Free Pearls for Jimmy by Maureen Gill Page A

wasn’t predatory or feral.
    It was appreciative.
    I watched, fascinated, as he inhaled the commingled scent of our perfumes, lotions, and shampoos. He sampled us as a connoisseur would sample fine wines. He inhaled our singular and collective bouquets through his nostrils and mouth and our aromas played across his palate and danced across his tongue. He separated us individually, determining who was woodsy, who had smoke, who was the chocolate, the apple, or the floral.
    Suddenly his eyes locked on me and I knew it was my bouquet he found most intoxicating.
    Jimmy wanted a full glass of me.
    In a flash I read his mind and knew he was imagining me naked, wet and begging for more… and in that telepathic, pheromone-driven moment I realized I’d given that man a hard on so large and powerful it could lift me up like a crane. It sent a jolt of electricity down my spine.
    Who was this man?
    I studied him carefully. He wasn’t young, but he wasn’t old. He was in his prime and for a man like Jimmy “prime” endures for decades. He was ruggedly handsome. His salt and pepper hair was thick and gorgeous. His eyes were intelligent and kind; his jaw was chiseled from stone, his lips inviting and his smile generous.
    He wore black slacks and a white dress shirt, no tie; his shirt was open at the neck. He had the sexiest goddamn Adam’s apple I’d ever seen, made all the sexier by several wisps of chest hair peeking out of his shirt. He was lean but not too slender; and appeared to be angular and well muscled without being over done. He had the build of a swimmer or a runner; he moved with poise and grace.
    I thought he was absolutely one of the most virile, good looking men I’d ever seen.
    Maintaining a beautiful cool, as if nothing had happened, but of course we both knew it had, Jimmy stepped from behind that dais-pulpit-thing and motioned gallantly for us to follow.
    I knew what I’d find if I looked down at my chest: at fifty-two, I still have firm breasts and teasing nipples that refuse to cooperate. Sure enough, I was right: my nipples were outrageously obvious. When I was younger, my breasts and nipples mortified me. They always seemed to stand at attention even when I wasn’t horny, but if I was horny they were unbearable – highly sensitive and excitable, they communicated a desire to be sucked, just as they did at that very moment.
    Now that I’m older this doesn’t mortify me; I find it delightful. Perhaps at long last, I rejoice in my sexuality. I pictured Jimmy sucking each breast and felt myself go soft and damp.
    It was an early summer evening and I wore a lovely blue linen dress that enhanced the color of my eyes and a double strand of creamy pearls that fell over my breasts and drew attention to their well rounded presence. As I walked toward the back of the restaurant, the pearls sensually caressed me and I felt incredibly alive. I passed a table where two guys were talking to a waiter and all three pair of eyes followed me admiringly as my pearls moved in synchronized rhythm to the subtle sway of my hips.
    I imagined Jimmy making love to me; I envisioned him picking up each strand of pearls with his strong white teeth and playfully tossing them over my shoulder before he sucked my pink hot flesh. It’s a wonder I was able to walk to the back of the restaurant; I actually felt a bit woozy.
    Jimmy led us to a quieter section of the restaurant and placed us at a table removed from the beaten path. It was exactly what Doreen requested.
    He snapped his fingers and gave orders in Greek and a SWAT team of waiters descended upon us. They quickly pulled out chairs and began seating my friends with efficiency and flirtatious small talk. Jimmy managed to position himself directly behind me so that he was the man who seated me.
    He rested his hands on the back of my chair so that his fingers brushed against my back. When he leaned into the chair to help me move it closer to the table I could feel his heat and