I studied myself in the mirror. Sometimes the simplest things are the best things. I was wearing a black tank top, form fitting jeans with a wide belt, and boots with a 3½ inch chunky heel. The tank top was just long enough to reach my jeans. Most any movement revealed a narrow horizontal view of flesh. No jewelry, but a pair of sunglasses tucked in my cleavage. My dark hair, which reached just past my neck, was brushed straight back. Looking past my clothes, I studied my body. Over the past two months I'd lost ten pounds; I was only two pounds heavier then when I graduated from college. My time in the gym was reflected in my lean muscle tone.
I knocked on my daughter's door. It opened instantly. Julie stands five feet four inches tall, about two inches shorter than I. Her blonde hair was cut short, reaching the nape of her neck. She was also wearing a tank top, tighter and smaller than mine; it stopped just short of her belly button, showing off a wide expanse of her flat stomach. Her cut off shorts were so tiny that the pocket liners hung out the bottom. She wore small ankle boots. Her only accessory, other than the sun glasses tucked between her bosom, was a key hanging on a string around her neck.
The door bell rang; I heard my husband downstairs.
"Hello Kevin, taking the girls to the show tonight."
"Yes, sir."
"Better you than me, I don't understand what you see in modern dance."
"Anything to please the ladies, sir."
When Julie and I came down the steps Kevin's eyes were appreciative; his manner polite.
"You ladies ready to go?"
"Yes Kevin, the truck's packed."
I turned to my husband. "The show's not over until late, so we'll be spending the night in the city. We have reservations at Loews if you need us." And with that my daughter, her boyfriend, and I headed to the garage.
* * * *
When Kevin first told me how he'd like me to dress, the juices flowing between my legs was tempered by one thought: how would I explain to my husband that when I was hanging with my daughter and her boyfriend, which would be often, I dressed like a bitch in heat. Kevin was a step ahead of me.
"Hilary, how often do you two have sex."
"Once, twice a month, why?"
"And how often does he make you come?"
"Rarely, and recently only when I pretend it's you."
That raised a smile. "I like it when you butter me up. Start asking for sex four, five, six times a week. Bring him off but demand your own orgasm. If he fails to deliver, masturbate. Don't be mean or snitty about it, but insist he participate, lick your breasts while you finger yourself, something like that. He'll quickly conclude you're in some change of life place where your sexual needs are in overdrive, that you want him desperately, and that he is completely wholly inadequate. Men don't like to think that way about themselves."
I doubt you'll ever have to, I thought.
"After a short period of time he won't want to confront your sexuality, he'll be part terrified, part intimidated. Each time you dress, as you say, like a bitch in heat, it will remind him of his inadequacy. He'll hope you're not making going to make a sexual demand on him; not only will he pretend not to see it, he won't see it. He'll just be relieved you didn't require him to perform."
Kevin, it turned out, was right.
* * * *
Kevin took the driver's seat and we headed for the city. I knew the possibilities. He might want to show us off; a meal at a sidewalk bistro where he'd display two hot, barely clothed chicks completely enthralled by him. Or we could head straight for the hotel and several hours of sex. Then the evening and the outfits he, and we, loved, expensive, sexy, always classy, clothes. Underneath, skimpy lingerie, stockings and garters, heels and stilettos. After dinner at one of the city's fine restaurants we'd go to the show, dance long into the night, and return to the hotel to make love until the sun came up.
And although it happened often enough that I felt comfortable calling it a routine, I craved it now more than ever.
How had I gotten here?
* * * *
Bruce Huff, my husband, was the regional sales manager for a consumer electronics firm. When his company moved its Western Regional Office from Phoenix to Fort Collins, Colorado, which is located about an hour north of Denver, I was pleased. The demographics of the student body at my high school had changed; I spent as much time managing the chaos as instructing. A good suburban school seemed a nice alternative. I figured my Teacher of the Year awards and other commendations would help me find a job. It didn't hurt that I still had my looks. While my prominent jaw and too wide mouth kept me from being considered classically beautiful, I was still in a happy place: pretty enough to be noticed but not so overtly sexy as to make women jealous.
The issue of sexy was another reason for the move. My blonde daughter was, depending on her mood and clothing, either over-the-top sexy or cute as a button. She also displayed a marked preference for bad boys, of which our high school abounded. I, over her father's objection, had her on the pill. He had become oblivious to all things sexual. Moving her to a new place seemed like just the thing.
Within a week of sending my resume to the Larimer County School Board I received a telephone call from Diane Lang, principal of Eisenhower High School. Eisenhower, the best public high school in Colorado, was where I hoped to teach. Diane arranged for an interview in two weeks when I would be in Fort Collins house hunting.
I arrived early in the afternoon. The contrast with my school was striking; the kids were nicely dressed and polite. When I asked a young man for directions to the principal's office, he didn't grunt or point the way, he walked me to the door. When I told him I was there to interview for a job, he sung the school's praises.
Principal Lang met me at her office door. At forty-five she was six years older than me. She was my height, kept himself trim and fit, and had blue eyes and brown shoulder length hair. Her beauty was understated. She'd look as good without make-up as with it. Her reputation was excellent; before turning Eisenhower into the best school in the state she had transformed Marshall, a troubled gang- ridden inner city school in Denver, into a first rate institution.
She brewed me a cup of tea. Our conversation was wide-ranging, touching on family and personal issues, educational philosophy, and the world in general. She was engaging, warm, and smart. After forty-five minutes she asked if I wanted to see the school.
We left her office in a break between classes. The halls were packed with students, but they parted to let us pass. Everyone greeted her with an upbeat hello and she knew each students' name. We popped into the teachers' longue for a quick introduction. The teachers, like the students, were trim, alert, and well-dressed.
As she walked me back to the front door she asked, "So what do you think?"
"The co-operation you get from the kids is unlike anything I've seen. How do you do it?"
"Well, to simplify, we got the kids to buy into what we do here. We identify the class leaders and get them aboard. The rest follow."
"I noticed how trim and well-groomed everyone is."
