By Aspiring Ashton
We met on a yacht. She looked great in her Dior cut-away one piece swimsuit. She looked fit, and I said so, I asked if she was a swimmer she said yes she’d been on her State team back in the US. I could tell, her legs were lithe, her shoulders square, her arms not the usual two wet noodles hanging off her body, I could see the muscles glide just under the surface of her sun tanned skin. We swapped numbers I don’t know why, she was out of my league, perhaps she liked the cut of my Vilebrequins. I didn’t care that she was fifteen years older than me, so, she’s a cougar, what’s wrong with that.