I recently received as comment on a story over two years old, it said the story was trash and I should delete all my other stories. What I found the most interesting is the story has a rating of 4.86 and over 60,000 views. Which only goes to show you, one person see's one thing, and another see's something different. He apparently doesn't write or submit stories, or he would know that once the story is posted, that's it. There is no going back to delete them.
Anyway, this is a story about a 41 year old divorcee who think life is all but done. That is until she meets someone as eager to find love as she is.
Life part one
Foreigners "I Wanna Know What Love Is" was cranked up and pouring out of my car radio, I lamented the fact that I was 41 and on my own. It certainly wasn't where I intended, it wasn't a part of my life plan. Yet here I was, the last of three kids was on her own, the two older ones had flown the coop for the city a year before. The tears run down my cheeks as I think to myself how well this song fits into the scheme of things, I thought I knew what love was at one point.
My ex is now dating a twenty-six-year-old bubble headed bleach blonde, who as his personal secretary, is willing to crawl under the desk and suck his dick upon request. She's also willing to dress like a slut for him no matter where they are, something I refused to do. His final nasty dig at me in the end was, "and she takes up the ass", something else I wouldn't do. I never minded dressing attractively and being eye candy if he needed me to, but I refused to dress like a floozy.
For her it's the opposite, she wears nearly sheer blouses that hang open, and pushup bras that make her chest the center of attention as she walks through the door. Her tits are fake, and everyone knows it, her skirts are short, like micro skirt five or six inches below her butt short, and always, I mean always, heels of some sort. You'd think her legs and feet would be killing her by days end. It didn't matter where they were, at work, a restaurant, or the grocery store, she dressed like that every day, everywhere. To look at her and not think "slut" was something beyond my comprehension. Not good old Bennie's comprehension though, my ex seemed to think he'd won the multi-million-dollar lottery at 46.
I sometimes wonder if he'll be able to keep her when he's in his fifties and she in her thirties wanting a family. It wouldn't be coming from him, he got snipped after our third. None of our children are more than fifteen months apart, in fact the first two are only thirteen months apart, I was twenty 23 with three babies. I didn't want any more kids and neither did he, it was his decision to get snipped, I never uttered one word to the contrary. If she wants kids, they won't be from his loins.
I made out alright on the divorce if that's any consolation, we'd made solid investments after we married, of which each got half. It was a mutual agreement that we leave each other's retirement funds alone since they were about the same. I didn't want the house he'd been screwing the bimbo in and neither did she, since it was all but paid for we both realized a decent profit from the sale. I made the decision to buy a townhouse right away, no yard work, no snow shoveling, no maintenance, three bedrooms, two and a half baths, all the other normal amenities and a laundry room. I had my own single car garage and Fuzzy the cat in the window to welcome me home each evening.
With Bennie and the bimbo now living a state away my life was relatively simple, no more of the drama that had surrounded both our lives for the past fifteen months. No more having to explain that yes, he was having an affair, no I wasn't looking for someone to get even with him, yes the kids knew and were making adjustments, on and on and on. It was like a never-ending news loop for cryin out loud.
I had a good job, not a hand over fist money making job, but a good job. I'd been with Sign's Plus over fifteen years, I was receiving a decent salary along with liberal benefits and a position with security. I oversaw the front half of the shop where apparel was located and sold, I also met customers and took simple orders. Anything beyond me went to one of the main graphic designers. The high schools of two other towns and ours, along with a middle school, used us for all their school themed wear along with a number of local businesses.
We had our slow times depending on the weather or holidays, but by and large we were busy 50 weeks a year, the remaining two we were closed over the Christmas/New Year holidays. With me overseeing the apparel section I was ordering sweats, tee's, caps, and a bevy of other clothes to be screen printed or embroidered on a weekly basis. There were two female graphic designers in the area behind the counter where I was located and the owner in an office of her own to the side of us. Every day between eleven and noon the front door would open and in would walk Tom, our UPS guy. He would deliver and pick up shipments, give us all a flirtatious grin, tip his hat, and depart.
The two designers, Christine and Paula, are quite a bit younger than me. One is late twenty's, the other early thirty's, the older one being married with two kids. The younger one would gush and try to start a conversation each day, it never worked, Tom was all business in a sexy sort of way. If Christine, the younger of the two wasn't engrossed in her work she would begin watching the clock about 10:45. She would fluff her hair, open one more button on her blouse, pull out her compact and check her makeup, once I saw her cup her beasts, giving them a lift and pushing them together.
If he had pick-ups, she would try to reach the counter and help, as though that 31-year-old hunk of muscle needed her assistance. He would smile, politely decline, give us his signature flirtatious smile, tip his hat and adios. Cristine would float to her desk and pour herself back into whatever project she was involved with. Paula and I would grin. I remembered those days and had to admit I missed them, the attention, the chase, the beginnings of intimate touches, learning one another's body and what they liked, the wetness between my legs. The ultimate sensation of being naked enjoying each other's body.
Christine is thin with a nice rack, not much of a butt, she makes up for it with a soft angelic face and bubbling personality. I recall when I was in the nastiest part of my divorce thinking I'd like to choak her to death, because nobody deserved to be that happy go lucky. Thank God they were fleeting moments, we worked together well as a team, it needed to stay that way even if one of us was having a shitty day. Or year in my case. Paula is almost the exact opposite, short and round, quiet and reserved, but a tremendous artist and designer. Her hubby is like her, neither are obese, they're just .... round .... with a love that is undeniable.
When we were all out together for whatever work function we might be at, Paula's husband Don was all about her, I don't think he'd have noticed if Miss America walked through the door. By the way they interact I get the feeling they connect in the middle regularly and with gusto. Body language can tell you things words never will. Then there's Christine, she is one of those girls who's in love with the notion of being in love, which usually results in heartache. The owners are both late forties, Bill and Sarah, handsome to look at and downright nice people, they are also madly in love, there's no room for anyone else.
All the guys in the back who print and do the actual work seem to be Bills area and we seldom intermix. We say hello, be cordial and do our jobs, but they are the print crew, we are the office staff and designers. Enough about the business and the people I work with, let's move on to my story.
Growing up I was what mom called a "big" girl. My aunt called me her roly-poly angel, dad called me chubby and my siblings called me fat. By the time I reached puberty I was wide in the hips, big in the bust and about as popular as a fart in the first pew. The only thing I had going for me was a pretty face, but have you noticed it doesn't matter how pretty you are, girls like me aren't invited to try out for the cheerleading squad. It wasn't until my senior year of high school that I began "growing into my body" as mom described it. No, I didn't become some beautiful knock out babe who turned heads everywhere she went. What was once baby fat and extra pounds seemed to dissolve throughout the year, for once in my life I looked like nearly everyone else, just another girl walking down the street.
Having gone through my childhood overweight I determined after the kids were born that I was not going to be a fifty-year-old broad with a flabby ass and tits hanging halfway to my waist. I was never a gym rat though I had considered it, actually accepting a two-week free trial at one joint. I didn't last a week, I was hit on by so many lewd, crude and downright obnoxious men, and women, that I told them to stick it. I simply continued the exercises I'd done at home for years, in fact, I still do them.
As an adult I consider my five-foot seven frame to be average, I don't have what they now refer to as "perky" tits. (That has to be a male terminology, no woman would ever look at her breasts and label them as Perky) Mine possess the stretch marks of three babies that nursed, they were never high and tight, but to my credit neither do they sag and hang. They just sort of exist like two tender mounds on my chest, I fill a 36D cup quite well and at times receive my fair share of looks from men.
I like my hips and legs, my hips flare as do most women who've bore children, my legs are not long but they're stout and firm. I can still rock a pair of four-inch heels with the best of them, my legs may tire, and my feet hurt, but wearing them makes my ass look great. My hair is a medium length dark brown with random grey hairs interspersed throughout, I don't worry about it, that's part of life. I love to wear skirts and blouses and light dresses along with comfy undies, mostly cotton with a few silk and satin outfits.
I don't do more with my nether region than trim for a swimsuit, the rest is natural. My oldest daughter shaves almost daily, says her husband likes it, I wonder if she makes him shave his balls. I can't think of a more uncomfortable feeling than having your panties snag on small bits of stubble after shaving, no thanks. She told me that once you start it doesn't grow back as quickly, I guess my pits and legs never got that memo because I shave there and it grows like crabgrass.
At work I'm usually dressed in pants of some sort in the cooler weather and a summer dress during the warmer days. I don't flirt with the customers and certainly not with Tom. He has a job to do and so do I. Therefore, you can understand what a shock it was running into him at a mall nearly sixty miles away on a Saturday afternoon. I happened to be leaving a lingerie store when I literally bumped into him. Packages went flying as I began going ass over tea kettle toward the floor. I was grimacing in anticipation of my body hitting the concrete when there was suddenly an arm under my body stopping me.
Lifting and setting me on my feet he smiled, "Are you okay DeeDee? I apologize, I wasn't watching where I was going." I was surprised at how nonchalant he talked about a girlie store. "I like this store, you apparently do as well."
Catching my breath and adjusting my dress I composed myself enough to speak. "I do like this store, I like their underwear and it has what I need. Does your girlfriend shop here?"
