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Wife finds interracial fulfillment on vacation.

"No fucking way!" she exclaimed as she poured another glass of bubbly. "But you did say something about fucking in the dressing room."

Of course I had to dish all the juicy details about how he first came in the fitting room just to slide his finger into my panties, and then how he pinned me up against the wall to feel me up my dress, and then how I willing bent over the chair for him to take me from behind.

"Oh, tell me that really didn't happen!" she gasped.

"Oh, it did," I said as a nodded in a mock smug way. "And our initiation to the Mile High Club. In a private jet. And not in the bathroom."

Greta's mouth locked wide open. Nothing came out until she said, "Now you're lying!"

"Not at all," I said. "After all these years, have I ever lied to you?"

"Now I can understand why you'd go catting around with a married man," she said.

"You know it's more than that," I said. "There's something about being with him that's so much fun. So uplifting. He's been my best friend ... my best male friend, that is. He's really going full court press to get me to move out to San Francisco. I was really thinking about doing it. Until now, he's the only man who has treated me as if I'm the woman of all women."

She looked at me quizzically and asked, "San Francisco? Really? That would be awesome! There's so much to do and see in the art world. You could really rack up some great work out that way and get to see more of your man. But what did you mean when you said, 'Until now?'"

"Well, there's Robert," I said.

"Robert?" she exclaimed. "Honey, you and I both know that he's just a booty call. I keep telling you to not get your heart so deep into him. Just enjoy him for the sexy fuck that he is."

"But what if his heart is into me?" I asked.

"I don't believe it," she said. "He'd be a love 'em and leave 'em type except that he's getting free private photography lessons from you. I keep telling you, if he really wants to get serious about his work, which I really don't see him doing, then he needs to take and pay for some classes at College for Creative Studies. Besides, I've seen how heartsick you get when you don't see or hear from him for a week or two. He's just an opportunistic douchebag."

A week ago or three days ago, I would have agreed with her and took her advice to help me get over him. Then I told her about Friday night and how he showed up at my door singing "A Case of You" and how he nearly forgot to bring in the case of wine that he left in the hallway.

"Robert?" she asked. "Really? Are you sure that wasn't his angelic twin brother?"

"Yep," I said. "And I got to meet one of his brothers and a couple of their friends last night."

"Woah," she said as she took a gulp of her drink. "Meeting the family. That's big. Huge. But, you know, men never really change. He's bound to do something stupid and fuck it all up ... a month from now, a year from now ... or he'll go all soft on you and stop fucking you like the tramp whore you so like to be when you're with him."

I started smirking, and then started laughing way too loud. I told her she was right about the soft part, especially this morning when all we did was touch and never fucked and how it was just as intense as the crazy stuff we did ... the orgy on the roof with my neighbor and his girlfriend, sneaking away for a quickie in his brother's bathroom, and nearly shaking down the elevator last night.

"Wait! You got it on with a chick you just met but never with me?" she practically shouted, partially in jealously and partially with pride.

We got a couple of stares from people sitting within a table or two or four from us. I motioned her to shush.

"It was all ... umm ... in the moment ... just like it with the woman I danced with at this blues bar on Rush Street, but it just turned out to be just a ruse for her to try to pickpocket Michael's cell phone and wallet," I said very quietly.

Greta's eyes practically popped out of her head.

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