Thursday is my favorite day of the week, and it has nothing to do with my husband. He leaves for work at seven. The pool boy gets here at ten. Do the math, sweetheart. I have.
His name is Tyler, he is twenty six, and he has the kind of shoulders that make a lonely woman forget every vow she ever said out loud. He comes through the side gate with his net and his chemicals and that easy smile, and I watch him from the kitchen window with my coffee going cold in my hand. I plan my Thursdays around that gate latch clicking. I shower. I shave. I put on the sundress with the thin straps, the one that does not need a bra and does not get one. Then I take my sweet time walking out there with a glass of lemonade I already know he is going to accept.
You have to understand what it is like in this house. It is a beautiful house. It is also a quiet house. My husband is a good provider and a decent man and he has not really looked at me in about four years. He looks through me, at the calendar, at his phone, at anything that is not the woman he married. A woman can only go unnoticed for so long before she starts needing to be noticed somewhere else. I am a MILF with a body I still work hard for, and I refuse to let it go to waste in an empty kitchen.
Last Thursday I decided I was done just watching.
He was skimming the deep end, shirt already off, sweat making his whole back shine in the sun. I set the lemonade down on the lounger and I did not leave. I sat. I crossed my legs slow. I asked him how long he had been cleaning pools and whether all his clients watched him work.
"Just you, Mrs. Lawson," he said, and the way his eyes dropped told me everything. He had been watching back. For weeks, apparently. All those mornings I thought I was invisible, this young man was memorizing me through my own kitchen window.
I stood up and walked to the edge of the pool, close enough that he had to look up at me. "Then stop pretending you come here for the pool," I said.
Baby. The way that boy moved. He was out of that water and kissing me before my heart finished one beat, all wet hands and chlorine and hunger, and I melted into him like I had been waiting ten years instead of ten weeks. I had forgotten what it felt like to be grabbed by somebody who actually wanted to grab me. My dress was soaked through in seconds and neither of us cared about anything but getting it off.
I took him inside, because some things deserve a bed, and I showed him exactly what a married woman who has been ignored too long can do. Experience is not a rumor, sweetheart. I know how to ride a man slow until he is shaking. I know how to use my mouth in ways that made this poor boy grip the headboard and say my name like a prayer, the married name, the forbidden one, and God did that make it hotter. I am somebody's wife. I was somebody else's woman that afternoon, completely, twice, and I did not feel one second of guilt until long after he left, and even then it was the kind of guilt that makes you smile in the grocery store.
He still comes every Thursday. He cleans the pool beautifully now. It takes him three hours. The pool is not that big, sweetheart.
Maybe you know this hunger. Maybe you are the one at home being looked through, or maybe you are the one who has always wanted a woman like me, a real housewife with a ring on her finger and a wild streak she is tired of hiding. Either way, I am easy to find. I am on PhoneBuckFuck and a call with me is just a dollar a minute. A dollar a minute to hear a lonely wife tell you everything her husband never asks about. Come keep me company on a Thursday. I will wear the sundress.