When I first met Lauralee, she was engaged. His name was Dwayne, but behind his back we called him "The" Dwayne. The point being none of Lauralee's friends liked The Dwayne, and thought she could do a lot better. She was smart, beautiful, with dark hair and eyes, freckles across her shoulder blades, and down the V of her chest. She had the softest lilting Southern drawl you ever heard, always soft and breathy, making you lean in closer to hear, as if she was telling you a secret just to you, and you, more than anything, wanted to hear. We all had a crush on Lauralee, boys and girls. But she had it crazy for The Dwayne. So la-la for The Dwayne, she seemed all the more inaccessible, and thus, all the more desirable. Maybe she knew she made boys hard and girls wet. Or maybe not. We were friends, best friends, and she felt she could tell me everything. I didn't want to hear, frankly, about The Dwayne. But I wanted to hear her drawl, be near her.
Lauralee and The Dwayne lived in a small two-bedroom bungalow. Out back it had a nice little yard, barbecue, small deck, and hot tub. One particularly hot summer afternoon, we sat on her back deck, sharing a bottle of white wine. After the thrid glass, we were both feeling totally buzzed. Lauralee suggested we hop the hot tub, kicking off her flip-flops and tugging down her jeans. I don't know why, then, I didn't think it unusual that she didn't have a swim suit to offer, but she'd already stripped down to just a t-shirt. It was one of The Dwayne's undershirts.
When she hopped in, their was no question I'd join her. There was no question we'd drink more wine. And no question that I wanted her more than ever. The thin fabric of the tank top clung to her breasts, showing their full size. I picked up my camera and snapped a shot to have and to always remember that afternoon. She looked at me as if she knew she was sexy, as she knew I wanted her, and that she was spoken for and therefore safe with me, her best friend, her confidant. I snapped a second shot, before stepping in.
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