The 8x10 of Darcy O'dell

Chapter 2 can stand alone as a separate story since it's seven years later, but you'll have a much richer experience if you read Chapter 1 first.

Thanks to my volunteer editor SilviDoll whose contributions made this a much better read. Also many thanks to vibes for his detailed corrections and improvements to my piecemeal Italian translations as well as his help with shaping the Italian-American female main character's dialogue.

* * *

INTRODUCTION:

Allora chi è questa Gina?

(2001)

So who is this Gina, the woman who got me to the altar and made me (almost) forget about Darcy O'Dell?

Born Luigina Ferretti in Brooklyn to an Italian-American family. Spoke Italian as a young child before learning English. Her parents moved to Los Angeles in her tweens where she quickly grew a world-class pair of boobs. Considers herself a Valley Girl.

She married an older, domineering, possessive, rich jerk; got divorced. Ex-husband was killed in a hang gliding accident in the throes of a midlife crisis. She finds out later he was fucking one of the young blonde instructors. Post-divorce she returned to her job at Macy's in Sherman Oaks. Selling women's clothes. Yep, I see a pattern developing here.

PART 1: How We Met (1998)

We were introduced by mutual friends at a party. Neither of us knew it was a setup at the time. One look and I was in. I wondered why someone like her was single, and I wondered if she was thinking the same about me. She had that way of dressing that appealed to me, the effortless enhancement of her best features—in this case, her breasts.

Gina's style contrasted with Darcy's, although I couldn't say I preferred one over the other. I'd say it was a West Coast versus Midwest comparison. Gina knows how to operate close to the line where classy could turn into tacky. Her forte is the noticeable (but tasteful) cleavage, the breathtaking down-blouse peek when bending over, and the controlled bobbing and swaying when she walks. All made possible by just the right bra for the occasion.

I

loved

her lingerie, but let me clarify. I'm not into what most fetishists prefer: elaborate bustiers, garter belts, stockings, corsets, bodysuits—particularly the frillier and tarted-up items pioneered by Fredrick's of Hollywood. All that just gets in the way of things. What I want is a simple, classy (preferably European) bra and panties—but no thongs, please. The sweeping curvature and deep cleavage Victoria's Secret promises to their customers, Gina had naturally.

I swooned seeing Gina's underwear when I bedded her the first time. I had her keep it on which aroused her considerably. Most men want it on the floor as quickly as possible. She has bras that allow ample breast exposure while staying fastened, providing some support for her big ones. She likes receiving cunnilingus and penetration with her panties pulled aside. It all comes off eventually during our lovemaking when things turn aggressive or messy—like the tit fucking.

* * *

When Gina and I started getting serious and talking about our future, she said she needed to reveal something from her past. My worried mind spilled out a parade of horribles.

"Jeff, I want you to know about some things when I was younger that could be an issue. The main way I paid my college expenses was baring my boobs."

That was it?

"Why would I have a problem with that, Gina? I would say that 99% of the female breasts I've looked at have been on the printed page or computer screen or in a movie. Those belonged to somebody. Nothing wrong with getting paid for having a nice body. You can tell me as much or as little detail as you want. I'm completely OK with it."

Her expression hinted that her ex was very

not

OK with it.

She smiled. "I don't mind talking about it. It's fairly wholesome—no peep shows or stripping. I don't want you to be blindsided if someone tells you later or recognizes me from back then."

"Even that wouldn't stop me from wanting you. For the record, I've been to one peep show and about a half dozen strip club visits. Not really how I want to spend my money—or get my rocks off. But continue."

"When I was a freshman at UCLA, I was one of the girls picked to model school logo sportswear in their campus catalog. That triggered calls from agents promising other work. It was no surprise when it turned out to be mostly brassiere modeling for store catalogs and newspaper ads. I was a star of the full-figure bra world. My main work was for the major department stores like The Broadway, Robinson's, and Bullock's.

"It wasn't long before my agent had me up for racier lingerie shoots. The money was a lot better, and I was happy to share. The sessions that paid the most were on/offs for the classier magazines. Those special issues like

Playboy's Book of Lingerie

.

"I did some full nudes for fine art photographers. A lot of those didn't even show my face. All of it seems positively innocent by today's standards. No spread beaver shots, wanking, or other people in the picture. I went by the name 'Colleen Collins' back then. Ring any bells?"

"No, I don't think so. What's with the Irish name?"

"It was primarily to throw off relatives or neighbors that knew me as Italian. It could give deniability to family and friends that disapproved. They could always say 'That's not Gina'."

Boy, all those times I tossed off to busty babes in those magazines—I never would have imagined having one as a girlfriend years later.

"Gina, let me tell you a little about my background. As soon as I got to college, I grabbed

Playboy, Penthouse

—whatever I could get my hands on. Jacked off to nude girls in those magazines all the time. Bought a lot of lingerie-oriented publications. I've seen the content in dozens of other girlie mags, including the raunchier stuff.

"I went to X-rated movie theaters back in the day, often with dates. Bought a few porno videos. I think I've seen just about every possible sexual combination and kink there is out there on the Internet. Never have done chat rooms or phone sex. I would be happy to walk you through the entire contents of my hard drive and show you what I've saved, including bookmarks to all the websites.

"The magazines and videos are all gone. Out with the trash—anything that was tangible. All the erotica I have now is on the computer. I want to be as open as possible about all of that. Anything sex-related."

"So you had some of those special lingerie issues? Do you remember around what time you were buying those?"

I couldn't remember precisely, but I narrowed it down to a range of years. She asked which titles I had bought. It seems I may have had some of the ones she was in. I didn't specifically remember a Colleen Collins, but it's possible I did see her.

"So you might have jerked off to a picture of me. Years before you met me. Aw, that's cute."

"Did you save any photos from that era?"

"No," she said wistfully. "My ex made me destroy my entire portfolio. That was so childish and insecure. I wouldn't make you go through all your photos and trash the ones that have other women in them. He thought my keeping them would increase the likelihood of someone embarrassing him about my past."

What a tool! Don't these guys get it? That's part of the deal when you marry a hot babe with big boobs, especially if it's one who's made money showing them. There's always going to be a stranger somewhere who's whacking off to her picture. What do they expect? Of course I didn't say anything about the 8x10 of Darcy O'Dell I had come across during the scanning project.

"My modeling years were fun, enjoyable times. I felt like he was trying to erase my youth. I did keep one old photo. From a Macy's lingerie shoot. It was my favorite of all the pictures. It was my little way of fighting back. My token act of defiance. But it's gone."

"What happened?"

"You know when you try to hide something? And each place you pick seems too obvious. So eventually you find the perfect place that no one will ever find. I picked such a good hiding place that I forgot where I put it. I've looked and looked. I think I must have inadvertently thrown it out during one of my many moves after the divorce."

I hugged her and assured her I loved her more than ever. I took her to our bedroom and proved it. All that talk about lingerie and nude photos got me hot—and her, too.

* * *

We had a lot of fun reviewing all the erotic images on my hard drive. Her preferences, dislikes, and kinks were virtually the same as mine. She was like a man as far as visual stimulation. We couldn't look at that material for more than fifteen minutes before starting in ourselves. She liked getting ideas for our sexual repertoire from the videos.

Busty women were cool with her since she never had to feel inferior to any of them. And classy lingerie, of course. She loved cum shots (face, tits, body, ass, mouth), swallowing, dirty talk, tit fucking, hand jobs, light bondage, prostate massage. When the mellow "glamcore" videos intended for women and couples arrived, they became her favorite. Even so, she was always ready for some raunch now and then, just for variety: bukkake, nipple and pussy pumping and slapping, bondage where the women are tormented with vibrators, clothed female/nude male masturbation domination. She never wanted to do most of it but got hot looking at it.

We even got subscriptions to several erotic websites, mostly amateur. I looked at her hard drive eventually. Not that extensive, but I was surprised at the amount of female nudes. That last encounter with Mink crossed my mind. Gina swears she's never even thought about eating pussy—she just likes looking at well-photographed women's bodies. Also lots of big dick pics, usually with no faces visible. She assured me it's only a visual fetish—like guys looking at large breasts.

"I've had first-hand experience with a few like these, and they're too much for me—pussy or mouth. I don't want to even think about something like that approaching from the rear. They're painful, not sexy. And the guy who's attached to it is typically, well, 'cocky'."

An interesting dynamic evolved from her looking at my hard drive. Gina is no different from other women when it comes to having doubts about how her body looks—even lingerie models aren't immune to those feelings. She's self-conscious about what she thinks are flaws: low-riding tits, big nipples and areolas, protruding clit, and meaty pussy lips.

I think most men are tactful enough to not push those buttons, even when they privately agree that their wife's [

body parts

] are too [

adjective

]. But what did Gina see when she clicked through all the erotic photos, videos, and websites I had saved? Lots of images of women with pendulous breasts, thick nipples, wide areolas, prominent labia, and large clits. She never had to wonder if I was just being nice when I said I had a preference for the things she thought men didn't like about her body. My hard drive was full of visuals that had one or more "flaws" in common with her nude physique.

PART 2: The Day We Found Out (2001)

That afternoon was an emotional one for me. And especially for Gina. A pall of anxiety hovered over our marriage. One that had been there for more than a year. Ever since Gina got the results from a breast biopsy. It wasn't good news. Let's skip over all the sad details. I was sitting in the waiting room of her doctor's office. I'd been there way too many times. I always offer to go in with her, but she prefers to do it alone.

It was the day when we would hear if she's clear, out of the woods, in remission—or fall back into the abyss of another lengthy course of treatments and anguish and expense. Treatments that were almost certain to involve disfiguring surgery.

During her earlier chemotherapy, when she was at her lowest, I heard her crying. We'd both done a lot of that. I walked down to our home office to comfort her and saw she was looking at post-op mastectomy pictures. She closed the browser quickly; but I sat down, put my arms around her, and told her to open it back up.

"We should look at these together." I think that was the best decision I ever made in our marriage.

They were shocking images, rarely seen by men—or women. Some had one breast remaining, others had none. All races and body types. Some didn't look too bad, but most were downright scary. I let her choose the pace of how long we lingered on each image. Occasionally she would comment in a quiet voice; I didn't say much.

Something happened, though, as the number of images accumulated. I'm almost too embarrassed to write it down. We looked at so many of them that the blank chests and ugly scars became commonplace. Then Gina made a catty remark about one woman's belly fat. I was shocked, but I realized a corner had been turned. The surgical damage had momentarily lost its shock value. A few more remarks about hairiness and stretch marks. She asked me what I thought about one woman's nose. I was reluctant to participate, but there we both were—making snarky comments that sensible people would recoil from. I felt guilty, but she seemed to have a catharsis.

Gina turned her head and looked at me with a silly face. "We're

so

bad."

When she'd had enough, Gina closed the browser and took my hands. "Will you still love me if I look like that?"

"Gina, you don't know if this is your fate. Let's be patient. I know the treatments have been horrific. I'll still love you. In sickness and in health, remember? We're both going to be in bodies we don't recognize eventually.

"I'm not going to sugarcoat it. Losing part of yourself—breast, leg, testicle—is traumatic. It looks weird and ugly. Those are

not

pretty pictures. But the reason those women

could

pose for them is that they are still alive. Your breasts won't do either of us any good if they're in a coffin."

She gave me a hug that lasted a long time—until we tore our clothes off.

* * *

That afternoon in the doctor's office I was getting antsy. I looked around the waiting room. I think I'd read every magazine in there, some more than once. Almost exclusively women's publications; I knew them all:

Vogue, Self, Bust

(my favorite),

Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire, Shape, Elle, Good Housekeeping

. But no

Bitch

or

Ms.

Then I saw what looked like a snowman in a desert: a copy of

GQ

. It was pristine; no address label, no creases or tears. I looked at the cover—it was the current issue. Must have been left here by another bored and scared spouse. Did he forget it due to jubilation or anguish?

I reminded myself why I never buy magazines like

GQ

. The clothes are ridiculous—in appearance

and

price. They're usually so foppish that I'd be embarrassed to walk down the street wearing them. Even in L.A. Hell, I wouldn't walk down Carnaby Street in "Swinging London" in the '60s wearing most of the clothes they feature. I've seen what male celebrities wear when they come on

The Tonight Show

. Suits that are cool and classy and make them look good. Not this magazine stuff.

I gave it a try anyway and started flipping through the pages. Lots of ads. Lots and

lots

of ads. Something caught my eye. It was one of their fashion spreads; the clothes actually looked good. Really good. I was surprised. I could see myself owning one of those suits. The models were photographed in a mysterious old industrial facility. The artistic layout was dramatic and pulled you in. I studied each outfit. Not bad. Just for the hell of it, I decided to write down some of the info. Too expensive, I'd never buy this, but ...

The magazine slipped off my lap while I was trying to get out a pen. Damn. I had trouble finding where the article was. I went back to the table of contents to find what page it's on. There—on page 152. Before I could start flipping to the article, I saw something that jumped out at me.

"Holy shit!" I yelled and slapped my hand down on the page.

Oh, that was

way

too loud. Everyone in the waiting room looked over. I sheepishly avoided their glare, but I had good reason to react. At the front of the magazine, where they have info about the people who created each feature or article, I saw the following credits for the menswear layout I had looked at:

Art Direction by Mink Markham

Photographs by Timothy Wayne Townshend

Styling by Kate O'Dell-Kleinfelter

Why did I slap the page? There were small pictures by each name. I covered them up before I got a good look at them. I wasn't expecting to see a picture of Darcy/Kate that day. Certainly not a recent one. I allowed myself to read the little blurbs, even hers. But that hyphenated last name! Say it ain't so, Darcy. The green monster of jealousy tried to get some traction: maybe she's in an unhappy marriage, or maybe she's an unwitting beard for a closeted gay husband—but my heart wasn't in it.

I slid my hand down a little to look at Mink's photo. She had somehow turned her plainness into an asset by using stark makeup, trendy eyeglasses and wildly colored hair jutting out in different directions—I could even tell in black and white. She still looked very young for her age.

Like many photographers' self-portraits, Tim had partially obscured his face. A lot of gray hair was visible. Still I recognized the damaged Leica logo on the camera and our school's distinctive ring on his hand. Did I dare look at Darcy's picture?

"Jeff. Jeff?" I saw fingers snapping under my nose. It was Gina.

"It's all good news. My tests are clear. Full remission." She pulled me up from my seat. C'mon. Let's get out of here."

She took me by the hand like a child as we headed out into the hall. I was stumbling; she had a spring in her step. We waited for the elevator.

"Looks like 'the girls' are going to be staying around for a while," she deadpanned. "When we get home, I'm going to give you the

nastiest

titty fuck ever."

I checked to make sure no one else heard that.

"We have to get in as many of those as we can," she said. "Just in case." Gina's wicked sense of humor was back. As the elevator doors shut, she asked about the magazine.

"Magazine?"

"Yes. That issue of

GQ

in your hand. The one that you still have your finger in. Marking the place where you were reading. What's so important in there?"

The truth seemed like the simplest way to answer.

"I was looking at some suits. In a layout they have."

"Let me see."

I turned to page 152 and showed her. Gina trained her

fashionista

eagle eye on the layout, studying each page.

"This is excellent photography. Not too arty, not too blah. Just right. Oh, I know where this is. The Domino Sugar factory in Brooklyn. In Williamsburg, by the river.

Nonno

used to work there. That's molasses dripping down the wall.

"I think any number of these would look good on you. Any one in particular?"

I showed her the one I liked best.

"Nice. How much? Mmmm, not

that

bad. I'm sure that's much more than you've ever spent on a suit. But if you look half as good as this model when you wear it, it'd be worth it."

She paged back and forth a few times, looking at the other suits.

"Whoever picked out these clothes sure knows his or her menswear. Really nice. And I like this whole layout." She held it up for me to see. "Dramatic. Really pulls you in.

"I haven't seen

GQ

in ages. I used to have some friends who worked there."

Gina turned to the masthead and the page where the three Belmont alumni had their pictures; she studied them for a moment.

"I don't know who these people are. I guess I've been out of the business too long."