I admit that I am what used to be called ‘a ladies’ man’. The focus of my attention was not school, hockey, NASCAR, baseball, basketball or football. Aside from making a living, women were my focus. I love women, and love making love with a woman.
I mention these dubious qualifications to justify my belief that I have been attracted to women who might not have attracted the average guy. It seems I can sense the smouldering volcano bubbling beneath the lovely, smooth skin of some women.
For a while, I took a break from the political quicksand of the advertising profession. I decided to take a job as a courier to get out and around town to cure the rigours of life in an ad agency creative department. It turned out to be a great decision. I like spending all day behind the wheel of a car, and I got in and out of dozens of offices, clinics, politicians’ homes, and so on. I made deliveries to the mayor, to a television beauty, to businesses at the top of monstrous sky scrapers.
Every delivery put me in the presence of a receptionist. I love receptionists, and some of them loved me, too. One example was a young girl, obviously from a small town, had come to the big city seeking opportunities. It was obvious by her accent, her wrong hairstyle and her baggy sweater. She would not get the job in a slick professional office, but she was perfect for the body shop where she worked in the office.
Susan was as plain a girl you could find, but my ‘ladies’ man’ radar detected something so I asked her for a date, which she accepted. Strangely, she just wanted to go to her apartment with me. Of course I was happy to go with her, although surprised.
She happily let me undress her with a knowing smile on her face. When I saw her naked on the quilt, I was swept away with the beauty of her body.
“I know,” she said to my gaping face. “It’s unexpected, isn’t it.”
“I expected wonderful, but you are really spectacularly beautiful,” I said.
The plainness of her face and the dowdiness of her clothing were camouflage for a remarkably beautiful young woman. She was a happy, willing lover, and a delight to be with.
Alice was receptionist in a small publishing house. She had a severe hairstyle; her eyes were always downcast behind horn-rimmed glasses. She wore baggy sweaters and loose-fitting, knee-length skirts. Her face was average, totally devoid of cosmetics. I could feel the hidden heat in her. After making several deliveries to her office over a period of a few weeks, I asked her out to dinner. For some reason, she agreed to come to my apartment to let me make supper for her and me and my teenaged son and an old boyfriend of mine from out of town, visiting for a few days. It’s interesting that she judged it to be a safe situation for her, which it was. It turned out to be a wholesome, pleasant evening.
The following week she had me over to her apartment for supper. It was a lovely meal and a wonderful night of making love. Again, beneath the tawdry garments dwelt a really splendid body in skin like the finest silk. We enjoyed each other immensely. Two days later she called me at home.
“I’m sorry about this, because I had a wonderful time with you. Most importantly, you caused me to remember why I married my husband in the first place, and I’m going back to him to try again. I can’t thank you enough.”
I told her I was sorry I’d not see her again, but I was glad to reawaken her and wished her great good fortune in her life.