I love working from home on Thursdays during the school year. For one day each week I have the house all to myself, and there's nothing that compares to the feeling of being alone in my home, even if most of the day is spent working at my computer. For seven hours I have complete silence when I want it (besides the clacking of my fingers on the keyboard), or I can listen to the Texas singer-songwriters from the seventies that my husband can't stand. I can get a snack from a clean kitchen that recently was, or isn't yet, full of dirty plates and glasses from my teenaged daughters' before or after school snacks. Why can't they put a dish in the machine? I don't know, and for seven hours I don't have to wonder.

One of the best parts of my week happens around two o'clock, give or take a half hour depending on the month. During that part of the afternoon the sun is in the perfect position for about thirty minutes, and that's just the right amount of time to do what I need to do. At that time of the afternoon the sun doesn't create a glare on the sliding glass door of my neighbor's upstairs bedroom, nor does it create a glare on mine. For thirty minutes of perfect sun position (and with diligent cleaning), we both have completely transparent windows. At 1:45 he sits on his bed and waits.

I bought a new shirt when I took the girls "back-to-school" shopping a week ago. It's a denim shirt with a western yoke, pointy chest-pocket flaps, and mother-of-pearl snaps on the pockets and down the front. A real cowboy shirt like Guy Clark or Townes Van Zandt might have worn. I imagine that I was with them in a sweaty living room in the seventies, along with a small group of people who are drinking whiskey and listening to them play songs. I imagine I sleep with one of them that night, it doesn't really matter which one, and when I wake up I grab this denim shirt off the floor, make myself some coffee in an old percolator, then take it outside. I sit at an angle with my feet on the seat of a rocking chair, wearing only white panties and this smoky, musky denim shirt, one arm wrapped around my bare shins, my toes pressing against the post for the arm of the chair, the hot coffee resting on the tops of my knees. I have a golden glow from the rising sun through the coffee's steam, and I feel so sexy that I think I'll burst. I think I'll wear this shirt today.

The neighbor's name is Mike. We have a lot of Mikes in our neighborhood (I can think of at least six on our block alone), so he's often referred to by neighbors as "Mike and Carolyn Mike", or "Bike Mike," because his hobby seems to be riding a very fancy bicycle, in full bicycle clothing, at high speed around our block multiple times in the late afternoon or early evening, all summer long. Nobody knows why he won't leave the neighborhood on his bicycle, or why he dresses up in all the gear, but he does it a couple of times a week. Shiny red bike, shiny red Lycra body suit, shiny red helmet, whipping past our house six to ten times per outing, the smooth whirr of his oiled gears and the flash of red.

Opening the curtain is like the opening kiss. I love the announcement it makes to both of us about what I'm here to do. It sets the tone for what's to come. The metallic scraping jangle of the rings across the rod is like my husband's kisses under my ear; I can feel my nipples tighten up from the sound alone. With the curtain open I look across the way to see if he's there, and he always is. I don't acknowledge his presence but I can see with a glance that he's ready. He's naked but I don't look. I don't need to look because it doesn't matter. As soon as I know he's there and watching, I begin to feel the warmth between my legs, and as I take a step back from the large glass expanse I can feel the slickness with my movements.

Rumor around the Wine Wednesday fire pit has it that Mike works nights at a factory, and Carolyn works days in an office of some kind. Neither my husband nor I have ever seen Carolyn, although I did hear her yelling at him once. She called him a "fucking asshole" in a very loud voice, which we heard from our patio dining table and thought it was hysterical. We continue to laugh about it years later. My husband refers to him as "the fucking asshole" when he rides by sometimes, just to be funny. I wonder what he would say if he knew about Thursdays.

I feel extra sexy unfastening the snaps on my new shirt. I don't know if it looks hotter than undoing buttons; seeing fingers doing precise work has an exciting appeal. I don't know if it looks hotter than slipping the straps of a dress over my shoulders and letting it all fall to the floor to reveal me like a magician's cape. I do not feel sexy pulling anything over my head, and I'm sure it doesn't look sexy either. But these snaps, oh my God. The pop of the round metal stud being released from the metal ring makes not only an enticing sound, but it creates an actual jolt through my body that, in my current heightened state, I feel like a thump on my clit. The snap makes me aware of my clit's demanding presence.

I did meet him once. Mike, that is. Actually, it was twice, now that I think about it. The first time was at a block party sponsored by the city, about two and a half years ago. Our street was blocked off, a local bank had an ice cream truck on site, the fire department brought a hook and ladder by for the little kids to see, and a state trooper that lives on the corner was grilling burgers and hot dogs in his uniform and passing out plastic badges to the little kids. I brought brownies and blueberry oat bars. At some point during the event I was strolling down the street with my best friend Jill, who lives next door. We found our husbands talking at the corner of the fire truck, and as we approached we realized that they were talking to Mike, who was around the back side. Jill's husband introduced us both to him.

I noticed was that he was taller than I thought he'd be in real life, about the same height as my husband. I'd never seen him standing beside anything but a door frame, and even then it wasn't right next to the door frame, so I didn't have any reference, but I assumed he was shorter. I noticed when we shook hands that his right hand was rougher than I imagined it would be, and then I realized that I must have imagined his right hand at some point over the years, and that surprised me. I noticed that he seemed not to recognize me, and I didn't know whether I should feel insulted, hurt, or grateful. I settled on grateful, told him that it was nice to finally meet him, and excused myself.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

I can slide my hand in my shirt to touch my breast now, the way Guy probably would. He or Townes, it doesn't really matter which one, would open the wood-framed screen door with a screech of the rusty spring. It would clap shut as his footsteps came up behind the rocking chair. I'd lean my head way back to say good morning and he'd slide his hand into my shirt from behind, grabbing a whole handful of my breast firmly but tenderly with his big hand, giving it a squeeze as he bent down and kissed the top of my messy hair. Then he'd say "Mornin' darlin'" with a deep twang and I'd get wet again like I am now.

Two months after the block party was the first Thursday in September, and our daughters had returned to school three days ago. At 2:00 I went upstairs and when I pulled back the curtains on my sliding door and he was across the yards, standing a little back from his own door, looking in my direction. I wondered if meeting me that summer would change anything for him, but there he was. Did he know when it was time for our girls to go back to school, or did he look at my glass door every Thursday at 2:00, hoping I'd appear? I was curious how he felt about this thing we do: was it a fun little break in his daily routine that happens on Thursday, was it something he was excited about every week, was it important to his mental health? Should I feel excited that he returns each week, or should I feel that he's pathetic and pitiful. As I thought about it I realized that I don't really care what it means to him. I know what it means to me.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Six inches wide, the strip of visible torso from my neck to the waist of my panties. I look across and see that he's excited and then look down at my body, at the inside rise of my breasts, at my thin belly, at the mound that my bush makes, the dark hair slightly visible under the white fabric, at my red toenails. I play with the placket of my shirt; the pearly snaps adding heft that buttons don't have. I want to show him my tits, like I do most weeks, but I'm too enthralled with the metal snaps and the ping I feel when I drag them over my nipples. I finally let the right side fall open to show him my taut pink areola, while I continue pinging my left one. I slide my fingers slide down the strip of my body to my panties, further down and between, squishing the moisture into the white cotton, and I'm getting closer.

Mike has a pool in his back yard. Our upstairs sliding door, a narrow strip of patio, a narrow strip of grass, a privacy fence, his pool, his upstairs sliding glass door. He cleans the pool a lot while he listens to classic rock. Bad Company, Bob Seger, The Eagles, Tom Petty. He doesn't swim very often, but when he does, he jumps into the pool with a loud "Whoo". Boing, "Whoo!", splash. He's like a middle-aged child. I can't decide if it's cute of weird.

I put my hand inside my panties and dip my fingertips into the wetness, smearing it over my swollen clit. The jolt of pleasure makes me fall forward, and I lean against the window with my left hand. I look up and he's stroking himself slowly but deliberately. He's familiar with my rhythms, he knows how much time I'm going to take and is pacing himself. He probably already knows that my shirt will come off next; he probably thinks that I imagine it's him taking it off of me, but he's wrong. Today it's Townes or Guy, it really doesn't matter which one. One day it was my high school boyfriend, and one day my ex. Some days a stranger I saw at the store or on TV. Once it was my best friend Jill, it was her husband probably five times, and it was both of them embarrassingly often. Twice it was Danielle who cuts my hair, and twice it was the woman who covers for Danielle when she's on vacation. Johnny Depp removed it for about three months straight a few years ago. It was never Mike; he's just a guy who watches me.

My husband runs into Mike when he's doing yard work sometimes. They discuss certain weeds and how to get rid of them, problems with tree branches, how to get a rebate for switching to an electric mower, things like that. When my husband tells me about their conversations, I somehow find a way to make fun of him or criticize him. His fence looks like shit. His maple is crowding out our dogwood. Why does he have to play his music so loud? I don't know why I do this; he's been nothing but kind to me. He has become an important part of my life, whether I like him or not. It's possible that I criticize him as a way to remind myself; his job is to watch me, not to be my friend.

I step forward and press my tits up against the cool glass, causing the briefest of shivers. My eyes are closed and my head is turned to the side, but I already know he likes this part. I probably would too if I were him, because my tits are very pretty. I breastfed two daughters over a decade ago, and my tits still feel firm. I'm proud of them, so I let him see them this way, as clearly as possible, my nipples somehow gripping the glass and maintaining their position as the rest of my breasts move. I don't let him enjoy this part for very long, because it really does nothing for me. It's just a small thank-you gift I guess.

The second time I talked to Mike was one Saturday last November. My husband was in the back yard dealing with a small tree branch that had fallen and landed on Mike's fence, breaking off the top of a picket. I was in the side yard raking the last of the leaves to the curb when Mike walked over to me. He wanted to know if we'd ever considered cutting down the massive maple tree in our yard because it was shading his pool and making the heater run all the time. Also, it was going to crush a house someday. I had been afraid of it falling on our house, but I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of giving me advice. I told him that the tree has been there for a couple hundred years and his pool has been there for fifteen, so maybe he should have thought about that. He said, "Yeah, okay," and walked away. Five days later I opened the curtain and there he was.

I press myself away from the glass and turn. I pause here today for just a few seconds before I push my panties down over my butt and, bending at the waist away from him, down my legs and past my knees. I stand straight and let them fall the rest of the way before stepping out of them and walking two small steps to the end of our bed. I don't show him my husband's favorite part of my body for long (at least it's the part that he compliments the most. Honestly, though, the gusto with which he devours my pussy would indicate otherwise) before I take a seat on the dark brown leather bench at the foot of our bed. My knees are together as I sit down and lean back; the bench is lower than the mattress by eight inches or so, a fairly comfortable recliner. I lift my feet to the bench, my heels inches from my butt, my red-tipped toes dangling off the edge, and I spread my legs.

In honor of my new shirt, today it will be Townes and Guy. I don't think they would participate in this kind of thing together, but I put their gentlemanly qualities out of my head because I need them to be something else for me right now.

I sit between Guy's legs and lean back against his chest. The denim sleeve of his long arm lays over my shoulder and across my right breast, his hand resting on the ribs under my left. My heart starts to race as Townes sets his guitar in the corner and removes his hat, setting it on the headstock. He drops down in front of me, puts a hand on top of each knee, and spreads my legs apart. I slip my finger inside slowly and then add a second, imagining Townes' guitar string-calloused fingertips touching me inside, imagining his mouth on my clit as I grip his thick brown hair. I circle my clit with wet fingers and it's his whiskey tongue and suddenly I'm breathing harder and feeling warm. I can feel my face flushing red as Guy takes my left breast into his hand, kneading it and running his thumb over my nipple that is so stiff it hurts. I can feel him getting hard against the small of my back and I want him inside me. He or Townes, it doesn't really matter which one.

Tonight is "snuggle" night. My husband doesn't know why every Thursday is snuggle night; I tell him that Thursdays are less tiring since I'm home all day, and that it's good for us to have a regular night like this or else we'll get busy with other things and let it slide. The fact is that I am so fucking horny for him by the time we're ready for bed that I can hardly stand it. My Thursday afternoons are glorious, but they're really just like preparations for a track meet; the world's most delicious Gatorade and most pleasurable stretches, the giddy anticipation as your feet get set in the blocks. Being watched excites me like crazy, but it's not the same as being held and touched and kissed and licked and fucked by my husband.

As always happens on Thursday afternoon, whoever I was imagining at the start soon becomes my husband. I never seem to be able to track when the switch happens, but I don't really care because my husband knows how to reliably get me off. I suck his fat cock for a few minutes, which always makes me wet, before he flips me over and does magic tricks with his tongue. Sometimes I can't hold it anymore and I come against his face, and some nights it happens less quickly. On those nights my husband will take me to the edge until I'm begging to have him inside, and then he'll sink into me very, very, very slowly. It takes time to adjust to him, but once he's in and can't go deeper, I feel indescribably full from the size and weight of it. Once he starts moving inside me I'm already there; arms around his back, legs around his butt, trying to hold on through the waves. I don't know when Guy and Townes became my husband this afternoon, but they did, and then my husband did his thing and Mike saw the results.

Mike probably thinks that I have my orgasm from seeing him naked and jerking off, and the idea that he might think that is hysterical to me. Although in a way he wouldn't be completely wrong. He doesn't look great naked, and his dick isn't anything to write home about. But honestly, I don't even know if watching the world's hottest man stroking the world's most beautiful penis would de enough to make me come by itself. Luckily, though, imagining a beautiful man stroking his beautiful penis and fondling myself about it while another man watches me, nude and with his unimpressive dick in his hand, sixty feet away, every Thursday at two o'clock, is plenty. So thank you, Mike. It means a lot to me.