Charlie’s Lounge on Beacon Street has become your go-to when returning home from business; Boston has always felt more exciting than the small-town life you live in Braintree. Being home is terrific, for sure - Alyssa and the kids are a constant joy – however, one last stop in town never hurt anyone. Charlie’s is great for that, a small restaurant and bar with live music most nights. It hints at the buzzing, lively feeling you get at the clubs in New York, but without the overcrowding and migraine-inducing cover charges. Besides, the food is too die for.
An attractive twenty-something brunette greets you, “Good evening, Sir,” she says, “how many tonight?” You flash a smile at her; restaurants always make sure they hire pretty hostesses, don’t they? Glancing around the room, you see Dan sitting in a booth already.
“Actually, I’m with him,” you say, pointing towards the sandy-haired gentleman. The hostess nods and escorts you over to the booth, places a menu in your hands and informs you a waitress will return with a glass of water. Dan Cunningham, probably the most average guy in Back Bay except, of course, for his marriage. Having met in the fifth grade, you and Dan held no secrets from one another. You knew about his first kiss, his first “lay,” first underage beer – literally everything, and he held reciprocal knowledge. You’d even had the privilege of being the best man in his wedding, a position you’d not given him at your own. He harbored no ill will though; choosing a wedding party is…delicate.
“Hey, Dan,” you say, “how’s it?”
“Evan,” he says, shaking your hand, “same old. Glad you’re back.”
“So, you said there was a new girl?”
“Yes,” Dan beams, “and she is exquisite, let me tell you.”
Elaine, your waitress, sets a glass of water at your place. Elaine isn’t the most beautiful waitress in the joint, but she is the best one. Besides, she’s Charlie’s wife and has been serving his customers for at least thirty years. She jots down an order of “the usual” for Dan and a medium-rare sirloin and side of parmesan-encrusted grilled zucchini for yourself.
“Anyway,” Dan says, “this new girl. Riley Tompkins. She’s a twenty-three-year-old fuck machine. Goes to school over at Boston College with her boyfriend, Randy. The two of them have a similar arrangement to the one Sarah and I have.”
“And how did you meet?” you ask.
“Sarah was one of Riley’s professors. There were rumors that she was…open to sharing. I’m not sure how Sarah brought it up to her, but she’s been over to our place four times now. All-nighters too. Riley’s big thing is toys – she loves riding Sarah’s strap-on while blowing me. And Sarah loves her taste.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve never had a tighter girl, and she’s open to anal,” he says.
You nod your head, enjoying his stories of threesomes with this young Riley and Sarah, his wife. The first time he’d ever mentioned sharing his wife left you astonished; the fact that that sort of relationship might work was beyond comprehension. Thankfully, he’d been willing to share the stories of their wild nights for about seven years now. Seven years is a long time; their marriage seemed intact, and they had new partners at least once a year – college kids never stay long after graduation.
Even stranger than the idea of Dan and Sarah having multiple partners was that it was incredibly arousing; the thought lingered in your mind for days. The next time you took Alyssa from behind, your imagination went wild. It wasn’t her hips you were clutching, but Sarah’s. It was Sarah’s voice which filled the room, begging for more. All the time you spent pleasing his wife, Dan sat in the corner of the room stroking himself, waiting for a turn. Of course, the scene had never come to fruition and if it had, Alyssa would’ve been long gone with the kids, leaving you with a couple grand in alimony and child support. Nope, the closest you came to pleasing Mrs. Cunningham was in those sweet private moments in a New York hotel room, your eyes closed, your breath ragged, cock in hand. It was good though. Always good, she knew precisely how to induce those toe-curling orgasms.
The “A-Minor Band” wraps up their set just as you finish your steak; pushing your plate aside, you order a beer. The room fills with polite applause for the band as they exit the stage; like everyone else, you oblige. The music hadn’t been terrible, it was just a bit too modern – no real timbre, just a typical pop-rock beat under acceptable vocals. It was just the sort of thing your bosses would love, something they could pump out over the airwaves ad nauseam; eventually, though, everyone and their mother would have the lyrics memorized. “A-Minor” would be sporting air-brushed smiles, and a hundred thousand screaming teens would piss themselves just to throw money at the merch. You smirk thinking about the raise you’d get for signing “A-Minor.” Yet, no amount of money in the world could make this music better; something would still be missing – and that something is essential.
“Holy fuck,” Dan says, setting his beer down, “get a load of this girl.” You turn and check her out; she’s a red-head – your weakness. Her slender form and pale skin are accentuated by the black clothing which covers her head to toe. The only exceptions are the red lipstick and a black and green plaid skirt – just the right amount of color to keep from being depressing.
“Isn’t she something?” Dan says.
“Quite. Quite something,” you offer in agreement.
You get lost in her, watching her body writhe about the stage as she belts out song after song. She knows you or thinks she does – she’s maintained eye contact for at least five minutes. And there’s that coy smile playing on her lips, underneath the lyrics, a smile that says “I know exactly what you need, Evan.” She even winks at you. Your heart hammers in your head, your cheeks flush, your mouth is dry. All you can think of is how you want to take this girl, and how lucky you are that she wants it; but, it's not true. Is it? She’s an attractive young girl at least ten years your junior. What would she want with a stuffy old man?
Suddenly it hits you: you know her. It can’t be true, but it makes sense; she’s the right age. Kalli? Impossible! Kalli was sent to boarding school in San Diego; last you’d heard she was in college. All that was seven years ago, right after the wedding. Just to be sure, you text Alyssa: Hey babe, any news from your little sister? While waiting for a response, you glance up at her again; she’s looking at you... you're sure. Your eyes lock; there’s that smile again. Yep, she definitely knows you.
Two new messages from Alyssa, back to back: Nope. …Why?
“Hey, Dan, I have to get going,” you lie, “Big day with the kids tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sure. No worries,” Dan says.
You toss $40 on the table and head out into the brisk evening air; standing across the street you watch the door to Charley’s, waiting. After about five minutes, you realize that just standing around outside staring at a door might seem a bit weird, so you light up a cigarette. There. Normal. Nothing beats the refreshing sensation of menthol coating your throat and lungs. You smile, exhaling.
Two cigarettes later you spot her, already making her way down the street. Damn. Forgot to pay attention, typical Evan. You run to catch up.
“Hey,” you call out, “hold up!”
She stops, waiting for you.
“Hey, old man,” she says, “I thought it was you checking me out in there.”
“I-I was n-not,” you stammer.
“Bullshit,” she says, “I may be young, but I can tell when a man is all hot and bothered.”
“Kalli,” you begin, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” she says, playing with your necktie, “I always thought you were hot. I’m flattered. I didn’t think you’d noticed me.”
“You were a kid.”
Kalli leans forward; her lips brush your ear as she whispers, “Well, Evander, I’m not a kid anymore.” She kisses your neck softly, sending shivers up and down your spine. You pull her close, wrapping your arms around her; she is soft in your hands and smells good. The smell of her perfume takes you back to when you and Alyssa had just gotten together; back then, just being in the same room was exciting. She dressed up for you, snuck in little peeks for you when nobody was looking. You spent practically every waking moment together. Over time the excitement wore off; Alyssa stopped trying to impress you, stopped teasing. Same as most people, a shame too; sex is fun.
You trace a hand down Kalli’s body over her shoulders to the small of her back; further, you squeeze her ass. You wait; she doesn’t protest. Your lips find hers; soon the two of you are locked in a tongue-twirling kiss. You feel like a teen again; nothing exists outside of the two of you. Not the restaurants a few yards away, not your wife or children. No job or boss or friends or responsibilities. None of that - all that exists is the taste and smell of a beautiful woman, the ragged breath exchanged between you, and the intense arousal pushing against your pants, begging for freedom. You are acutely aware of the sound of your trousers being unzipped. You smile to yourself; it seems Dan isn’t the only one who catches the interest of college-age girls. You take a sharp breath as Kalli’s fingers clutch your erection, rubbing it through your underwear. In reply, you slip a hand beneath her skirt; you wish her tights and panties weren’t in the way, but you’ll make do.
Your cell jingles; startled, you and Kalli jump out of your skin. You pull your phone out and examine the screen: a new text from Alyssa. You look into Kalli’s eyes; you’re shaking – is it because of your arousal at the thought of taking your sister-in-law or because of the sudden interruption? Or both? You’re not sure.
Kalli kisses you again.
“So, Ev,” Kalli says, zipping your trousers, “you’ve got a decision to make: go home to your wife like the good boy you are or come play with me. Your move.”
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