Often it’s the little things that change your life. Two
lines of an old song, a trace of scent you all but
forgot existed, a face in a crowd looking just like
someone you knew and cared about… It sparks a
thought, encourages a gesture, the little gears get in
motion, the synapses start firing. The change is just
an idea, weak, barely noticeable and unlikely to
survive, but it snowballs on until there it is – a
different life than the one you once knew. A new life,
born of a small, insignificant seed.

Then again, some lives take much more work to change.
In Susan’s case it took anger, desperation, impatience,
stubbornness, alcohol and frustration, all cemented
together through a string of bad decisions and wrong
choices. Looking back on unfortunate events, it is
often easy to say they could have been avoided with
just slightly more attention to detail.

Susan will look back on the events of that night and
what she will see is going to make her hate and despise
herself. The hurt will pass, the shame may be
suppressed, perhaps even forgotten, but the guilt will
stay. Some changes are irreversible and this is exactly
what Susan inflicted upon herself. There will be scars,
oh, yes, there will be scars. It didn’t just happen,
though, no. She brought it on. She was looking for it,
she was asking for it. That much is clear to her. Susan
isn’t stupid.

It doesn’t take a stupid woman to be frustrated with
her life. It doesn’t take a stupid woman to be angry at
her husband. Hell, it doesn’t take a stupid woman to
imagine that one evening spent away from home,
responsibility gauge turned off for the occasion, will
somehow bring some colour into the grey. Not that grey
becomes any easier to bear tomorrow.

No, the home, the kids, the church, the family
weekends, the same commercials on every stupid TV
channel, the same bed every night with the same words,
gestures, foreplays, main courses, same moans and
sighs, well rehearsed hundreds time over, they stay the
same. The same problems, the same solutions, the birth
and care machine running within the advertised
parameters… Surely, there is no reason to complain?
Either way, your warranty period is over and has been
for a long time. No money back, no free drinks. Sorry.

Susan slammed the door behind her. Looking back on it,
it makes so little sense. How childish is it to walk
out of the family house, refusing to tell her husband
where she will be or even when she will be back? Fuck
him, she thought, let him wonder. He deserves it. An
evening with the girls, that’s all he needs to know.
Let him wonder whether those girls sport penises in
their underwear.

Let him wonder whether those ‘girls’ will just have a
few drinks, a few laughs and the obligatory few rounds
of gossip, or whether they will fuck his pretty
suburban wife, make her swallow some cock, come onto
and into places he could never think of and perhaps
even call her some names he’d never dare let pass his
lips.

But anyway. That was not the plan. That was a passing
thought in Susan’s head. A chuckle on a back seat of a
taxi while riding to the café. My wife, a slut. Hahaha,
now there’s an idea. Let him wonder, let the bastard
hurt a little, let him feel threatened, insecure and
humiliated. He knows that men like to look at his wife.
Come on, he is not stupid, he can tell his wife is
attractive, he can see men are attracted to her,
despite her age, pregnancies, despite her suburban
ennui, he can see the stares in restaurants, church,
theatre.

Let him fry a little tonight. Let him wonder whether
Susan’s had enough and whether she’s decided to accept
one of those unspoken invitations. He could see the way
she dressed, he could see the make up she put on. He
could see the skirt she decided to wear was somewhat
shorter than what usually passes for decency in soccer
mom circles. He could see the cleavage that was
suggesting more than just a friendly round of drinks
with her female friends.

He could see the high heels that will no doubt turn
heads of men around Susan and produce comments about
her legs and behind. Let’s give the man his due – he is
not stupid. And Susan knew he was not going to try to
stop her go out dressed like that – that would not be
in his rational, mild nature – but she also knew he
would be worrying. Oh, yes, let him worry. Let him
worry what happened to his wife so that she got dressed
like a slut, refused to even speak to him respectfully
on her way out and click-click-clicked on her high
heels towards the taxi that awaited.

What her husband could not see was the face of a taxi
driver in the rear view mirror. Nervous, quick glances
framed by drops of sweat, glances hoping not to be
noticed by the leggy passenger in the back seat and yet
hoping to steal enough time so that the image of a
tall, sexy woman riding towards her favourite café
dressed like she is intending to make someone happy,
remains firmly etched into the mind. Susan chuckled
again.

Of course she noticed the driver was looking at her. He
was young and not looking particularly clean. A few
ideas and images passing through her head sent a
pleasant impulse down her spine. Remembering that those
same ideas, albeit probably in a censored form should
be forming in her husband’s head at exactly the same
time made her feel even better.

Dressing like a slut to piss your husband off is hardly
a sin, or even a crime. It’s not even something one
would call eminently stupid. Getting drunk is slightly
higher on the list of stupid gestures but then again,
sometimes we recognise despair only when we’re halfway
to the oblivion. It’s just something people do. Those
who haven’t been there may feel free to cast the first
stone etc.

So, yes, she got comments from her friends. Yes, all
three of them commented on her legs, her skirt, her
cleavage, her make up, this is just something girls do.
It doesn’t matter whether they are fourteen, sixteen,
twenty five, or, as in this case, in their forties.
This is a girl thing. Susan laughed and sipped her
cocktails as her friends used the words like ‘foxy’,
‘minx’ and felt the pleasant tremors in her lower belly
when the words jokingly changed into ‘slut’ and
‘fucktoy’.

It’s those moments when enjoying being sexy just
because you are does wonders for one’s self-esteem.
This is your fuel, Susan, it’ll keep you running for
weeks, months, if you’re lucky. Cross your legs again,
look at how sexy they look in black stockings, feel the
fabric slither, hear the sound of your long, manicured
fingernails produce absently scratching against your
thigh.

Susan felt content. Being a woman, an attractive woman
among other women who all acknowledged her looks and
made very clear comments about her sex appeal is good.
The only thing better is throwing some men in the mix,
right?

Was it the third or fourth cocktail in when Mick and
Shane joined the group of merry women at their table?
Susan was not sure. The other thing she normally
wouldn’t be sure about was the logic behind having two
men barely half her age join the group of female
friends chatting about their husbands, sons, jobs, TV
shows and sex. Normally, that wouldn’t have happened at
all.

Susan was surprised it did happen. Blame it on alcohol.
Everybody would anyway. They did have quite a bit to
drink, all of them, and they did channel their
conversation into some kinky directions so far. Two
young gentlemen approaching a bunch of ripe women
(loud, somewhat indecent women, at that) politely
asking whether they could join, pointing out at the
crowded tables around them etc., well, that sounded
logical at the moment.

If we are to throw any accusations at Susan, reliance
on logic should be one of them. Dressing like a slut
and getting drunk and somewhat foul-mouthed is one
thing. Believing that there is an undercurrent pattern
in the world that will protect people who fail to
protect themselves is quite another. Every day spent on
Earth means you learn a difficult lesson. Susan will
just pay for the lesson considerably more than the
usual fee.

Mick and Shane, both apparently of Irish origin (which
may or may not account for the thin moustache of the
former and the wild, curly hair of the latter) were
apparently quick to assess the situation and adjust
their tactics accordingly. Susan smiled in her mind.
They were young and horny. They probably knew that they
had no chance with a bunch of married women in their
forties. But they decided to give their best under the
circumstances. This is amusing, Susan thought, this is
getting better and better.

It did get better. Or worse, depending on the
perspective. Susan could notice Mick’s and Shane’s
gazes repeatedly skim over her breasts, legs and face,
in quick feverish bursts. Boys will be boys,
apparently, she thought. She smiled again, this time
not only in her mind. Let them have some more, why not?

Next time Mick’s eyes went downwards to get another
shot of her long, slender legs she looked straight at
him to show him she knew what was going on. Then she
smiled (pre-emptying his possible reaction of panic and
embarrassment) and crossed her legs, slowly,
seductively, just for him.

He noticed. He couldn’t have not noticed. Everybody
noticed anyway. Shane noticed it, and her friends
noticed it. That should have made her feel self-
conscious in a less than positive way but it didn’t.
Instead, it made her feel sexier and sluttier than
before. The evening just got nastier than she had hoped
for. And it felt good.

Is there room for accusations here? Certainly, what
Susan did crosses over into immoral territory? Then
again, it just went on so naturally. As they say, one
thing leads to another.

And another. And another. How many drinks were there in
the end? Susan will not be able to tell. Not tomorrow,
not ever. Either way, there will be more serious
matters to occupy her mind. The things kept leading one
to another with seamless ease worthy of a good pulp
novel.

The conversation at the table gradually found itself
confined in a triangle between Mick, Shane and Susan.
The rest were locked out. Realistically, there wouldn’t
be room for one more as sexual innuendo, of a subtle
and less subtle kind, got passed between the three of
them. Susan was looking at the men’s faces as they grew
more and more aroused with her ambiguous suggestions,
half-jokes and the way she kept changing the position
in her seat.

They want to fuck me, she said to herself. They would
like to strip me and fuck me right here if the
circumstances allowed. They probably never hoped to
find a woman my age here, looking the way I do, acting
like a sex crazed whore, like I do. I am sure they both
have raging hard-ons in their baggy, faux-military
style trousers.

Susan crossed her legs once again, slowly, loving every
second of it. Yes, just as they must have had
erections, so were her panties wet with the excitement
the evening provided. It was better than she had hoped
for. She’d hoped for quick glances from men around her,
perhaps a name or two thrown at her in the street by
youths acting bold in front of their friends. That
would have been enough.

What she got here was so much better, so much more
arousing. Two young men drooling over her, a verbal
fuck session just barely disguised as a café
conversation between almost strangers. Susan loved it.
She will go home soon enough. She will go home and
tease her husband until she admits it was just a proper
night with the girls. She would fuck him too. But if he
is not ‘down’ with it (as Mick and Shane would put it),
she had her vibrator ready. Oh, yes, that will be a
perfect punchline to a good evening. An orgasm
concluding hours of deeper and deeper arousal and
shameless, hot flirting with strangers half her age.

Let us discuss guilt now. It wouldn’t exactly be true
to say that Susan didn’t feel any guilt. After all,
some of the things she said would make her blush
quickly in any other situation. Some of the looks she
directed at Mick and Shane would make her husband very
angry if he were there to witness them. But, she
thought, after all, this is just childish flirtation.
There is no deeper meaning to any of this. I know that,
they know that, there is no chapter two, no bad
consequences. There is no harm in this.

If there is one thing that Susan takes away from this
night, which she can use later in life, let’s hope it
is the knowledge of harm. Harm is always there. Harm is
always around, infinitely patient, just awaiting an
invitation. Susan produced a king-size invitation,
complete with golden print and calligraphic
handwriting. No matter how drunk, horny and desperate
one gets, accepting a ride home from a pair of total
strangers usually sounds like a bad idea.

Susan usually knew bad ideas when she saw them. And, it
is fair to say that she knew Mick and Shane offering to
give her a ride home was a barely disguised suggestion
of sex. She did refuse at first. Then they argued. More
jokes. More innuendo. More pleasant tingling between
her legs. These guys wanted her so bad. She could see
the bulges in their trousers. Why not prolong the
fantasy a bit longer? As long as she is in control, it
will be fine.

Control. One thing Susan was not in control of was that
pair of long, slender legs, dressed in those slutty
stockings and those fuck-me shoes. She did accept
Shane’s help in getting up and leaned on him on their
way out. Her friends cheered. At least she thinks they
did.