StarLust

Written by: Catesby

Jodie’s husband helps to make her sexual fantasies about a celebrity come true.

Starlust 

© Catesby 

"Wow," my wife Jodie said as she broke off our kiss. "They're right
about Paris. It is a romantic city. 

We were on the last night of our holiday, sat canoodling in a dark
alcove of a dimly lit bar. We had been acting like newlyweds all week, 
even though we were in our sixth year of marriage. We couldn't keep our 
hands off each other. At home I was never comfortable with kissing and 
petting in public but here it seemed totally right. There seemed to be 
a staff shortage with no waitresses around so we were left alone 
anyway. Nobody could see us without walking directly up to the booth. 

Jodie was thirty two years old at this time but she looked years
younger. She had always worked hard at keeping her body in trim as well 
as keeping an eye on her vitamin and mineral intake. It certainly did 
the trick. She had hardly aged at all in the eight years I had known 
her. She had a very curvaceous body but with a flat tummy and long 
slender legs. The perfect combination. Her complexion was smooth, her 
hair long and dark and her cheekbones high. Even in Paris she looked 
classier than all the other women in the street. Tonight she was 
wearing a simple but stylish low cut dress, which showed off her ample 
cleavage and lovely long legs. 

The holiday had really livened up our spirits and tonight, as we were
getting a flight home the next day, we decided to push the boat out and 
get roaring drunk. We had been sat in the bar drinking beer for about 
an hour when Jodie suddenly gasped. 

"Oh my God. Glenn, look over there," she said, pointing over to a man
ambling slowly by on his way to the bar. 

"What? What's he doing?" I asked. 

"It's not what he's doing. It's who he is," she said, excitement rising
in her voice. 

I strained my eyes to look at him more carefully. He was in his late
thirties, with long dishevelled hair and a tatty old suit. He looked 
like the type who's always at war with the world and only finds comfort 
in the bottom of a whiskey glass. 

"Who is he then? He just looks like some old drunk." 

"Old? He's younger than you, just. He's thirty six years old, born in
Oakland, California on November 8th 1966, a Scorpio, like me." 

Her eyes were shining and she was grinning from ear to ear. Whoever he
was, she was very happy to see him. 

"So who is he then?" I asked again. 

"It's Tommy Garrett!" 

"Oh," I said, slapping my palm against my forehead. "Of course. Tommy
Garrett! Who's he?" 

"You don't know?" she asked, her mouth open in disbelief. 

"Should I?" 

"Remember this? Sha na na - nah nah nah - na na." 

"Oh right," I said, catching on. "The singer. I thought he was dead." 

"Not to the President of his fan club at St Ursula's school for girls." 

"You were the President of his fan club?" 

"Well, a small local chapter of it, shall we say. There was about twenty
of us. We used to follow him everywhere, go to all his concerts, camp 
outside his hotel, that sort of thing. God, I had such a crush on him." 



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