No sex. A short one that like “My Ego is my Friend” is a kind of philosophical look at an element of relationships that is usually ignored. Some may find it too boring (why I kept it short LOL), but there were aspects that I wanted to cover. This story has not been read over or edited by any outside readers, so the mistakes it undoubtably has are mostly mine. Except when the spell-checker substitutes a word so unrelated to what I thought I was writing that I’m flabbergasted.

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I was sitting at the island in our kitchen, drinking a beer, cooling off after an almost complete day of yard work. Fortunately, I didn’t have to do that often, but every now and then I stopped procrastinating and did the job. I was glad it was done and looking forward to what my wife of fifteen years might prep for dinner. Or maybe we would just go out. If that was the case, I would need to shower and change.

My wife, Rachel, had been out shopping with some friends. They all ‘needed’ new swimsuits for a neighborhood barbeque a week from today. Not that I was complaining, I enjoyed seeing the women in their swimwear, although in all fairness, my wife was the one who was most attractive both in face and figure. Not bad at all for a woman in her thirties with twin boys.

I heard her footsteps coming down the stairs, but then there was a hesitation.

“Don where are you?” she called.

“I’m here in the kitchen,” I replied.

“Are you alone?” she asked. I had to wonder who she thought would be with me.

“Just me, stinky and sweaty from doing yardwork.”

“Okay. Now, close your eyes until I tell you to open them.”

Well, this was getting a little strange, but I did as instructed.

“Are you closing them?”

“Yes, dear.”

There were more footsteps, and I could hear her bare feet on the kitchen floor.

“Okay, now open them.”

She was posed when I looked, and I liked what I saw.

She was standing there clothed in a couple of small patches that barely covered her nipples and most of the areolas on top, and a small patch matching cloth that covered Miss Kitty. She had obviously shaved down there to wear it with no hair showing. Maybe she’d gotten it waxed.

As I leered at her almost naked body, she slowly turned around.

If what she was wearing wasn’t covering much territory on the front of her body, it was even less on the back. Basically, a string that passed through her buns and connected back up to the string around her waist.

Being a man, I wanted to keep this moment enshrined, so I picked up my phone and started taking photos of her. Then I noticed something.

“Darling, where are the boys. I know that they will learn about women’s anatomy eventually, but I think they’re a little young, and I don’t want their introduction to be seeing their mother’s private parts.” She didn’t even contest the ‘private parts’ comment!

“Oh, Brenda from down the street took them to soccer practice today. They’ll be back in an hour or so.”

I asked her if she could get me another beer, to which she happily said yes. We have a beverage refrigerator under the cabinets that were behind her. As I suspected, as she turned around her legs, slightly apart, to bend over and reach down, her little rosebud was briefly exposed, with just that little string going up the middle. I took the opportunity to grab another quick photo or two.

She handed me beer number two, and I asked her, “As much as I love you modelling this outfit for me, what is it for? You have me all hot and bothered, but I don’t think that we have time to mess around AND get dinner ready before the boys get home.”

“Oh no, silly boy. This is the new bathing suit that I’m wearing for the barbecue next weekend. I just put it on for you to see.”

I paused for a second, “Darling, that is a thong, and not my idea of a bathing suit to wear out of the house.”

She looked startled as if she hadn’t considered what my attitude might be.

“You knew that all of us girls on the block were shopping for new suits. We decided that we would all get the same bathing suits for the party. And this is what we bought.”

I paused and considered before I spoke.

“You are not wearing that to a party where all of our creepy neighbor’s husbands can perve on you.”

“What? You’re TELLING me that I can’t wear what I want?”

“Pretty much. In fact, exactly.”

Boy, for some reason, she was getting wound up.

“How dare you?” she exclaimed, “You don’t own my body.”

Why is it that as a husband I just knew that this response was going to be forthcoming? Reading too many stories online, I guess. At least she wasn’t telling me she was going on a date with another man.

“That’s true, just as you don’t own MY body.”

She eased a bit, thinking that she had won that argument and that I would come around to her point of view.