#1: Eric
If you are part of my generation, you'll remember the despicable newspaper advice columnist Ann Landers. Occasionally, she would publish a letter from a reader, relating an interesting story of how he met his wife.
Over the years, I've been collecting stories of how men met their wives, or how wives met their husbands. These are stories that Ann never would have published. Here's the story of how Eric met Nicole. Of course, the names and details have been fictionalized for privacy.
If you have an interesting story, please contact me using the feedback form. Remember to provide your email address so I can get back to you.
Soon after I graduated from college, I inherited a sum of money from my grandmother. I had never been short of money, but this was far more that I'd ever had before. It wasn't enough to support me for the rest of my life, but it was enough that I certainly needed professional help managing it. The executor of my grandmother's estate gave me the name of a financial advisor and I made an appointment.
The advisor's office was in a nondescript building in an office park. The reception area was furnished with a few modest chairs and some magazines, and there was a receptionist at a metal desk. As I approached her, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a picture on the side wall and I stopped and turned, startled to find such an item in so mundane a situation.
It was a photograph of a nude young woman, shown full-length. It was a large photo, nearly life size. The model was standing, one hand on her hip, her head thrown back, beautiful auburn hair cascading down her neck. She was laughing, a great big belly-laugh, as if she'd just heard the funniest joke ever.
This was no simple photograph taken with a camera from Wal-Mart, nor a snapshot taken by a boyfriend or a pornographer. I'm hardly a trained connoisseur, but I realized this was a work of art of the highest quality, produced by a master photographer.
The model's skin was very pale, and she was photographed against a white background. The lighting was carefully arranged for the subtlest of shadows, creating the effect of nearly pure unbroken whiteness. Aside from her hair, the only hints of color were a small, carefully trimmed patch of pubic hair, slightly redder than auburn, and large rose-colored nipples.
The technique was impeccable, with detail unimaginable in a photo so large. Each wisp of hair was distinct, and her skin was so luminous you wanted to touch its softness, the texture showing just the slightest hint of glisten. Even the frame was museum-quality, made of an exotic wood of just the right color to compliment the auburn and rose colors.
But what made the picture so striking was the model's pose, completely relaxed and open. You could see little of her face, because it was tilted back, but the little you could see, combined with the body language of her arms and the slight tilt of her legs, conveyed an unmistakable sense of joy and happiness. There was no mistaking that she was in the company of close friends that she loved dearly.
Even if I'd encountered this photograph in a top art museum, I would have been struck by its quality, but finding it in the suburban office of my financial advisor was nothing short of disorienting. Eventually, I remembered why I was there and I went to the receptionist's desk and introduced myself, and it occurred to me that, regardless of quality, a photo of a nude woman was an unusual item for an office.
"It's a beautiful photo," I said. She nodded. "It's an unusual subject for a financial advisor." The receptionist, a rather squat thirty-year-old, probably mother of two small children, just gave me a knowing smile and didn't comment. I didn't understand what the smile meant.
After a few minutes, the advisor came to greet me. I complimented him on the photo and he thanked me and escorted me to a small conference room, furnished with an inexpensive table, a few chairs, and a full bookshelf.
On one wall was yet another beautiful picture, also a large photo of a nude woman. I was pretty sure it was the same model, because I recognized the auburn hair and rose-colored nipples. This picture was taken from above, looking down on her as she lay on her back on a white bed, knees pulled up a little, with her arm draped over her eyes, displaying a perfectly hairless soft underarm. Her hair splayed out onto a snow-white pillow. Like the photo in the reception area, this was nearly all white, except near the center of the composition was a brown mass of hair between the model's legs. It was the back of another woman's head, curls of hair draping over the thighs of the primary model. You could see the head and neck and shoulders of the brown-haired girl, but most of her body was outside the photo.
The primary model's eyes were covered by her arm, but her mouth left no doubt what was happening. Her lips were slightly parted and she was caught in the midst of a slight gasp. Like the first photograph, this one was perfect composed and perfectly executed with the finest craftsmanship, conveying exactly the emotion of a woman enjoying oral sex from a lover she knew well.
Fortunately, the advisor gave me a good opportunity to study the photo. He told me the name of the artist, and I recognized it immediately as one of the best fashion photographers in the world. I wondered how he came to own such fine art, but there was no way to politely ask such a question. I intentionally seated myself facing away from the photo, hoping to forget it was there and concentrate on my finances.
He and I spoke for almost two hours. He asked me detailed questions about myself – my education, my up-bringing, my occupation, my career goals, and my personal goals for family, wife, children, hobbies. We talked about the lifestyle I wanted to lead and how to best structure investments, insurance, trusts, and wills to support it. He struck me as smart, articulate, knowledgeable, honest -- just the person I needed to help me. I trusted him.
As we finished the business of the meeting, I complimented him once again on the photos, and he asked if I wanted to see others. He took me into his private office, and I was dumbfounded. Facing me, on the wall over his desk, dominating the room, was a huge close-up photo of a woman's genitals, taken from between her legs, shown at, perhaps, ten times life size.
The photo include part of her white thighs, but little else of the surrounding area. I noticed the small patch of pubic hair, and the color told me it was probably the same model, but I couldn't be sure. The detail was incredible. Every pore, every tiny crease or fold of her labia, every crinkle of skin at her anus, was rendered in perfect precision. This photograph, though white-on-white like the others, was filled with the pinkness of her labia and her anus, and I remembered that they were the same rose color as the nipples I'd seen in the first photos.
The composition was, of course, perfect. Two of her fingers were in the picture, perfectly manicured and painted the same color as her labia. One finger was touching her clitoris, moving it slightly to the side. The other held one of her lips open a bit, allowing a partial view inside of her, into her vagina. The whiteness of her thighs gave way to the pinkness of her labia and her fingernails, then quickly to the darkness, and eventually blackness, of her vagina, at the very center of the photo.
Even without a view of her face, there was no doubt of her emotion. The clitoris was hard and protruding from its hood, under the touch of her finger. The labia were puffy and moist, become increasingly slick with wetness close to the vaginal opening. She was aroused, wanting sex.
In the hands of a lesser photographer, such an image would have been pornographic, but I can honestly say that my reaction was not sexual. The photo was a work of beauty and power of a kind I had rarely experienced. I couldn't take my eyes off it.
Then the advisor spoke, distracting my attention momentarily, and he told me to turn around. Behind me, on the wall next to the door, were more photos. There was a series of three, and I was drawn toward them.
