My fingers begin playing with the lock on the window.
“Just making sure you’re all good before I call it a night.”
“Roger that. All good now. Love you.”
“Love you. Breakfast at the pool tomorrow.”
“My ass wouldn’t miss it, literally.”
We hang up, but I stand in place for a moment, a half smile on my face, not really staring at anything but still looking out the window, when the sound of a deep laugh nabs my attention.
Two men are standing with their backs to me by what looks like an outdoor shower on the side of the house. They’re laughing as one pushes the other’s shoulder.
I lift my chin unashamedly, trying to get a better look. There are so many trees by the window that there’s no way they can see me.
Plus, they’re dressed as lifeguards; it’s like law that I stare. Who doesn’t like to stare at hot lifeguards?
They’re wearing white T-shirts with the signature red cross and red board shorts.
Hello, every fantasy I had when I was sick at home with chickenpox and watched reruns ofBaywatch.
Plus, I can do that now. I can stare to my heart’s content.
Stare. Stare. Stare.
And apparently, as a reward for my new independence, the universe decides to give me a congratulatory gift. Because one of the guys drags his shirt over his head with one hand.
“Ooh,” I whisper, only slightly pervy, as I step even closer to the window.
God, I love when men do slutty things. Jeffrey never did anything slutty except fuck other people. But this drag motion is the kind of slutty I stand behind. Sadly, I’ve only ever seen it on TV.
That sounds as unbelievable in my head as it does in reality. But it’s my truth.
It’s been a lifetime of men who think stock indexes make them hot. I’ve been robbed of abs but fed securities. I’m rich, just not rich in life.
I’m like some kind of villager from an ancient civilization that lived sans modern society, left to discover only bits and pieces from discarded remnants of magazines that wash ashore.
David Attenborough could voice my life story.
In a world of bare-ass bikinis and slutty shirt removals, Margot, our repressed puritanical, is enjoying her first moments of freedom. Let’s watch as she ogles the wildlife.
God, I was married to a man who lay on top of me with his soft, pasty body and grunted a few times before he rolled off, satisfied with the lackluster and abominable job he did.
He’d always say, “Great job, babe,” while I literally waited out, the twice a month we had sex, to scurry away and get myself off.
The fact that we remained married for twenty years is a testament to my faithfulness to keep a promise. And my ability to hide the bevy of sexual pleasure toys I left behind in the divorce. Yes, I left them…in a box with Poppy’s name on them.
I’m a girl’s girl.
And, after all, she doesn’t mind sloppy seconds.
But screw all that… I have lifeguards.
I sigh, staring because they’re a hot variety too. LikeLove Islandage. When life is all about making bad decisions, but doing so while sexy.
One of them epitomizes a blond surfer type. Perfect body, kissed by the sun, with the kind of tousled hair that probably always just stays perfectly styled because all he does is run his hand through it.
The other has light brown hair and a young Keanu look, but add tattoos. Yummy.
