If you're under 18, you shouldn't be reading this.
To figure out how many 18 is if you live in Utah, count off your age against all of your fingers and most of your toes.
Bikers should count all your nipple rings, all your girlfriend's nipple and tongue rings, and all of your toes.
IRS employees: subtract the number of years since your birth from the total of the number of fingers and toes. Put the result on line 62, and divide by your dick length. Put that result on page 52B, then wad the whole thing up and shove it up your ass.
I'm working on my taxes again. Could you guess?
My wife likes men. I've always known that about her. When we first started going out, she was still seeing several other guys, but they just sort of fell away and we ended up together. We dated for many months, then finally got married. We've been hitched for 6 years, and to the best of my knowledge she's been faithful to me, and me to her. Well, I did have a couple of visits to a massage parlor, and there was that one business trip in Orlando, and, oh, yeah the time with the bikini contest I emceed in Dallas. I mean, those girls practically jumped me. But other than that, totally faithful. Um, unless I've forgotten something.
Anyway, June is a flirt. At neighborhood parties she's always hanging around with the men; the womens' talk about kids and recipes just bores her. And she loves to dance. I mean LOVES to dance. If my wife had it to do over again, she'd probably make dance a career. That's the one weird thing about our relationship. I don't dance at all. Well, hardly. Maybe a waltz now and then.
So I've gotten used to seeing her dancing with guys (and women) at parties, at company functions, and sometimes when we just go out to a bar. It's great fun, and she loves it. It's innocent. Usually.
I was on a business trip to Boston, and since I had to be there on a Friday, I suggested that she come along, and we'd make a weekend of it. That way we'd only have to pay her airfare; my company would pick up the hotel. My boss was good that way. Since we were staying over a Saturday night, I'd save him almost $500 on the price of my plane ticket. He was glad to pick up the Saturday night hotel room for $125.
Anyway, we arrived on Friday morning, I attended my (boring) conference and she went shopping. My meeting didn't end until practically 6:00, by the time I got back to the hotel and we went out to dinner it was nearly 8:00. The dinner service was slow, but in fairness, the restaurant was busy, and we didn't get done 'til well after 9:00.
Picking up a taxi at the restaurant, I told the driver to take us to our hotel, but as he pulled away, I thought better of it and asked where something was happening. Unfortunately this cabbie was like many and barely spoke the language. We ended up back at the Inn.
According to the literature in the room, the O'Stikkits had immigrated from Ireland in the 1800's. Now maybe once upon a time the O'Stikkit's had run a fine country inn, but it had long since been taken over by a chain, which had added 100 rooms, a swimming pool, a sports bar, and, well, you get the idea. Now the charming wooden house in front masked two one-story brick buildings which fed 4 corridors of rooms.
June and I decided to just hang out at the Inn; we always had tomorrow night to see the town. We went to the sports bar and sat down. The Bulls were on TV that night with a West Coast game. So we sat and watched and drank and watched and drank and watched and drank. Did I mention we drank?
Next door was another bar with music and a dj. In fact the music competed well with the audio from the game; it was loud loud loud. But it all added to the general party atmosphere.
I got up to take a piss, and by the time I got back I found a few things changed. For one, the Bulls had pulled ahead by 10 points. For another, there was a guy standing, talking with June. I walked up and said hi. You could tell he was disappointed; I'm sure he thought she was there alone. But I invited him to join us, anyway.
He declined, probably sensing better opportunities elsewhere. He said he was going back to the other bar to catch a dance or two. As if Groucho Marx had said the secret word, June squealed and said "Dance? Do you dance?"
"Why sure. Love it. One of my favorite things to do," he said.
"Oh, Mike, would you mind?" she asked.
"Not at all," I said. I waved her away. I knew she would have been disappointed if I'd said 'no'. And as I explained, I've long since become used to her dancing with other guys. After all, I don't dance. "By the way, I'm Mike, and as long as you're stealing my wife from me, what's your name?" I asked him.
"Oh. John. John Rogers. Yeah, well, I mean only if this is OK..." he trailed off.
"Don't be silly. She loves to dance. I don't. Simple. On the other hand, I love the Bulls. I've got something to do. Go enjoy yourselves."
They left, actually moving only the 30 or 40 feet into the next bar. I could feel the thump thump thump of the bass in the dance beat music that was playing. I could see into the room as well, although it was much more dimly lit than where I was sitting.
After about 20 minutes, June returned. "Whew," she said. "That guy can dance. What energy!"
"That's nice," I said. "Bulls are down 4."
"Don't worry about it. Michael will handle it," she said.
"I know, I know. Just catching you up," I responded.
We made innocuous conversation for another 10 minutes, when John walked by, apparently heading for the men's room. On the way back, I motioned him over and offered him a beer. This time he accepted.
It was already nearly 1:00AM, the West Coast game was in the 4th quarter, the sports bar was beginning thin out. The dance bar was was still going.
We hit it off. The three of us, I mean. John said we was a comptroller for a division of large company, a Fortune 500. He was well spoken, obviously intelligent, quite charming, and darn it all, handsome as heck. In fact, if he were bald, he would have looked a little like MJ. John, you see, was black. Very.
Even after the Bulls won, we sat in the bar talking for another 45 minutes, yukking it up, playing stupid bar games like trying to balance the salt shaker and stand quarters on edge and that sort of thing. At about 1:40, the bartender shouted over to us that it was last call. I ordered another round, but June suddenly asked him if that meant the other bar was closing, too.
"Sure," he said. "Liquor law; everything closes at 2:00AM."
"Holy jeez," she said. "How about another dance or two?" I knew she wasn't talking to me.
"Absolutely," he said. They both jumped up from the table, and as they were walking to the dance floor, John turned to me and said "You OK?"
"Of course," I said. "You guys go play in there, I'll just stay here and play with myself." I laughed at my joke, and both of them did too.
The bump bump bump of the percussion still reverberated through the bar, and I knew June was having a good time. I thought some of the men in there might be too, since she was well dressed for the occasion. June had on a top that should have been called a "scoop neck." That meant it was square cut low across the front. June has a great set of tits, a natural C cup, firm and high, and, well, just fabulous. Take it from one who's dived in there many times. Her skirt was above the knee, nothing obscene, but nice. June is also what I would call an "aggressive" dancer. I mean she really goes at it, bouncing all around. I like to watch her. I sometimes watch other men watch her. She's something to look at.
At about 1:50AM, the DJ announced a "slow dance," and I watched as both of them hesitated for a moment, then melted together on the dance floor. I could almost feel the heat all the way back in my booth. If you've ever slow danced with June, you know she has a way of pressing herself against you so that her tits fairly bore a hole in your chest. But more than that, she has a way of wrapping her legs around one of yours and rubbing herself against you. And she was doing it 10 years before anybody ever heard of the Lambada. I used to tell her it was no fair using my thigh as a rubbing board, she should go back to the room and get out her vibrator like every other woman in America.
Anyway, it was evident to me that John liked having this woman rub her cunt against his leg, and he tried to maneuver her to one of the darker corners of the dance floor. In fact he did just that, and I even thought I saw him try to cop a feel, but June put a quick stop to that.
After 8 or 9 minutes of ballads the music ended; the dj apologized, and shut down. They came back to the table. I had thoughtfully ordered another beer each at last call, and while they might be a little warm by now, they were at still drinkable. We chugged them.
John started saying his goodbyes, and June started saying how much she had enjoyed meeting him, when I piped in, "Hey, the party's just starting. Come on back to the room for a nightcap. There's a mini-bar fridge; I'm sure there's a few more drinks in there." June looked at me as though to say "What the hell are you doing?" but I ignored her.
"Sure, OK, why not?" John said. "I've got nothing to do but catch a plane back to Atlanta tomorrow. It's not until afternoon, anyway. Let's party."
We grabbed our remaining beers and found our way down the corridors. We were more than a little tipsy, apparently, cause June stumbled and crashed into one of the room doors. If anyone had been asleep in there before, they weren't after that. We tried to "play straight," but it only made us giggle harder. We finally got to our room.
.... There is more of this story ...