His dark blonde hair was gelled and carefully disheveled, his shining blue eyes were assured, but not smug, and his hands looked strong as they rubbed...his thighs gently through the denim of his very tight jeans, showing maybe just a hint of nerves at meeting her. Molly found herself staring at his jeans while his soothing voice said something or other about whether she wanted another coffee or not. “So, what would you like to do this afternoon?” Molly asked when she’d gathered herself from. I'm no spring chicken, I am a man in my early fifties and my abdominal six-pack became a keg a long time ago. My wife claims that she can't actually remember when I HAD a six-pack! My pec's have been buried under the fruits of thirty years of eating and drinking too well. To make matters worse, I am no narcissist — I don't spend my days and nights working out on exercise machines intended to preserve the illusion of youth. In other words, I more or less look my age. Aging is a bitch, and is. More

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