“Remind you of someone?” My husband asked as our waiter walked away with the dishes. I blushed.
“What- who?” I managed, raising my wine glass to mask my embarrassment. It was no use, I was caught.
Jim chuckled, “Don’t be coy Allie. The waiter.”
I felt the heat of shame on my face, and that shame soon turned into frustration, mostly over my poor luck. I wasn’t the type of wife who was overly flirtatious, nor the type of woman who got caught ogling random men. The truth was, the waiter did remind me of someone, and I guess I had been staring enough throughout the dinner for Jim to have noticed.
“Mr. Thomas, maybe a little bit.” I reluctantly admitted.
Mr. Thomas, Jim’s boss, was perhaps the one exception to my previous statement. He was in his mid forties, making him roughly ten years older than Jim or I. He was a tall man, with a masculine face, black, bald, and with a goatee that had a mild hint of grey beginning to accent his already distinguished look. He was readily attractive, although not necessarily in an obvious, male-model type way. It was more so in the commanding way that he carried himself. He controlled a respect that most men didn’t, and his charisma was extraordinary. Those things in themselves, however, shouldn’t have been enough to draw my conservative and faithful eye. The catalysts for my budding, begrudging, attraction to Mr. Thomas, were his persistent flirtations towards me, and stranger, my husband’s seeming approval of them.
Jim wasn’t necessarily a shy man. He was confident in his work, confident in social situations, confident in his ability to provide for me, and confident in a number of other areas in his life (like his golf game). However, for whatever reason, reasons beyond your standard employee employer relationship, Jim was noticeably subservient to Mr. Thomas. He was so subservient, in fact, that when his boss would openly flirt with me, Jim would mostly just smile in acceptance. My husbands reactions to his bosses advances were even stranger when I considered how jealous and protective Jim was with seemingly every other man who made a pass at me. Early in our marriage, he even got into a fist fight with someone who hit on me during a night out ice skating.
I used to question Jim on his adulation towards his boss, especially as it related to the complacency he showed when Mr. Thomas would hit on me. “You heard what he said about my dress. Right?” or “He had his hand on my waist during introductions. You weren’t mad?”
Sometimes Jim would be embarrassed, but mostly he was steadfast. He would easily reply with something like, “It’s only Mr. Thomas Allie. I just take it as a compliment.” Thankfully though, Jim would also consider my discomfort, as a good husband should. Sometimes asking, “Do you want me to ask him to stop? Does it bother you?”
At first, it did bother me. I found his behavior inappropriate on a number of levels, professionally, ethically. However, over time, I suppose Mr. Thomas’s charisma began to work it’s charm on even me. Worse, I eventually began to enjoy the previously unwanted attention. I think, subliminally, my husbands overwhelming respect for him rubbed off on me, and I too began to take note of how impressive a man he was. Further, his flirtations towards me increased my own confidence. It was admittedly fun to have the attention of the attractive, popular male, even if nothing was to ultimately come from it.
Why did I have Mr. Thomas’s attention in the first place? Well, that was easier to explain.
I grew up as your typical Jewish American Princess, spoiled and girly. I probably would have been considered attractive starting all the way back in high school, though I didn’t really grow in sexual confidence until college. I’m a classic brunette, and more than a couple people have described me as the ‘girl next door’. I have nice lips, and a delicate, feminine nose. I have hazel doe eyes that tend to draw a lot of attention, or at least they used to when I was younger. Older men tend to appreciate more obvious assets, like my ample curves.
I guess there’s no other way to put it, I have large breasts and a big butt. To be honest, I’m not sure where either came from. My mother is wash board skinny, and none of the women on my dad’s side are particularly curvaceous. I suppose my curves are a blessing, but only recently have I come to appreciate them. Through most of my twenties I actually thought they looked ridiculous on my five and a half foot frame.
I was raised conservatively, as my mother frowned heavily on promiscuity. Even through college, I preferred to maintain a steady boyfriend over the thought of sleeping around. Maybe I’m weird, but I’ve never really considered sex to be all that amazing. My college boyfriends fumbled around nervously, often finishing before I could. Jim too, usually failed to make me orgasm during our love making. I began to believe that I simply wasn’t the type of woman who could orgasm easily, and even when I did, they were very mild. On the positive side, Jim and I had recently decided to work on starting a family, and I did notice an uptick in my libido since dropping my birth control.
“I guess he does look a bit like him.” I heard my husband say. “Maybe I should keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t try to slap your butt.” Jim smiled, in juvenile fashion.
The comment surprised me, “Oh really? So we are joking about that now?” I felt a pang of anger flash through me as I replied.
It was last month, at the company Christmas party. It was customary for company parties to feature copious amount of liquor, but the holiday events were especially loose. Most of the guests had already left the apartment, and Jim, Mr. Thomas, and I were drunkenly cleaning up in the kitchen at around one in the morning.
I remember leaning over Mr. Thomas’s island counter as I wiped the marble with a paper towel. I was suddenly startled as I felt the fabric of my dress being pulled over my rump, the conditioned air of the apartment hitting the bare skin of my butt. Suddenly a large hand gently slapped down on my skin, and gave me a squeeze.
My eyes darted wide, and my heart quickened in a momentary panic. I then heard the deep baritone voice of Mr. Thomas, as he spoke to my husband. “Jim. I hope you are taking care of this beautiful woman. She deserves the absolute best.”
I looked at my husband, hoping he would know what to do. I remember his embarrassed face, and his drunken smile. “I try my best, sir.”
Mr. Thomas’s large hand continued to caress my butt for a few moments longer, moving across the lace of my panties and squeezing the other side of my rear. He then asked of me, “Is that true, Allie? Is your husband taking care of business?”