, showing off the red bra, long-sleeved with a light lace collar and lace fringe at the wrists. Her jangly bracelet, purchased on vacation once at an Indian reservation, showed turquoise in traditional blue-green but also in a striking red. Her wedding set, including the big diamond engagement ring that had taken me six years to pay for, was proudly on her finger.
A small strip of pale belly showed between the blouse and her black slacks that showed off her big hips nicely. A wide belt highlighted the flare of her hips and a vaguely triangular silver buckle pointed, suggestively, down. Spike heels with open toes, showing the bright blue polish there, completed the image.
“You look absolutely STUNNING,” I said, moving toward her.
She held up her hands, palms out, the universal “STOP” gesture.
“Nuh-uh,” she said. “This is art,” and she used her hands to gesture from head to toe, “and I do NOT want it messed up.”
I chuckled, kissed the tips of my fingers, and patted the top of her head with them.
“Come on then, wench,” I said, “let’s see if we can corrupt a widow.”
She giggled and said, “Oh goody, let’s.”
I drove across the river, to the next town. Not for Bonnie and my reputations, but for Madonna’s. We went in and I explained to the waitress that we had a third and I would be right back with her. I kissed Bonnie quickly and headed back across the river.
It was about 15 minutes to Madonna’s place and she was waiting for me like a junior high school girl on her first date.
IF that first date was to church.
She was in a full dress, a dark blue thing with a light print pattern. It buttoned to the neck and fell to the tops of her shoes. The shoes were bad in themselves, big square things.
“Ohhhhhhh no,” I said, putting my hands on her shoulders and turning her to face back into the house, and giving a push.
“David?” she said.
“We’re going on a date, Madonna,” I said, starting to rummage through her closet, “not to church.”
Her closet was hopeless. I suppose I should have expected it. I couldn’t find anything even remotely interesting so I started on drawers. I went through them like I was the SWAT team working on a drug warrant.
“We have to get you to a store,” I said, chuckling as I pulled out the tight black jeans I had seen her in that first day and finding the red sweater from that day.
I crooked my finger, beckoning her, and she came as she had learned to.
I was interested to see that my fingers were not trembling at all as I started on the 30 tiny buttons that ran up the front of the dress. I got to my knees and made her hold my shoulders for balance as I untied and took the shoes off and tossed them into the corner. I stood and got her bra off as easily as the dress, my fingers perfectly steady.
When I said “arms up,” her eyes got big.
I reached out and squeezed both of her tits.
“When you’ve got it,” I said, smiling and bending to kiss her lightly, my hands still holding her boobs, “flaunt it.”
She raised her arms and I worked the red sweater on.
Standing in her panties and sweater I thought she looked spectacular.
Back on my knees, I got the jeans on her, very tight over her thin hips and ass. I crawled over to the chest of drawers, found a pair of white socks, and then put them on her along with a pair of tennis shoes so white they just had to be bleached after every use.
I was aware of how much time I had spent so I didn’t do anything with her makeup.
She stopped and looked in the full-length mirror for a second and when she turned to face me, for that instant with that smile, I saw the beautiful 18-year-old she had once been.
“I look like a whore,” she said, but she was smiling as she said it.
“Come on,” I said, “let’s see what I can get for you.”
She giggled and took my arm.
I led her to the Pontiac, a lovingly restored 1964 GTO, and held the door for her like a gentleman.
She giggled and said, “can we put the top down?”
So I worked the chrome level and pushed the button and the top whirred down. I didn’t bother with the boot.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“A place across the river,” I said, “I wouldn’t want your reputation to be damaged by being seen with a miscreant like me.”
She giggled and said, “David, my reputation has been ruined since your truck started being in my driveway at noon.”
I laughed.
“We’ll see how you feel about that in the morning,” I said.
Her eyes got big. “You’re spending the night with me?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “I told you, YOU’RE spending the night with me.”
“What,” she started and then stopped.
When I glanced over she was staring at me.
“What?” I said.
“What about your wife?” she asked.
“Let me worry about that,” I said.
“Oh my God,” she said softly.
I flashed The Grin and patted her thigh.
At the restaurant, I ran around the car and opened the door for her.
We were hand-in-hand as we walked into the dining room.
I looked around and spotted Bonnie and headed for her table. Madonna kind of looked up at me as we started across the room without a hostess to guide us. She was with me until Bonnie stood and smiled at us.
Madonna stopped and I stopped with her, holding still.
Bonnie came to us, a smile beaming. Madonna pulled her arm free and started walking away.
Bonnie grinned at me, said, “I got this,” and followed Madonna. I watched as they went through the door, wondering how it would play out. Since I had nothing else to do, I sat and ordered a beer.
A few minutes passed and I was starting to think that Bonnie had just taken Madonna home. In fact, I was looking at the menu, thinking the Surf and Turf looked pretty good for dinner by myself, when they walked back in. They weren’t exactly hand-in-hand, but they were, well, companionable.
I stood and seated Bonnie first and then Madonna, and sat between them.
“You should have warned me,” Madonna said, looking at me with a frown.
“Would you have come?” I asked.
About then the waitress appeared, breaking our conversation.
We ordered drinks. Beer for me. Screwdriver for Bonnie. And Madonna surprised me by ordering a Cadillac Margarita (“Double,” she added).
“Would you have come?” I repeated.
She hesitated. Her eyes flicked up and right as she thought. Finally, she said, “probably not.”
Bonnie reached across the table and covered Madonna’s hand with hers. “Madonna,” she said, her voice soft and her eyes serious, “we really have only one rule.”
“Oh?” Madonna said.
“Yes,” Bonnie went on, “you can always say ‘no.’ You can say ‘no’ to something specific, or you can just say ‘no’ to us and we’ll take you right home, no questions asked, no explanation necessary. We are many things, my husband and I,” she went on, giggling a little at that, “but rapist is not among them.”
“Fair enough,” Madonna said, and we all took a drink from the glasses that had just arrived.
The dinner conversation was mostly between Bonnie and Madonna. You can cut a few yards of a stock two-women-getting-to-know-each-other conversation and you’ll pretty much be there. There were some differences in details as Bonnie explained our marriage arrangement, but besides that it was a perfectly vanilla conversation. I mostly watched, enjoyed dinner, and answered the occasional question directed at me, or threw in the occasional wisecrack, making them both giggle.
Bonnie was genuinely interested, it seemed to me, in meeting a widow 25 years her senior. She asked about how Madonna was adjusting to single life (“Poorly,” she had replied). Was she getting enough support? Things like that. My wife may be a little kinky, well, all right, my wife IS a lot kinky, but she’s also a caring person.
For her part, Madonna kind of circled the question that was obviously weighing on her. Finally, as we were enjoying dessert, she got around to it. “How, well, maybe, ‘when’ is the better word. When did you and David decide that, well, that this,” and she sort of vaguely gestured to include the three of us at the table, “was okay?”
Bonnie laughed, a pleasant sound, and explained.
“Honey,” she said, covering Madonna’s hand again, “I love this man. Hell, I’m head over heels, crazy, stupid in love WITH this man (I leaned back in my chair and hooked my thumbs in imaginary suspenders, and did my best to look smug and self-satisfied). But I also realized that we were getting, well let’s say we were getting ‘predictable’ in bed. So we had ‘the talk’ one night after I had made him cum three times (at that Madonna’s eyes got big). We needed variety so we made the deal. We can both, you know, play around, but there’s a couple of conditions.”
“Conditions?” Madonna asked.
Bonnie giggled and said, “yeah, conditions. No skanks, male or female. We don’t want any diseases coming home. And no secrets. We share everything.” She squeezed Madonna’s hand. “I’ve known about you since that first day.”
“I see,” Madonna said.
There was a break as she processed.
“And what do you want of me?” she asked, at last, asking Bonnie, not me.