“Last week. That was what the party was all about. Apparently.”Gayle headed around the front of the house, but John stopped her. “No,” he told her. “This way.”Gayle just looked at him.“If you go in through the front,” John told her calmly, “people will see us and investigate. At the very least we’ll then have to share, at the worst we could even be charged with breaking and entering or theft.”Gayle paused. She was wearing a tight skirt and high heels. “Oh very well then,” she huffed. “But you’ll have to help me over the fence.”“Put some jeans and trainers on,” John suggested, knowing what her response was likely to be. He wasn’t disappointed.“Don’t be stupid. I do not dress down like some common chav.”‘No, you dress up like some common tart,’ John thought, but didn’t say. It was true. At forty-seven Gayle wore clothes that were far more suitable for someone twenty-five years younger and six sizes smaller. Almost invariably the clothes she did wear were a size too small: she insisted. Not since I got Dicked. For a moment, I was the old me.Okay, actually I wasn't the old me -- even the old me was an objectifying lust machine.I was the chick-flick version of me. The me that queues up the ending of The Fifth Element at least once a month and has a good cry. (Shut up. It's a beautiful moment.)But that version of me needed a few seconds to spin up to power, so I didn't know what to make of her yet. Into that void of indecision rushed an event that collided with destiny and forever altered its course.There at the coffee shop, I just saw tits, legs, ass, hair, dress, feet. Here on the stairs, this was really my first look at her. And I was smitten.Maybe because I'd done the object-analysis already, I was able to see her as a person now. Maybe it was this second-first look that fostered the sense of attraction.Or maybe it was the way she fell into my arms.I'd like to tell you I saw her heel break and her balance fail, and I'd like to tell you I used my cat-like reflexes.
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