We walk through the bar, to the banquet room at the back. The sign says “private event,” with no other description. They couldn’t, really. The regular bar patrons would stare or leave or complain. She looks at me, I nod, and she opens the door. There is a wall of curtains. They don’t want anyone casually looking in. We navigate around the curtains, and as we enter the big room, half the room turns to survey us, head to toe. We are the new meat.
Nine years in, but we both found our seven-year-itch. There are too many symptoms, some shallow, some deep. Emotional needs, evolving sexual desires, and even a bit of arrogance on both our parts, that maybe we each could have done better.
She had a lower sex drive years before, but turning forty had put her into overdrive. She lost weight, toned up her legs and ass and abs, and treated herself to “tasteful” implants. She chose a “full C,” quite a change from the barely there A-cups that I lamely call her A-pluses for almost a decade. She still has the mousy hair and eyeglasses, a librarian from the neck up, a porn-ready body from the neck down.