Wednesday night with Annette and Thursday with Arlene were pretty much a replay of how it had gone with Paula. They would come into the restaurant, see Aaron, wave a greeting, pause, make a decision, when they saw me, and then join us.
Both were divorcees, both middle 40s, and both frustrated with the dating scene. Beyond that, they could not have been more different.
Annette was truly an apple-shaped woman. She was short, about Paula's 5'2" or so, and had to be pushing 200 pounds. She was cute rather than pretty, with the round cheeks and double chins of a truly fat girl. But she didn't try to hide her size at all. She had on tight slacks, tight enough to show a distinct panty line. Her blouse was loose but the scoop neck showed a generous amount of blue-veined cleavage. Her smile was infectious, making you want to smile back, and when she got tickled her booming belly laugh drew looks, but those who looked were smiling.
In many ways, her story mirrored my own. She had been traded in on a new model, gone wild for a while, and signed into the dating site looking for that special "someone." She had beer with Aaron ("whatever's on tap") and I had a Cadillac Margarita before dinner. She listened as we explained our arrangement, and we talked through dinner (surf and turf for Aaron, ribeye for Annette, lobster for me). She listened attentively and asked reasonable questions.
When we wound down she took a drink of her beer, a bit of the chocolate volcano cake she had ordered for dessert, looked around, and said, "am I on candid camera?"
We all laughed and I reached over and covered her hand with mine.
"No Annette," I said, "it's all real. I didn't plan this," and here Aaron interrupted and added, "I didn't either," "but, well, it's pretty wonderful."
She started to say something but I held up my hand.
"I love Aaron, hell, I love all of the guys, but you CAN have too much of a good thing. And that's what we're doing here," I finished, "seeing if we think you can fit in and if you are interested in sharing in that good thing."
She raised an eyebrow at that and showed the first hint of a temper.
"So this is a job interview?" she asked.
That stopped me for a second but then I said, "in a way, it is I suppose. What we have is special. You can call my husband and me," and I patted Aaron on the hand, "the first cut. But it's mostly just to see if we like each other. It works BOTH ways."
I stopped her a second time when she started to say something.
"I can tell you this," I said, "if you decide to come to the party this weekend you will be greeted happily. EVERY one of the guys loved your profile and your pictures."
"A bunch of chubby chasers?" she asked.
I laughed at that, stood, ran my hands up and down my body, and said, "A bunch of bright young men who appreciate a woman rather than girls."
She laughed at that. "Fair enough," she said.
"Sooooooooooooooo," Aaron said, "would you like to come to a party on Friday night? Call it a mixer and bring an overnight bag. If it turns out you don't hit it off with the rest of the guys we'll put you up in a private room. We will NOT let you drive home drunk and there will be alcohol and pot."
She looked at us and turned very serious.
"This isn't a joke? You're not setting me up?" she said.
This time it was Aaron who covered her hand.
"Annette," he said, flashing The Grin, "we are serious. Look, we figured it out early on. Capacity is 33, we will have 24 back by Friday, and Becky and Paula will be stretched thin. What started as a joke was the idea of covering the four basic female body types but, well, my beloved here is clearly a tube for all that she's a legitimate D cup, Paula is the most perfect pear you'll EVER see, and we're looking for an apple and an hourglass," and here he paused, looked her up and down, and flashed The Grin again.
"And you, my sweet, ain't an hourglass," he finished.
She laughed at that but then turned serious again.
"What I mean is that the world can be pretty damn mean to fat girls," she said, "and I want you to tell me I won't be made fun of."
"You won't," we said in unison.
"Once you are accepted, and I think you will be," I said, "you'll be part of the family and nothing is held back. I can't count the number of times someone has said, 'Becky, get your hairy ass in here,' and they're starting to have fun referring to Paula's excellent and immense ass. But it's in fun and with love and I honestly believe that."
"Accepted?" she asked.
"We can't say 'yes,'" Aaron said, "all we can say is come to the party and let the guys meet you. Ultimately it will be up to them."
"Another interview?" she asked.
And I let a little anger show when I answered.
"Call it kalaka, call it an interview, or think of it as a mixer," I said, "but make up your damn mind."
She grinned at that.
"Hell yes," she said, "time and place."
Arlene was similar in her story but almost opposite in her demeanor. She was beyond buxom with breasts that seemed to enter the room a minute or so before the rest of her and a bubble butt that took an extra few seconds to clear the door. She wasn't wasp-waisted but she was as close to an hourglass as any 40-something could ever be. After her hesitation, she joined us and listened.
Her voice was so soft it was hard to hear even over the light hubbub of the relatively high-end restaurant.
She was pretty in that big, blonde, mom-next-door way. She had a mass of blonde hair, a strong nose, slightly crooked front teeth, big brown eyes, and a generous mouth. In her knee-length skirt and bright yellow blouse showing a fairly modest cleavage, she looked like a mom on a date night. She was bright, funny, like me kind of over-educated with a master's degree although hers was in a "real" science (mine is in history).
Hell, I was in love with her. She was a kindred spirit. After the divorce, she had, as she put it, "fucked everything that stood still long enough," for six months. Then she had settled down for almost five years and was now, and she used the same term as Annette had, looking for that "special someone." She went on that she found herself most comfortable with the young men she met in her classes, she was still taking more-or-less random classes because she was a natural student.
We invited her to the Friday party and told her to bring an overnight bag.
When we got back to the house that evening I grabbed Paula and called out, "girl huddle, leave us alone for 30 minutes." We went upstairs to the loud moaning behind us making us both giggle.
We talked for a few minutes and agreed that with 24 men we would just throw an all-out orgy. So I called both Annette and Arlene and we told them the plan. In a nutshell, the women would dress in their sexiest lingerie, we would present ourselves together, and let things develop. Annette's response was a booming "HELLLLL YESSSSSSSS." Arlene was a softer, "okay." We told them to get to the house by 6:00 for a 7:00 unveiling.
Exactly 30 minutes after we had said we needed 30 minutes for a "girl huddle," the door opened and Mark gave a Roman salute. "The President Sends These Words," he said, his eyes fixed on the wall behind us and his voice making those capitalizations clear, "QUOTE," dramatic pause, "clothes off, legs spread, and accompany my minion FORTHWITH."
We giggled and each took an arm, doing the two-hands-on-the-arm thing ALL women learn with their first training bra. "Can't we distract you, handsome," we both said, our best simper on our faces as we looked up at him under our lashes?
"I live to serve the master," he said, but he was starting to giggle then.
"Please," I said, my fingers busy at his belt while Paula pulled him, gently but firmly, into the room.
Within three minutes we had him on the bed, Paula astraddle him cowgirl style, me astraddle his shoulders with his face covered by my pussy, the two of us kissing while we rode him.
The door opened with a bang and Timothy came in.
