The notion of the Hamiltons hosting a toga party was so ludicrous that I could not get it out of my mind for days.  We met them about ten years ago when our older son was playing baseball through the park district.  Dan’s choice to volunteer as coach came from Jill’s direct order to get involved with their youngest son before he was as resentful as their eldest for his absenteeism.  Dan’s career kept them comfortable but at great cost to his availability as father and husband.  This only added to my surprise of them hosting a party.  The guy was almost never home.  

Despite brief appearances at many of our cookouts over the years, I knew little about Dan.  Jill and Kate grew somewhat close, first at the ball games and then more so when they discovered the scrapbooking phenomenon together.  Dan’s stoic demeanor always left me grasping at where the hell this guy was at.  No hobbies to speak of, just a workaholic.   Both had just hit 50 earlier in the year and were college educated but the similarities stopped there.  Jill enjoyed too much wine sometimes and I wondered if Dan has had a beer since college.  He was pale year-round from his office job but Jill kept her pleasing body tan and primped.  They were such an unlikely pair.

Katie took great delight in researching how to tailor an authentic toga.  I felt ashamed when I recognized her attention to detail because I would likely have just grabbed a white sheet and added knots in it until it didn’t fall off.

Pleased with her efforts, she asked, “Do you think a purple stripe would be insulting?”

I had no clue.  “Do I look Greek to you?”

I earned a sideways glance for my ignorant comment.  “Roman.  Romans used purple to indicate status....  Never mind.”  My blank look ended the lesson.

Katie dropped the boys off at my folks and whipped together some kind of pumpkin dish to bring while I raked up the last of the leaves and took a shower.   I put on a pair of comfortable running shorts and I did my best impression of a scarecrow with my arms sticking out as Katie dressed me with the 20 foot piece of linen and fussed over the details.  I stood feeling like a chump until she made her final inspection and remarked her reluctant approval.  “Done?”  I asked.

“Yes.  Thank you for being such a good sport.”  I even earned a sweet kiss on my freshly shaven cheek.

I sat on the corner of our bed and watched her casually undress down to her tan bra and panties.  Studying her womanly frame, I felt an unexpected sensation of appreciation for Kate’s body.  I questioned when it happened to me that a woman did not have to be a size 5 to be sexy to me.  “What is Katie, an 8?  10?  12?”  I wondered to myself.  Total MILF.  The juvenile wandering of my mind made me chuckle.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I’m a pig.  Nothing to worry about.”

“When you’re done hurting my feelings, would you mind helping me with this?”

I got up and pinched her ass before taking the cloth she was holding out.

“You’re leaving your bra on?”

“My strapless broke two years ago. hint-hint, and I am NOT going braless to a party.”

“Okay.  But they’ll see your bra strap.  Do we have time to stop at the store?  Ha!  That would be a hoot, going to Kohl’s in togas!”

“I go to a public pool wearing a much more revealing one-piece.  Have you not seen what the girls are wearing these days?  Thongs with low-riding jeans and bras are the latest craze in outerwear.  Since when do you want me to start covering up?  Aren’t you the same guy who wandered our old neighborhood in a naked stupor?”

Ouch.  I haven’t had a drink in ten years and that still comes up.

“Forget it.”

Properly prepared with our dish and togas, I gathered the loose ends of her garment after she sat in the passenger seat of her sensible mom-mobile and handed her the dessert.  Feeling grateful we had a garage so the neighbors did not see me in this getup, I closed Kate’s door, went around to get in the driver’s seat, and backed out of the garage to drive us to the Hamilton’s.....