They want to feel as though they have him on a line that they can reel in and out. Play with him like a hooked fish. Whistle to him like a puppy. Of course, he must be eager to have their company.

They are all millionaires. Money is the cord that ties them to one another. Their common form of bondage. Their goal now that they have reached their later years is to accumulate more of it. That cannot be done without a man. A rich man. He must have more in his account than they do. He must be richer.

He doesn’t need to be handsome. He doesn’t need to have social grace. He doesn’t need to have all his teeth in his head. He must only be richer. His bank account must brim over and spill onto a balance sheet that is long and large. Zeros are his biggest asset.

They sit like cobras in a charmer’s basket, weaving their heads at the stranger among them. Waiting for the right moment to strike. Careful. Calculated.

The man must be older. Not wiser. Older. Age is his advantage. Their cobra dance heightens as they gauge his worth. A slight slither to the right. A longer lean to the left. Hissing and sizzling like bacon coming to life in a sexy cast iron pan.

Their black mascaraed eyes are heavy with pseudo-passion. “Please look my way,” they moan while they adjust their V-neck sweaters to show off their crinkled breasts.

They hope he has friends. They hope he has friends who are richer than he is. He must. He travels in the rich men’s circles. Former businessmen and now property owners. These ladies had strict entrance requirements to their club. Membership tallied up to double-digits plus seven successive zeros: anything less than that amount in a man’s bank account and their attitude towards zero-tolerance would appear.

The women weave their heads together, clinging to his every word. Their dance of welcoming their prey to the party. If he dares to glance at his cellphone, they hiss, “Begone! You are not paying attention to us.” They require a man’s full attention. No distractions. No deviations.

That is the scenario every afternoon. The Rich Widows’ Club. Women who screwed their way into mansions and rich men’s beds. All they ever had to do was screw. And that they did in their younger years. Now they have retired from the opening of legs and the swallowing of cum, but their bank accounts still drive them to do things that others may not. Their obsession with money didn’t retire at age sixty-five. Now they have to think about what they are leaving to their grandchildren and the great-grands.