Having a Stud for a Husband
I used to worry that one day one of those gorgeous, slinky women rubbing their enormous silicons all over my handsome husband would steal his throbbing heart away.
Baddy, a total Chameleon, went from badass builder to publisher for one of Aspen’s top magazines, Aspen Sojourner. I was so proud of him, a master of many trades and I helped to refine his image by constantly harassing him and correcting his slang English, Liza Doolittle style, included a trip to New York City where I took him to all my favorite stomping grounds to give him a cultural slam. It was an eye-opener for our untravelled country boy. Not having any physical outlets other than walking, he sought out release in my favorite dive bars, like Lucky Strike. His handsome looks attracted the well dressed gay men on the streets who normally wanted nothing to do with my unfashionable and unsophisticated charm when I lived there – opening up a totally unexperienced side to the city as they stopped us on the street to swoon over the Colorado boy sticking out like a sore thumb in his ski jacket. He reprimanded me for not bringing his tweed jacket and consented to buy a new wardrobe from Barneys. It was very amusing to see the attention he was getting from the swooning male sales clerks admiring his wide shoulders and tapered waste.
Baddy humbly accepts that his good looks and Western charm attract both men and woman alike and my appreciation for all the oohs and aahhs exhaled as he walks by has grown through the years.
When pregnant I really had to hold back as his single, lonely, needy, bodacious office bitches pressed their breast implants into my swelling tummy going on and on and on and on about how amazingly lucky I was to have such great eye candy in my bed.
After the babies I decided to join the gym – after all, this was Aspen, the land where nothing stood in the way of wealthy cougars when they wanted something tall and handsome, whether married with children or not. Reluctantly, I walked in to endure my first punch on my pass and get my abs working. Looking around I noticed that all of the locals I had successfully avoided all these years were working out. Was this a joke? Trying to remain positive, I ignored the cold, industrial feel of the gym. No flowers, no warm paint, really bad erotic art showing parts of the muscled body and lots of smelly, staring locals. Is ten minutes enough?
Note to self, do not blindly buy punch passes again. I decided to stick to the fresh outdoors and begin the same nuts, berries and vodka diet that Baddy’s office harem were probably on. I truly believe one has to be slightly nuts to be tiny. Apparently, not my kind of nuts.