How sexy should the older woman be in my novel?

For the older woman in my novel, I pictured someone like Mrs. Robinson from The Graduate.
For the older woman in my novel, I pictured someone like Mrs. Robinson from The Graduate.

THE LIGHTS WERE DIM when she walked in.

It was better that way.

The music was playing low on the jukebox.

Sinatra I think it was.

It may have been Dean Martin.

It didn’t matter.

She sat down beside me and crossed her legs.

Her smile was sultry.

And tempting.

She was two inches taller than five feet, looked as though she hadn’t missed a Pilates Class in years, had long auburn hair, eyes that blazed like fire if fire had been the color of green, and her nails were painted the color of her lips.

Her dress was silk and tight and hugged all the right places.

Her trim legs had been freshly oiled.

She raised her skirt slightly to make sure I noticed.

She winked when I did.

I tried to wink back, but my eyelids were tongue-tied.

“I hear you’re looking for an older woman,” she said.

“You may not be old enough.”

“I’m somewhere past forty.”

“No one would believe it.”

She winked again.

“No one is supposed to,” she said.

For the second day, I was auditioning characters for my new novel, Friday Nights Don’t Last Forever.”

It’s about high school.

It’s about football.

It has absolutely nothing to do with either high school or football.

The featured player in the novel is quarterback Casey Clinton.

He is no different from any other eighteen year old.

He has no idea what to do with stardom.

He’s confused.

He’s frustrated.

His parents don’t understand him.

The college recruiters say they do.

College recruiters have been known to lie from time to time.

He’s easily influenced.

I needed a femme fatale to influence him.

Or at least she could take his mind off his troubles.

“I’m looking for a woman who knows how to have a good time,” I said.

“I’ve had plenty of those,” she said.

“But she’s not a scarlet woman.”

“Only in the dark,” she said.

“Do you like men?”

She grinned.

She winked again.

“I like boys better,” she said.

“How old?”

“Eighteen works for me.”

“Can you keep secrets?” I asked.

“I can,” she said. “But eighteen years olds like to brag.”

She shrugged.

“I can’t do anything about that,” she said.

“I need my character to be prim and proper in public,” I said. “She is a pillar of the community. She holds bake sales. She loves people and is loved by everyone she meets. She’s the woman every mother in town wants her daughter to be.”

“I’ll do just fine,” she said.

“What makes you say that?”

“I’m a preacher’s wife,” she said.

“What kind?”


She winked.

The skirt rose a couple of inches higher.

She was wearing three-inch heels.

They were spiked.

“My husband preaches about the devil,” she said. “The devil and I have been on good terms for a long time.”

“How about the boy?” I asked.

“He won’t have a chance.”

“He may not like older women.”

She laughed softly.

The skirt slipped higher up her thigh.

“There are a lot of things he’ll ask about,” she said. “But age won’t be one of them.”

“Can you turn him loose when the time is right?” I wanted to know.

“I’m not in this forever,” she said. “I’m in it for a slow Saturday night.”

“It’s Friday night,” I said.

“Fridays work fine,” she said.

She was nibbling on her bottom lip.

I waited for it to bleed.

It didn’t.

I picked up the phone and called outside the room.

“Cancel the rest of the appointments,” I said.

She winked.

She knew she had the job when she walked in the room.

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