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Having earned a Ph.D. — with Honors — in Men, I suspected gonadal twinges.“When are you coming to New York?”“Short-term memory loss? I have a wife. A family. Career.”“When are you coming to New York?”“Hit the fast-forward button, hon.”“Winter.”“It’s amazing how you manage to hide those bolts on the side of your neck.” Click.Vanessa smiled at me, “I like him.”“My luck, I’ll walk into his place and see his dead mother sitting in a rocking chair.”With my Jedi-level ability to compartmentalize, I was able to simultaneously operate on multiple levels. I was just starting to tiptoe around the edges of the Royals caper. If there was a caper to tiptoe around. My family, first and always. Clint.Like that.Yet, something kept niggling at the back of my medulla oblongata. Aha! The puppy that didn’t bark. There was no longer a Dixie Wexler in my life. No one lurking, lurking, in my subconscious.Okay, I had to admit that the average Kansas City gal probably didn’t feel relief that no one was out. I justliked the idea of them being there. One day, maybe. But only if I wasforced. I couldn't see myself letting anything in back there willingly.KIRSTEN: I'm getting dressed now.FLO: I'll need to see. I like that lemon matching set you have.The lace Chloe outfit from Boux Avenue. How could she.....? The photoson my cell. I kept pictures of all my wardrobe so I could day-dreamabout what I could be wearing.I opened my organised lingerie drawer, and found the bra and panties shemeant. It was a nice set and I flashed on the day I purchased it, beingbold enough to ask for some fitting advice. It had been an embarrassingmoment, but so helpful.I fastened the bra behind my back, enjoying the tight feel of thebanding, the straps set just right. Then I carefully placed a panty-liner in the panties and slipped them up my bare, smooth legs.I held the cell down and snapped a picture. Nothing gross. The edges ofthe wings peeking out of the delicate material.FLO: Good girl.I put on my jeans and a.
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I found a bottle of red and opened the windows to the noise of the outside streets. There was a white noise effect about them, and they were far enough away from where we were seated that they did not provide a barrier. It was in fact like dining outside, something we had done often. She perused the shelves, something you might expect when in the home of a museum director, looked at the photos, most of them my own and settled down next to me. In this space, a tour was rather passé, I had little in the way of enclosures, except the natural barriers of the walls, the space reminded me of the museum in that way. The exception was the restroom, which was attached to the private living space at the rear. ‘The restroom,’ I directed her in the most official of ways, ‘My room,’ I indicated my doorway, ‘and the living space.’ The remainder of the loft included in the grand gesture. We found ourselves quieting as the evening wore on, a glass of red wine each out of the bottle, another poured.

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