] I’ve proudly worn an anarchist’s black rose for years. I used to dye my hair black and wear it straight. Goth makeup. Black clothes or army surp...us. Combat boots. The works. Then my hearthmate and the mother of your child—or children—Liz got hold of me and convinced me to go back to my natural color and curls. She redid my makeup and I became a comedy writer. Who would ever think anything I wrote was funny if I still dressed like an anarchist?ME: Why the costume in the first place? Why all. All the dog-walking and caring for her ailing husband had kept her former gymnast's body in tight condition. When Pat felt the radiant warmth of the fire on her soft skin, she moved her hand and lightly touched her belly.Continuing to read, her fingers traced their way down to her navel and she gently circled the depression lightly.It was then that Pat remembered she hadn't closed the blinds on the sliding glass doors leading out to their deck. The large sofa sat halfway facing the fireplace. "Put on something nice, and we'll see you in fifteen to twenty."Olivia jumped onto the bed and bounced around like the kid that she was. She was about to break in her new home away from home and she couldn't be more excited.Rushing around with a purpose now, Olivia undressed out of her shorts and tank and stripped off her Victoria's Secret bra and panty, and put on something a little more daring. A matching red lace bra and sheer panty would do nicely, followed by a very pretty, almost fancy. . (shifting uncompfortably in my seat while writing this) up my... er... Well,Okay,... whoever's Idea it is, mine or Hers... ... is STIL piss me off. (fusterated sigh)I would FUME over doing exactlly as instruced by this stupid arrogent full of herself bitch, and rush home to soak up every word She dribbeled out. You know what She called me once? Human waste. Can you Image? I just stared at the email for minutes, numbed my her words. What my fingers traveled next is purely irevelant.The point.