Black panties were over my black garter belt straps and jet-black stockings for easy access to my clean and already lubed and stretched fuck-hole. My... black leather vest zipped low and sealed in my new falsies and my sheer Lycra bra. A black ladies blazer (from sears) held extra condoms and lube and my purse had all the essentials – condoms, lube, lipstick and gloss, mascara and money. I added the motel key and began my adventure. It was just ahead of nine PM and the adult arcade down the. Watching celebrities parade themselves up and down the red carpet, flaunting whichever overpriced dress they have decided to endorse that evening, whilst sycophantic reporters gush over every syllable that pours from their mouths. And the articles that are written follow that same line of thinking as well. Top ten celebrities who wore too tight and dress and flaunted their nipples, or which celebrities said some meaningless tripe that we're going to read into far too deeply and infer that they. The room was empty, totally empty, apart from the broken down mattress on which I found myself. My clothes were in a pile beside the bed. I dressed, and went out in search of her. The house was a ruin. The front door off its hinges, windows barricaded up. Two months went by, I made enquiries about the house, but it seemed that it had been left empty for several years. I was starting to believe that I had drunk something bad before leaving the pub, some hallucinogenic draught, which had given. Sixty-six years old. Not even close to cashing it in. Last year I decided it was time to break all the fuckin’ rules. My rules first. Afterward maybe yours. I don’t know. I don’t have to know. Maybe afterward, its rules I don’t even know exist.I don’t give a fuck if you don’t like it. That’s the best thing about being sixty-six.My bucket list started with “Fuck my best friend’s wife”. I did, too. Took me six months to fuck her. I had to break the relationship with that fake goody-two-shoes.