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Men like me don't get together with women like Aster very often. And that's because on paper it's all wrong. I was twenty*years older than her. She was black and I was white. She was gorgeous and I was? well, I had done all right with women over the years but I had never considered myself to be handsome. Now that the age battle was getting the better of me, I was looking at a different area of the spectrum as regards women.I was thinking about grandmas. While young men wanted MILFs who had a certain amount of experience and were perhaps more uninhibited than girls, I was looking for those who felt like me: past their prime and not expecting too much.That?s not to say I was looking for losers; the world is full of attractive women who for one reason or another were not regarded as prime properties.However, you still can?t help noticing beautiful, sexy young women, and there was one in my orbit at that time. Aster was in her mid-twenties, medium height, quite dark-skinned but not ebony, and she had a svelte body, slim in the right places and plump in the buttocks and breasts. She had sultry eyes, she dressed sexily in short skirts or tight jeans and tops and her thick, silky, wavy black hair was like istanbul travesti a shampoo commercial as it cascaded down her shoulders.I used to sit next to her at government press conferences on Wednesday afternoons. This was in Tobago, where I lived for a year or so and managed to get a job as the Tobago correspondent for one of big brother Trinidad?s national papers.I sat next to her at these things because we were two of only three journalists prepared to sit in the front row; the rest preferred to skulk at the back, out of harm?s way if the week?s featured politician decided to ask questions of his or her own.The other one of the three was Indy, a stick-thin but pretty Tobago Indian who was married and quite prim and proper. She and Aster had been friends since they started in the profession.*So, although I was always first to arrive and Indy second, I would leave a chair between us for Aster, who would sashay in a bit later, but still before the meeting started, because the politicians were always late so the journos were always late, so the politicians? It?s a vicious circle, unpunctuality.I would get a bit of conversation with Aster when Indy went off to talk to istanbul travesti somebody else, so Aster and I became Facebook friends. Her photos reflected her real-life demeanour. She would be draped across a man, presumably her boyfriend ? with a leg protruding from a slit skirt for the benefit of the camera, not the man.*Or walking along the shoreline of a sandy beach wearing a bikini that was not made of a clingy stretch fabric but an inflexible material which meant that as her body moved there would be gaps around the edges of the briefs. You?d get the unusual feeling that you could just slip your hand in there with no effort whatsoever.All in all, Aster looked as if she knew she was God?s gift to men, but the way she draped herself over her man was a potent mixture of provocation and affection. And as a personality, she was humble enough.It was that that gave me the courage to email her one night and ask her out to dinner.?Thanks, Vic,? she replied, ?but I live with my BF so dinner is out of the question. But I wanted you to know your invitation was well received.?That was a nice touch, I thought, reassuring me that I hadn?t made a fool of myself and implying that istanbul travesti in different circumstances she might have said yes.As the weekend rolled around I was resigned to a quiet one as usual, because I didn?t know many people and the bars weren?t my cup of tea at all: too loud and full of locals who knew each other. I stuck out like a sore thumb. So on Saturday night, I was sitting on the balcony of my little apartment with a glass of chilled red wine. You have to chill it in that climate and I had a three-litre box of Merlot in the fridge because the bottles were heavily taxed, not the wine, so boxes worked out much cheaper.I saw a car pull up on the road, way down below my third-floor eyrie, and a woman got out, looked around and up at the building, then took her phone out of her bag.To my great surprise, my phone rang shortly afterwards.?Vic?? the voice said.?Yes.??It?s me, Aster. Look, I?ve had an almighty row with my boyfriend and I could do with a shoulder to cry on. Are you in? I?m outside your building.?I explained how to get to the apartment and just had time to fly into the bathroom and ?freshen up?, as they say.I had just sat down again outside, with a spare glass for her, when she appeared around the corner, puffing from the stairs. I poured her a glass of wine and we sat and attempted to get started.?Bad row?? I asked, good old Uncle Vic.?He?s cheating on me,? she said, still outraged. ?With this girl I was at school with, only she?s five years younger than me.?