The cold late October wind had thoroughly chilled both Eric and Jeffrey as they finished their round of golf at the neighborhood course. It was only noon but both men were die-hard golfers and had no problem starting early.
Jeffrey, a tall thin man in his early seventies with bright blue eyes who still retained a nice head of white hair, was a retired widower who had lost his wife five years earlier. Eric, in his late fifties with light brown hair with more than a little gray, was semi-retired and currently between short-term contracts in his field of information technology. They lived in a subdivision of middle-class homes adjacent to the golf course and had, over the past summer, become regular partners on the golf course.
Both were pretty good "sticks" and played to single-digit handicaps. Neither man wasted any time on the course, each well aware that this was friendly neighborhood golf, not the final round of the U.S. Open.
Eric had finished two-up in their friendly wager for a couple of bucks.
"Let me buy you a drink," Jeffrey said. "But why don't we do it at my house instead of the clubhouse bar?"
Eric had not yet been to his friend's house, which was only two blocks away from the house he shared with his wife of over thirty years. Since she was out-of-town visiting relatives, the prospect of a drink or two and the company of his friend definitely appealed to him.
"Sure thing," he replied, "I'll follow you over."
The two men were relaxing in Jeffrey's spacious conversation area. Eric was sipping his Manhattan while Jeffrey worked on his vodka martini.
Eric's attention was drawn to a pile of thick woolen sweaters in one of the corners of the room.
"Wow," he said, "that's some collection of sweaters. Why do you have so many?"
Jeffrey took a long, slow sip, obviously figuring out what to say to his friend. "Well, Eric," he said, choosing his words carefully, "It's a hobby of mine. I buy and sell sweaters on the Internet. I have been fascinated with wool sweaters since I was a teenager. When I think about it, it must have started when I entered puberty and all of the pretty girls in high school seemed to wear either mohair or angora sweaters almost every winter day.
"I used to buy them for my wife and when she died, I found myself with around forty different kinds of sweaters. Having more than a little time on my hands, I searched around online and found there is a community of wool, there is no better word for it, than fetishists, online. I did some more research on how to set up on an online store and here I am, Mr. Sweaters of Idaho."
Eric had to stop his mouth from dropping open. Like Jeffrey, he was fascinated by sweaters. It seemed ridiculously improbable that two old guys, in north Idaho, who had become friends on the golf course, actually shared the same fetish.
He finally managed to say, "You know, Jeffrey, I could be one of your customers. I like sweaters as well."
A smile slowly formed on Jeffrey's face and he said, "Really?"
Eric felt himself blushing and squirmed a little on the couch. "Yes, really, for almost exactly the same reasons as you."
"What does your wife think about it?" Jeffrey asked.
Feeling rather flushed, Eric said, "Well, she knows, of course. But my, I mean, our collection is pretty small, just five or six in fact."
Jeffrey walked over and held out his hand for Eric's glass. "Why don't I make us another drink while you check out my current inventory?"
When Jeffrey returned he found his friend holding up a long black mohair sweater-coat with a hood and a mohair belt. Eric had a sheepish grin on his face.
"Ah," Jeffrey said. "I just got that one in a couple of days ago. It is one of my current favorites. Do you want to try it on?"
Eric blushed once again and his friend noticed the bulge in his beige Docker slacks. Jeffrey smiled to himself and he suddenly knew how the afternoon would progress.
"Don't be shy my friend," he said. "It's just you and me here. I bet you will look great in it."
"OK," Eric said quietly. "I certainly do like the way it feels."
Jeffrey set the two drinks down on the coffee table and stepped over to Eric and took the sweater from him.
"Here you go," he said, spreading out the sweater so the younger man could fit his arms in the sleeves. "I love to play the part of the perfect gentleman and the perfect host."
Once Eric's arms were in the sweater, Jeffrey gently turned him around and began buttoning the sweater from top to bottom.
