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I was in some ways like Suzette: do you know how much pussy there is in France? I wanted to try them all.

I was still the shy kid that Mrs. Wilton seduced, but pussy seemed to fall into my lap.

Take Margeaux Babineau, the realtor who sold me my beach house. She was in her mid-forties. Compared to Mrs. Wilton she was young and attractive. Compared to Suzette, she was a middle-age, wide ass, buxom woman whose face was starting to show wrinkles.

Shortly after I moved in but not completely settled, she knocked on my door. “Monsieur, welcome to Agde.” She handed me a bottle of wine.

“Merci, madame, merci.”

It wouldn’t be very hospitable to not offer to share a glass with her, would it?

“That’s very kind of you, Marty. Just one, after that I’m liable to lose my head.”

Although not completely settled, I had stocked up on wine. That very morning, two dozen bottles of the finest local wines had been delivered. Yes, my new home had it’s own small wine cellar. ...

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