Lo got up and made small talk with Dave and in the course of the conversation he mentioned how he was “ready to get back to dating.”
Their conversation continued politely and somehow he brought it round to the borrowed drill. “Did HH need it again?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Lo, “did he already return it to you?”
“Yeah,” said Dave, “a couple of days ago. You were in the shower. By the way, how’s the water situation?”
“Water situation?” asked Lo, puzzled.
“Yeah, the hot and cold. Any idea why that’s happening?”
“Hot and cold? Our water is just fine. We’re on the first floor so we get it first. It’s the upper stories that have problems.”
“Oh, that’s funny.”
“Never mind. I just was asking cause, you know, I consider myself rather handy.”
“Well, we do have a little project that we could use you for,” said Lo, oblivious to his allusions.
She invited him in and called me. “HH, guess who’s here? Dave came by with Chauncey.”
I came out of the kitchen where I was making lunch and having a beer.
“Hi Dave,” I said.
“Hi HH. I hear you have a little project that needs a handyman.”
I looked at Lo. She didn’t seem mischievous, but I always think she’s up to something — and I’m usually right.
“The mirror,” said Lo, as if I should have known right away what she had in mind.
“Oh, right.” I said. “Lo wants me to put up this mirror over here” — I showed him the mirror in the dining room — “up here,” as I pointed to the place on the wall above the buffet.
“That’s no problem,” said Dave as he went over to the wall and began knocking on it.
“Well,” said Lo of me, “he can’t get it up.”
“Oh, I can get it up,” I replied very defensively.
“Well, he can’t keep it up.” It was true that the mirror had fallen once and miraculously it didn’t shatter.
“Do you have a stud-finder?” asked Dave.
“That’s my middle name,” said Lo (more to me than to Dave).
“What?” asked Dave.
“Nothing,” I said, giving Lo a look of warning.
“I’ll just run and grab that drill and a stud-finder and I’ll get it up for you in a jiffy,” said Dave.
After he was out the front door I looked at Lo and said, “What the hell was that all about?!”
“Why don’t you start by telling me what’s wrong with our pipes?”
“Yeah, the pipes,” she said.
That’s when I told her about the embarrassing little return of the drill incident and she told me that she wants her damn mirror up today cause she’s sick of seeing it lying in the corner for the past six months. She ended with, “While you two boys take care of that, I’m going to take care of business in the shower.” She turned tail and walked out of the room. I knew I was in for it now.
Dave returned right quick and as I heard the jets of water shoot on, he and I marked up the wall, drilled the holes for the hooks, and got the damned mirror up and leveled off. I actually thought that I might get out of this mess scot free when, after we were done, Dave asked if I might have a beer for him to quench his thirst. What was I supposed to say?
I went in the kitchen and, like clockwork, there it was — the ramping up of the self-inflicted shower sensation. I looked down the hall. Sure enough, Lo purposely left the door open.
I gave Dave his beer and suggested we drink them outside.
“The sun is a scorcher today,” he said. “Why not enjoy the cool living room.”
The guest is always right. We sat down and the two of us were treated to an aria of orgasmic delight that made the vocal virtuosity of Mozart’s Queen of the Night look positively repressed.
“Pipes again?” asked Dave.
I felt like folding myself into an origami shape that could fit into an envelope and mailing myself first class to anywhere but there.
“Dave, I’m going to be frank with you.” My words were punctuated by Lo’s ecstatic shrieks. “You’re a recently divorced man. I too am divorced. You’re about my age and now you’ll be on the market again.” He nodded in assent. I wasn’t sure where I was going to go with this. Luckily he interrupted me.
“Looks like things worked out for you. I hope I find a woman at least half as beautiful, smart, and charming as Lo.”
I never know what to say to comments like that. “Thank you” seems in appropriate. “Thank you” for what? For complimenting my luck? my “acquisition” as if she were something I purchased at the store? for my taste? Instead of “thank you” I said, “I am lucky to be with Lo and no one knows that more than I, but here’s the thing. . . .”
I thought Lo’s orgasm was over, but after her decrescendo, she was on the ascent again with a second wave, so I just said it, “Lo’s a nymphomaniac. It’s not the pipes she’s screaming at; she’s in the shower getting herself off and I’m almost certain when she’s done, if you’re still here, she’ll come out here all innocent like and tease you.”
Dave sat bolt upright. “And?” he asked as if that was nothing so bad.
“Well, Dave, can we just keep this little fact about her between us?”
“Sure, HH. But what’s bothering you?”
“Honestly, Dave, I don’t even know how to tell you. But if you ever date a nympho for a year or so, get back to me and we’ll compare notes.”
He and I sipped our beer and listened to Lo as if listening to the radio. When she was done, like clockwork we heard from the dining room, “Oh, look at that! It looks great.”
“You like it?” called Dave.
“Yes! Come and see what I was thinking.”
Dave and I got up and as we entered the dining room, there was Lo in nothing but her pink T-shirt that reads “I ♥ Sex” on the chest, looking at herself in the mirror.
“I want to put this here and this over here,” she said, bending over to pick up a vase and place it on the buffet next to the mirror and then bending over to pick up a lamp and place it on the other side of the mirror. Each time she bent over, of course, she flashed Dave and me a quick peek of her derrière.
“Thanks so much, Dave!” she said, giving him a little peck on the cheek, but making sure her breasts rubbed up against him as she did so.
“Not a problem. Call me anytime you need a drill,” he said.
He left soon thereafter and Lo and I sat in the living room across from each other.
“It looked like he was well endowed through those tight jeans,” I said to her, reading her mind.
“Oh, I know,” she answered, spreading her legs.
“So you noticed? — you cock-whore!”
“Yeah, so, you notice every chick from a mile away, you letch.”
“And you want his cock, don’t you?”
“So you admit to being a letch?”
“Don’t change the subject. You admit it, don’t you?”
“Yeah, so? Big whoop! Admit you’re a letch.”
“I’m not a letch, I’m an. . .”
“I’m an aesthete,” she said in a mocking tone.
“You’re no aesthete. You’re a horny old man who sublimates his sexual desire into his writing.”
“You know why I love you so much?” I asked, catching her off guard, “Cause you get me. I’m as transparent as cellophane to you.”
“And do you know why I love you so much? Cause. . . you’re a horny old man who sublimates his sexual desire into his writing. Now I’m going to go get my red dildo. You go get your comp and you’ll read me your latest story while I jill it!”
“First, tell me the truth, would you suck on Dave’s dick?”
“Really? You wouldn’t want all that pent up cum? To be the source of his release?”
“Only if you wanted me to, Daddy.”
“Right,” I said sarcastically.
When we were in the bedroom she turned on her tum as her tail was wagging and she thrust her hands down between her legs and said, “Read to me, you horny ole cur.”
When I was done reading a story to her and when she was done jillin’ it, she said to me, “Daddy-O, can I make one little criticism?”
“What?” I said, bracing myself cause I don’t take criticism very well.
“I’ve heard this all before. You’re recycling your material.”
“Darling,” I said to her in the nicest way possible, “you are my material.”
“You’re not getting bored of me, are you?” she asked in a panic.
“Never — not in a million years.”
“Good, cause if you were, I’d have to move onto Dave and, well, you know, I don’t want to be that woman.”
I threw a pillow at her and she threw her dildo back at me. I chased her around the bedroom with it until I finally had her in my clutches and she submitted to being punished for all her naughty indiscretions — not least of which was teasing me about Dave.
[Excerpt from the story, “Mirror Mirror,” from the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]