This is a Halloween contest story. Too many readers don't vote. Please vote. I need the support of your vote.
A man falls in love with a supermodel looking woman, that is, until he meets her mother at Halloween.
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A year and a half after Jayne and I first started corresponding and a year after we first met last October on Halloween, having lived together six months, since May, and with it already being October again and Halloween again, it was our one year anniversary. Being that I had just popped the question and surprised her with a diamond, I was supposed to meet her mother. An understatement, especially in the way that I look compared to her, I was so nervous.
My fiancée, Jayne, looks as if she materialized from the pages of a Sports Illustrated, Swimsuit Edition magazine, photo shoot. I kid you not. Seriously she does. Honestly, she really does.
She has the kind of hair that always looks as if it's blowing in a breeze, even when there's no wind. When you look at her face, unable to look away, lost in a sexual fantasy of fun days and hot nights. When with her, you're transported to some faraway tropical island with white, sandy beaches and crystal clear, blue water, while sipping Pina Coladas. This is the kind of women that men not only leave their wives for but also they leave their mistresses. Oh, yeah. She's that hot.
A woman that the song the Girl from Ipanema could have been written for, she has a sensually shapely body that makes men gnash their teeth and grab their genitals, whenever they see her from the front, the side, and/or the rear, especially from the rear and especially when she's wearing her barely there bikini. Then, whenever her big, blue eyes are directed at you, husbands would sell their souls for the chance to be with her and wives would threaten to cut off their penises for even looking at her. That's my Jayne, the love of my life.
"I love you, Jayne."
"I love you, Charlie."
As if in a remake of Billy Joel's Uptown Girl video, we are quite the odd couple with me looking as much like Billy Joel, as she looks like Christie Brinkley. Actually, with me looking a bit like a mutated version of a cross between Danny DeVito and Joe Pesci, I'm no Tom Brady, quarterback of the New England Patriots. Yet, when I'm with Jayne, I feel as if I'm as tall, as athletic, and as handsome as Tom Brady, while walking with Tom's supermodel wife, Gisele Bundchen.
We met on one of those online dating sites and wrote to one another exclusively for months, before exchanging photos. Compatible astrologically, an important criteria for her, from all that she wrote about herself and all that she read about me, we had so very much in common. Families, traditions, religions, hobbies, movies, music, sports, foods, and likes and dislikes, we're a perfect match. As if we were made for one another, as if it was meant that we were to be together, we were fated to be with one another. Never have I felt such a strong connection with a woman so soon before.
Admittedly, being the shallow man that I am or was, a stretch for me to write this but, honestly, after reading all that she wrote and with her hitting on so many similar interests, I truly didn't care what she looked like. Fortunately for me, hitting the jackpot big time, I never figured she'd look like a supermodel. I figured she'd look much like me, average or below average. For the first time, after having developed an online correspondence without focusing on appearance, I'm a changed man and Jayne is responsible for the man that I am today. That being said, of course, like everyone else, I'd like to plant my seed, propagate the planet, and have children one day.
Specifically looking for a woman that comes from good stock, since I didn't start out my life that way, held back by my below average looks and inferior intelligence, what I failed to accomplish in my life, I hoped my children would succeed at doing. If I can give my children an edge by improving their genetic code and jumpstarting their lives by supercharging their DNA in picking them a mother, who is genetically superior, one that comes from a family that has had generations of superior genes, then that's even better. Jayne was my potential candidate.
So long as Jayne has good genes, from the connection we made through our hundreds of daily and nightly e-mail correspondences, a bigger man than I thought I was and ever could be, I was willing to accept her more for who she was on the inside than how she looked on the outside. With stars in my eyes, without having even met and without having even seen a picture of her, falling head over heels, I was already in love with my female correspondent and she confessed the same to me.
"I love you, Charlie."
"I love you, Jayne."
Not totally blindsided, we briefly described what we looked like to one another, of course. Yet, from the image that I received of her from her description, she sounded too much like a Baywatch Babe. Where others, when they step in shit, come up smelling like a rose, when I step in shit, neck deep in it, I always smell like shit. Truth be told, I didn't believe her description for a second.
Too good to be true by her description of herself, even though we were just corresponding, haven't yet met or exchanged photos, the thought that someone, who I imagined looked like her, would be interested in someone who looked like me, was cockeyed and crazy. Seemingly too good to be true, to be honest, the attraction didn't add up, especially after I bit the bullet and reluctantly and ashamedly described myself to her, 5'7" short, 200 pounds heavy, give or take 20 pounds, mostly give, and bald. Looking much like a short and heavier version of Homer Simpson, other than a Booby prize, I was no one's prize.
"Wow!"
