Anyone who's lived a few years comes to realize that the cold, harsh world we live in isn't designed for the meek and the mild mannered. Jesus had a soft-spoken disposition. Look what happened to him. When it comes to suffering I'd rather leave it to others, thank you very much. But every once in a great while balance is restored to the cosmos. The loser at the poker table fills an inside straight. The sap in the middle of a messy divorce retains custody of his two children, and a poor suffering bastard like me scores with a woman so out of his class he catches a nosebleed every time he looks up at her.
This woman's looks screamed "Upper Crust" to me. Her statuesque profile made me look dwarfish. The well cared for mane of salt-and-pepper hair that reached past her ass in a perfectly twisted French braid told a silent tale of afternoons spent at the salon. If it didn't, then her sharp, sculpted fingernails and meticulously plucked eyebrows did. Those wire-thin eyebrows conveyed her emotions perfectly. Every quirk spoke volumes, like a courtesan's fan.
She used her expressive, sapphire blue eyes to give me the once over. Her pomegranate-lipsticked mouth, pleasantly plump and enticingly wide, pulled itself into a crooked smile when she saw me return her glance. Just four hours ago I wouldn't have dared. But successes like the encounter with the eager bartender still buoyed me. I wasn't the same Adam "Gilligan" Milligan that had come to this party. I rode the crest of the wave of success. Soon it would peter out. I intended to ride it until it did.
I sipped on the piss-warm Budweiser I'd been clutching for the last few hours, playing it so cool I half expected the tepid beer to develop a rime of ice on its surface. I didn't recognize her from the office. A game I'd started consisted of memorizing the names and faces of everyone I came in contact with at Chox, Inc. Hell, I even included the FedEx delivery guys. Two years later I could recall just about everyone. Who wouldn't remember the faces of the arrogant fuckers who looked down upon you like freshly scraped dog muck from the bottom of a shoe?
Worse still were the ones who didn't remember me at all, regardless of how many times Chandler introduced us at these quarterly snorefests. These so-called social gatherings seemed as dysfunctional as my rusting Yugo.
I longed to tell Theresa to go fuck herself. As it stood, these crappy parties allowed me to escape my even crappier existence. As much as I hated them, I relished them. I seized upon any chance to despise something other than my own pathetic life.
Today, however, everything was coming up Adam. I didn't understand why, but I didn't question it. Good fortune always turned bad when examined.
I peered around my plastic beer cup, scanning the face of the aged beauty who stared back at me with such a predatory gaze. Her aquiline nose looked sharp. Hungry. A nose fit for an Empress. I needed to know who the hell she was. Our Miss Chandler always tried hobnobbing with her betters but rarely succeeded. How had she managed to ensnare an older, refined beauty like this one? This woman exuded class from every pore. Her high cheekbones gave her a haughty demeanor, one I immediately found desirable.
My eternal curse. Self-delusion. Who was I kidding? Those broad, round hips and fat tits attracted me more than any detail of face. Her pale, slightly pink skin and long legs simply added value to an already astronomically expensive package. That ass. Man, those cushiony cheeks had Milligan written all over them. They were so made for me they should've come pre-emblazoned with my monograms.
"Do you intend to stare at me all night, young man, or will you eventually come over here and introduce yourself?"
The Goddess' speech reduced my newfound courage into crystalline bravery, a thin facade that shattered at the first blow. The elegant woman pursed her lips at my slack-jawed expression. The dark mole that graced the upper left side of her mouth reminded me of old photos of Marilyn Monroe. Not that this woman looked anything like the actress, but the two women shared the same aura. Both beauties belonged to another period in time. Others might attempt to copy their simple yet stunning style but could never achieve it. This woman had an attractiveness that I couldn't readily define, but I'd do anything to possess.
"Torrie."
"What?"
"You wanted to ask me my name," she said. "My name's Victoria, but my friends call me Torrie."
"Really?"
"Really. Then you'd say 'So, I'm a friend, am I?' To which I'd reply 'I certainly hope so.' After that, I'd saunter over to you, snuggle in real close, and place a hand on your chest so I could feel your heartbeat. If it was racing, I'd say with my sultriest smile, 'Why don't you call me Torrie, too?'"
During her spiel she had performed just as she said she would, snaking her sinuous arms about my shoulders and drawing me close. Her fat breasts ground into my chest just as her wide, generous hips smeared themselves against my stiffening crotch. Refinement, like beauty, only sat on a person's surface. Its veil could be worn or discarded as required.
"Ah ... Torrie ... What are you doing?" This party had pretty much ended. I couldn't imagine this wild and foxy lady wanting to spend time with a domesticated mongrel like me. I'd expect her to be rather neutral towards me, not show this kind of interest. Despite my innate pessimism, my usually grey outlook showed a sliver of silver. I doubted it, but I fervently hoped that she'd like me.
"I want you," she said, burying her face in my neck.
Oh yeah?
Right on!
I had wanted this response, but now worry plagued me. I hated dreams. Dreams always failed to materialize. What did she know about me? Why did she want to be with me? Tonight excluded, no woman in their right mind spent any quality time with yours truly.
Her ankle length, black silk dress clung to her form like a second skin. The bright scarlet roses that adorned it competed for redness with her flushed cheeks. I couldn't tell if it was the flush of embarrassment or intoxication. Being hooched up certainly would explain her interest in me. Sober chicks didn't dig the Milligan-Man.
I watched the dark, shimmering cloth sparkle like stars in the night sky. I brushed a hand over her hip then glanced at my palm. It remained dry and unstained. The slick black silk shone wetly like a skim of oil on a pond's surface. For a moment I'd imagined her dress painted on. A thin black crocheted belt cinched her petite waist. The belt ends dangled almost to the hem of her dress. The golden buckle that secured it, metal filigree tied into an intricate knot, drew my eyes to her centre. To either side of it gleamed the long, bare lengths of her well toned legs. The dual, near waist-high slits in the dress made sure those pale beauties weren't missed.
Damn, but this woman looked fine!
"Well?"
"Well what?" I asked.
"Am I attractive enough to have sex with, or are you still trying to make up your mind about me?" she said. The cool, totally together charade I maintained shattered like a glass smashed to the pavement. I sputtered. Warm beer suds spewed out from my nose. I coughed as I fought to regain my breath and composure.
"You want to fuck me?" I wheezed in-between coughs. "Why?"
"Why not, Adam? Don't you think you're deserving? I certainly do." If she did I certainly wouldn't do anything to dissuade her. Not that I had done anything to attract her in the first place. I still didn't understand her reasons for coming onto me so strongly but I'd be the last person to question it. The beggar didn't ask his benefactor the reasons behind her giving up some spare change. He took it, smiled and enjoyed his good fortune. It should've been that simple. Of course I'd make it harder than that. I felt undeserving of such a fine piece of aged ass like her. What could we talk about. Horse Racing? Haute Couture?
I was screwed.
