|Blogs > BrinySodasHayes > Out & About in Houston|
There is this great lady of young fifties vintage, with a reasonably good body, great smile and incredible cheerfulness who puts the "F" in frisky when I am around her.
Like many Southern women, she is a great hostess. Like most Southern women, she is a hugger. And unlike most Southern women, when she hugs me, she leans into me, letting me feel her body against me, damn near enveloping me, and holding the hug ever so longer than necessary. The accompanying kiss is oh so close to my lips. If there weren't other people in the room, she would probably wrap one leg around me.
Like any redblooded-Southern-man-whose-sexual-antennae-are-constantly-up, my hands go to places on her body during that hug that propriety and the presence of her other party guests dictate that they not go, eliciting a cheerful, smiling, finger wagging rebuke. Something about my being a Bad Boy.
We've known each other for a dozen years, and she has consistently done this to me since about the third time we met. I've found myself watching her to see if she performs her You-Know-You-Want-to-Fuck-Me-Hug on others among her guests, but I don't observe it. Nonetheless, I suspect that this is her habit with men among her friends to whom she is mildly attracted, and whom she knows -- or thinks she knows -- are "safe". He's married, I'm married, and there's nothing that either of us will do about this.
What she doesn't know, what I have never expressed to her, is that when she touches me, she turns on a switch, and I am blinded to everything but the thought of sex with her. I would without a moment's thought betray both my friend, her husband and my wife. If the house were not full of her guests I would have her on the pile carpet in three seconds flat.
That, my friends, is putting the "F" in Frisky.