“Quite well, thanks. And you?” Asked the man whose wife had been the subject of my oral s*x training. Like the rest of him, Rich Cook’s hand was small and soft.
“Fine,” I said, letting go.
“Me too,” said Rich, his eyes nervously flicking this way and that, never meeting mine.
Slightly pudgy, what hair Rich had left was a fringe of gray in a half circle above his ears. He had a head like a basketball, a middle-aged Charlie Brown. His thick glasses and high, reedy voice, were like that of Microsoft founder Bill Gates, or the old time character actor Wally Cox. In short, Rich was among those men who look best in pleated olive twill slacks, an open-necked cotton shirt of baby blue, and sensible shoes, preferably brogues. On the other hand, as Vivian pointed out to me privately, he came from
