An Imperfect Couple Ch 01

This is chapter one of the series, An Imperfect Couple. This is a romance and not a sex story, although the sexual tension and attraction between the two is quite evident. Please enjoy this story, and feel free to offer any feedback you think is appropriate. A writer always loves feedback from his reader.

*****

"I am so tired of all these well-chiseled men sporting incredible cocks hooking up with these gorgeous women who have unbelievable bodies and huge boobs. And everyone always has simultaneous orgasms. Obviously, there are no imperfect people having normal sex in this world." I was griping to no one in particular, and had to look around to make sure no one heard me. My exasperation came as I finished editing this most recent erotic story. I am an author and editor, so when I joined this Internet site which hosted thousands of erotic stories, it was only natural that I put my name on the list of editors. Hell, I thought it would be a great way to read lots of stories about sex. And yet so many of these stories included men and women who were so far above average in every way that it was often difficult to see myself in them. And if I could not see myself in them, then I did not get the full erotic benefits out of an erotic story.

After all,

I mumbled to myself,

there is a difference between a sexual fantasy and science fiction.

Well, I guess maybe that is what fantasy is all about - seeing yourself as better than you are and engaging in sex with a woman who would normally just pass you by.

I was, once again, sitting on the patio of my favorite hotel on St. Augustine Beach, typing away. As a writer, I can work anywhere I want as long as there is an electrical connection. And I can upload or download the results of my work from anywhere as long as there is an Internet connection. Yes, I write and edit at home a lot. But it is so much more fun when the scenery beyond my laptop monitor included majestic mountains shrouded in beautiful, white clouds, or awesome bikinis wrapped around incredible bodies while frolicking in the ocean. I may get less work done in those surroundings, but I sure enjoy it more.

So, I like to take mini-vacations to the beach or to the mountains every month or so. I figured that if I made enough money to enjoy myself, then I should enjoy myself. And I figured that if editing or reading these stories motivated me to enjoy myself even more, then that is okay, too. After all, as a 45 year old divorcee, that was pretty much my life - writing, editing, and enjoying myself as often as possible.

Maybe that was why I enjoyed editing these stories so much. It gave me access to a side of life that I was almost totally lacking - sex. Don't get me wrong. I am not ugly or incapable of talking with women. I am six feet three inches tall, and weigh about 215 pounds, give or take a pizza or two because I keep in shape. And I am not ugly at all. My marriage lasted one week short of 22 years, and then she left me for her girlfriend. Who knew, right? In addition, I have had several excellent relationships in the past few years, although most of them didn't last very long. I may have started late in life compared to the people in the stories that I edit, but I have not been a virgin since my late twenties. I am doing just fine with the opposite sex, thank you very much!

But as I sat there and thought about it, I had to admit that I really was NOT doing just fine. I was one of those normal, average single people who seldom had sex, if these stories were to be believed. Hell, I hadn't been laid in almost three months!

And part of the problem is a matter of my own doing. I was old fashioned enough to believe that sex was more than just biology. Sex was more than just physical exercise. Sex was not, like an Atheist friend of mine likes to claim, like drinking a glass of water! I believed that sex was more. I KNEW what it was like to make love to a beautiful woman. I KNEW what it was like to love someone and to shower her with affection. I KNEW what it was like to belong to a relationship that pursued the best in and for the other person. And I wanted that again.

I believe that dogs have sex, and people make love. Unfortunately, many people restrict themselves to a dog's life.

So I was left with the natural results of my old fashioned beliefs - weekends alone in a hotel room. I sat there and pondered my circumstances for a moment.

I was sitting on the patio of my favorite room in my favorite beach-front hotel in St. Augustine Beach. It was my favorite room because it was a suite, which was larger than the rest of the rooms in this hotel. And it had nicer furniture and more amenities than any other room in the hotel. It was a first class room in a second class hotel. But it was right on the beach and it allowed me to watch the bikinis as they walk to and from the beach. Actually, it also allowed me to watch the families and fat women and the other lonely men as they walk to and from the beach, but you take the good with the bad, right? This is what normal single people do on normal vacations. Of course, if I was in one of the stories I wrote or edited, I would be tall, dark, and handsome with a body that just screamed sexual prowess, and the women in bikinis would not be walking past my patio at all; they would be stopping and chatting with me, virtually incapable of passing me by. I would be so busy choosing my prospective partner for the evening that I would get very little work accomplished. But I would be so much more happy. Right? Right?

Okay, time to stop pondering about the keys to life and start pounding the keys on my computer...

And then I saw her.

"Were you talking to me? I mean, we don't know each other so that was not exactly what I would have chosen as a pickup line." She stood there with a silly grin for at least ten full seconds, having rounded the wall that separates the patio of my suite from the two normal rooms on either side of mine, while I scurried through the farthest corners of my mind for a response.

"Shit, did she hear what I said?"

My silent question was steeped in panic, and my mind was blank.

"I am sorry, I didn't think anyone would hear me. I am trying to edit a story for someone and a paragraph didn't flow right, so I was experimenting aloud. I guess I need to experiment more quietly. Besides, I didn't know I had a neighbor. When I checked in yesterday, the two rooms on either side of mine were empty. My name is Rick Reynolds." I stood from the patio table I was using as a desk and walked toward her with my hand outstretched. She took my hand with a grip more firm than I expected. And I liked that.

As we looked each other over, I noticed several more things I liked. The first thing was her eyes.

There is life in those eyes,

I observed. They almost sparkled, as if they knew a secret but didn't want you to know she had that secret, although that sparkle was probably only the result of her poking fun at me. I was uncertain about her age, because she had that sort of young and attractive air about her that made her age more difficult to discern. If I had to hazard a guess, I would put her somewhere between 40 and 45 years old. She was slightly above average in height, standing probably five feet seven or maybe eight inches tall. And I guessed her weight at probably 140 pounds, meaning that she would need to work out more if she was going to pass the critical judgment of the people in the story I was editing. The stereotypical "beautiful woman" that seemed to be the norm today was more slender and more shapely with big boobs and a tiny waist. But I looked again and decided that her weight might be just fine. In fact, the baggy sweat pants and sweatshirt she wore most likely hid a very nice body. I mean, she actually had a waistline, obvious in spite of her baggy outfit, which was just about the only requirement I had when deciding on a woman's figure. Large breasts or small, long legs or short, blonde or brunette, those really didn't matter to me. The only real physical requirement I had was that she not be fat. I grew up with a mother and two sisters who were overweight, so as long as her waist was narrower than her shoulders and her hips, she had what I would call a good body.

Her hair hung several inches below her shoulders and was the darkest black I had seen in years. And it was somewhere between straight and curly.

Probably wavy was the word I am looking for,

I grinned to myself

, although I really could not consider myself an expert on these things

. Her eyebrows were a matching black, which naturally led me to wonder if any other hair she might have was also black. Or if she even had any other hair...

"My name is Rae. Well, Rachael, really, but most of my friends call me Rae." She seemed a little reserved as we looked each other over, but there was no indication why. And the last thing I noticed was the ring on her left hand. Suddenly, I was ashamed of the assessment she had clearly seem me complete.

"Well, then, let me say thank you," I grinned. When I paused, she looked puzzled, so I had to explain. "If your friends call you Rae and you introduced yourself to me as Rae, then that means the door is open to us becoming friends. And I do not take friendship lightly. So, thank you." I hoped my smile showed as much charm as I was trying to wedge into the conversation. She looked at me hesitantly, as if she didn't want to say what she was thinking.

"What?" I looked at her as innocently as I could.

"Well," her response was slow, "either you are a very smooth and experienced player, or you just might make a good friend." Now her smile was a little teasing. I smiled back.

"Please allow the second option to be explored without bias," I replied, trying to sound honest, respectful, and honorable. And my smile grew even larger.

"You really are smooth, but I haven't yet decided I like that." And she just looked into my eyes without saying anything more.

"If I may, allow me the opportunity to muster a defense. I am drinking an absolutely excellent white wine. Would you care for some yourself while we get to know each other a little?" And I tried to make this invitation sound as innocent and honorable as I could. I pulled out a chair for her while I waited for her response, and she made me wait several seconds.

"No defense needed, because no accusations have been leveled. Yet." This last was spoken with emphasis, but then followed with another of her teasing grins. "But I would love to taste what you call 'excellent white wine' to judge for myself."

I ushered her to the table and helped her with the chair. Then, excusing myself, I went into my kitchen to retrieve another wine glass. As I returned to the patio, I saw her looking at my computer screen.

"Please forgive me, but I must claim confidentiality here. When I edit something for another writer, I promise that I will not share the content with anyone at any time. Sorry." I said this as I retrieved the wine bottle from the ice bucket, but I made no attempt to stop her from looking at the screen. I wasn't sure why... Pouring her glass, I put the wine back on ice and then sat down at my laptop and lowered the screen. "I am sorry, but I really am constrained by a confidentiality agreement with my client." I tried to make my smile as friendly as I could while still being firm.

"Oh, no problem. I was just trying to see what made you shout to the world a few minutes ago. And especially, what made you shout what you did." Her penetrating look into my eyes seemed to speak volumes, but it must have been in another language. I really could not discern what she was thinking.

"Okay, Rae. Let me explain. I am a writer. I write novels and stories and website content and editorials on a number of issues. I also edit what others write. In this case, I am editing a story a man wrote for publication on a particular website. He is a frequent contributor there, and I edit a lot of what he posts." I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of my wine as if that was the end of the story. But she wouldn't leave things alone.

"So what did he write that caused you to vent a few minutes ago? Especially, that caused you to vent what you vented a few minutes ago?" I hesitated and she continued. "Seriously, this sounds interesting and I love being nosy." And she smiled that teasing smile again. With some small irritation, I wondered if that was a tactic she used often to get men to reveal things they would not normally reveal. I decided this would be an effective interrogation tactic if she was a spy trying to get secrets out of some official in another country. So I smiled back in my most disarming manner, and answered her question.

"This client has written a series of what I will call 'erotic romance stories' that I have edited, and they all seem to have a similar pattern that makes his stories seem a little unrealistic. I was just trying to vent aloud so my feelings would not find their way into my editing. He doesn't pay me to inject my personal frustrations into the text of his stories." And this, I decided, was as much as I was willing to share on the subject.

"Okay. Well that certainly explains the comment about 'well-chiseled men sporting incredible cocks hooking up with these gorgeous women who have unbelievable bodies and huge boobs' that I overheard." And with this, her smile indicated satisfaction. "You were right, by the way." After several seconds of silence, my curiosity got the best of me and I had to follow up.

"About what, may I ask?" She just looked at me and smiled, and then looked toward the ocean and slowly took another sip of her wine.

"This really is an excellent wine." She paused, as if considering what more to say about the wine, and then surprised me at what she said next.

"Most erotic stories are too unrealistic to make good fantasies. After several of these stories, you are left with the sneaking suspicion that it could never happen to you because you do not look like her, or like him. Enough of these fantasies and they become demotivating. They make you long for what you know in your heart cannot happen. And this, if followed to its logical conclusion, can only result in despair and even depression."

My jaw clearly dropped. I mean, just like you always read in the stories but never see in real life, my jaw dropped open in surprise. This woman had put into words what I was agonizing over just a few short minutes ago. And my surprise was clearly evident.

"What?" She expressed her won surprise at my reaction. "Do you assume women don't think about these things?" She chuckled at that possibility. "You have no idea. Men fantasize about perfect bodies and perfect sex. Women fantasize about perfect men and perfect relationships. But we both fantasize. And we are both are doomed to experience real life and then to fantasize about what we think we have missed out on." She sighed as if she knew personally the desire for and the frustration in fantasizing.

I stared at Rae for several seconds, and then I dropped my eyes so I wouldn't offend or alienate her. But the truth was, I was clearly fascinated by this woman.

"So, what brings you to the beach in general, and to this hotel in particular?" I found myself wanting to know more about her.

"That is a long story, and you probably don't want to hear it. I just like to come here regularly." And she just looked into her wine without saying anything more. Feeling the need to say something and yet having absolutely no idea what, I just blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"You are right, Rae, I don't want to hear about it. But I desperately need to sound like a warm and sensitive guy right now, so why don't you tell me anyway?" As soon as I said that, I wished I hadn't. Sometimes my attempt to break the tension with humor just doesn't work. Rae looked at me for several seconds and then laughed.

"I like that. Despite your smooth talking and your obvious charm, you can be just as awkward as I usually am. Clearly, we have something in common." She chuckled, and then finished her wine. "So now what do I do, Rick? What would make the better story? If I don't ask for more wine after already admitting that it is an excellent wine, I look aloof and unfriendly, or maybe even afraid to continue chatting with you. But if I ask for more wine, then I might seem a little too friendly and maybe even needy. So, Rick, what does a strong but warm and friendly woman do right this moment?" I sat back and looked at the ocean while finishing my wine. Finally, I answered her question.

"I have no idea what you should do. And I am going to make things even harder for you. I am going to fill both our glasses with some more wine. That should empty the bottle. Then I am going inside to my refrigerator and get another bottle, and I am going to bring it out here and put it in the ice bucket. If you are still here after all that, then I am going to try to get to know you better. And if you are not, then I am going to regret missing the opportunity of getting to know what seems like a very interesting woman." I paused, then filled our glasses and walked into my kitchen without another word, hoping and praying she would be there when I returned. I mean, she really did seem like a very interesting woman, in spite of the fact that both of us seemed a little awkward in these first few minutes. I took the bottle of wine from the refrigerator, hesitated for just a moment, and then returned to the patio outside.

And she was still there.

But the bravado was gone, replaced by a slightly sheepish smile.

"I brought an extra glass so your husband could join us." Something passed over her face, but it moved too quickly for me to identify.

"I'm not married," she responded in a soft voice.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought I saw a ring and I just assumed."

"That is part of the long story I am sure you aren't interested in." I still wasn't entirely certain what I saw on her face, but I was positive it was not happy. I wasn't sure if I should ignore what I thought was there or if I should probe a little. So I took my next shot and hoped for the best.

"Listen, Rae, it is almost 6pm, a perfect time to break for dinner. If you really aren't married, may I invite you for dinner and drinks and light conversation without appearing too eager or needy myself?" I waited for her answer with just a small amount of anxiety. And her response was not long in coming.

"So you hate eating alone, too?" She looked into my eyes but I could not read the expression in them, just the sparkle that I had seen earlier. That seemed to be an improvement in her attitude. I stood up and she followed my lead.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I love going out for dinner, and I love great food and fine wine, but I hate eating alone. Please join me this evening." I hoped my open and honest request was evident on my face. She paused as she searched my face, showing a hesitancy that did not bode well. Then she seemed to make a decision.

"I think that would be fun. Thank you for asking me. But since you have already seen that I am often blunt and honest, I need to tell you something first. I do not do one night stands. Are you okay with the idea that dinner will still result in you sleeping alone tonight?" This time she paused, looking open and honest.

"And I should tell you that I am 49 and divorced, and I have never had a one night stand. So, why don't you take your wine along with you and nurse it while you get ready for dinner with a stranger. I will knock on your door in an hour. Will that be enough time?" I hoped the relief I felt was not as clear on my face.

"No. Too much time. I'm hungry. How about half an hour?" Immediately, she looked like she had said something wrong.