I put my glass down with a bang and Keith and Clee exchanged looks of pretend fear. He thought I was her mother. He didn’t have enough experience to guess I might be stiff and shaking with violence. How shocked he would be when I bent her over the dinner table, pushed up her dress, and jimmied my member into her tight pucker. I’d thrust with both hands high in the air, showing everyone in the restaurant, including the chefs and sous-chefs and busboys and waiters, showing all of them I was not her mother.

With each course they grew more comfortable with each other’s bodies. He recited the dessert selections while giving her a shoulder massage.

“Do you know him?” Carl asked, confused.

“His name’s Keith,” she said.