How can one really make love? Could it be something that just randomly and suddenly happens, like spontaneous human combustion or the vase that no one wants to fess up to breaking? Although it may work for the vase, I don’t think you can blame love on the cat. (We all know, of course, that it was your brother who broke the vase. That’s it.) Is making love like making a table or a chair? Do you see a block of wood, sand out the roughness, cut off the pieces you don’t want, and produce a Stradivarius violin? Or is it more like a recipe, with ingredients carefully measured and added? Must it simmer, boil, or freeze? How long does it have to bake, and at what temperature? Do I have all the ingredients, in the right proportions? Am I supposed to have all the ingredients, or will the person I make love with be the one to supply what is missing? I’m not sure of any answers, but we were doing it. Making love. You and I. Some of your ingredients, a few of mine, and voila! There it was. Love.. I thought the surprise of seeing this stranger sitting on our sofa as she came out of the bathroom would be exciting. I heard the shower shut off and knew she would be ready in a couple of minutes. I called to her and asked if she wanted a drink? She asked for one of the hard lemonades so I poured her one and grabbed Ken and myself a cold beer. With her in the bathroom Ken and I chatted. He was a firefighter with one of the local communities. He was in his mid-thirties and in excellent shape. He had a typical firefighters build, broad shoulders, strong arms, and boy next-door good looks. He was about 6-foot two inches tall, blonde hair and kind of had a surfer quality going on. His looks meant far less to me, as I just wanted to see my wife turned into a real-life sex toy, but I knew his good looks and charm meant a lot to Michelle. He had good manners and seemed like a very genuine person. If I could have hand picked a guy to come slide his cock into my wife, I’m not.
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