Thick-lipped older woman with dark hair and round glasses already knows how to ruin a man’s focus. Knee-walking across the room like she owns the place—red dress clinging to her hips—she drops to her knees before he can even sit down. Glasses crooked now, mascara smearing as she pulls him deep into that practiced throat. Coughs once but keeps going. Hands gripping his thighs like this is just another Tuesday night routine. Then she’s up in one smooth motion, straddling his lap on that black leather couch—dress rucked up past her waist so he can see exactly what kind of experience fifty years of practice buys you.