Johnny liked rock music and dining out. His wife, Lori (short for Lothlorien and she didn’t really know why her parents had called her that) was not...tall for a Dutch woman; she was average height, she too had fair, curly hair and she was very slim, with small breasts. It was some sort of national holiday and we were gathered at the house of the foreign minister, a big, fancy place on the outskirts of town. I stood and talked to Johnny and Lori – you do a lot of standing around with a glass of. "One last thing," my wife said, as she unwrapped a piece ofbubble gum and pushed it in my mouth. "Okay, now you can look atyourself."The image that greeted me in the mirror was astounding. My wifehad done a good job. I looked like a prostitute sure enough.More precisely, I looked like a pretty damned scary prostitute.The clothes hugged my slender build and the heels made my legsand ass look . . . well . . . sexier than I felt comfortablewith. But, the jaw, the muscular shoulder and arms, and. More

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