Chapter 1
It was lunchtime before I noticed the date. April 17th. Our third anniversary was just a month away. That realization brought with it a flood of emotions. The first was recalling my long-held belief that I would never get married. I laughed as I thought back on how strongly and how often I'd made that vow to myself. In many respects, I was your typical bachelor who loved playing the field. I was perhaps atypical in that my field consisted almost exclusively of woman who were at least 15 years older than me. Would I turn down an offer of free sex from a younger woman who otherwise pushed all the right buttons? Come on. Didn't I just say I was a typical male?
I couldn't imagine ever getting deeply involved with anyone my age or younger. Older women held a unique fascination for me and younger women were for the most part just—young. There was no mystery there. They might be smoking hot but good-looking women held little fascination for me. Since my senior year in high school, I'd been able to score with nearly any woman I set my sights on. Sure, I'd had a couple of setbacks along the way and even one that included getting slapped in the face by an attractive married woman whose signals I'd clearly misread.
I guess I should mention here that I also preferred older married women or "MILFS" which stands for Mothers I'd Love to Fuck, because they were a lot less likely to get too clingy or well...want to marry me. It was surprisingly easy to sleep with them once you found a wife who was either lonely or bored. The lonely ones were the more interesting challenge. A sympathetic ear and convincing them they really were still beautiful usually did the trick. As soon as you earned their trust you were a perfect candidate to serve as a temporary solution to their loneliness. Once in bed with a lonely housewife, this flood of pent up emotion would be released in the form of some intensely passionate sex. The bored housewives were largely just diversions; fun to fuck but no real challenge and therefore a lot less fun to hunt.
Things changed dramatically for me after getting the braces off of my previously VERY messed up teeth. I had what my orthodontist called a "level 3 malocclusion" which was dentist-speak for severely bucked teeth. I also started lifting weights the summer before getting the braces removed and by the time I got them taken off just before Christmas, the way girls (and women) began relating to me changed completely. Prior to that, my best days were the ones where I remained invisible with the worst being the ones where some cute girl would ask me to scratch the back of her throat with my teeth. "Bucky Beaver" had been my nickname since 4th grade and it didn't help that I was also soft and kind of "puffy" to boot. I was also the Pillsbury Dough Boy, Wide Oval (after the tire) and just plain old Fatty, Fatty Two by Four.
Having a great smile and a developing a body that was what any objective observer would reasonably call "ripped" turned all that around almost overnight. It also made me realize how shallow people are and that no matter what anyone said about having a nice personality, looks did matter. (The jury was still out about whether or not size mattered but the verdict was definitely in where external beauty is concerned.) I tried my best not become an ass like those smug bitches who used to torment and then turned around and begged me to ask them out or the jocks they dated who used to do the exaggerated "Bucky Beaver" thing when I walked by. No thanks.
My preference for older women may have partly been due to the way older women made me feel. They never made fun of me and made me feel good about myself and it's logical that's why I preferred dating my English teacher or a distant cousin who was twice my age or my favorite—a lonely, married Mormon women—to girls my age. And trust me, there were plenty of them in the greater Seattle, Washington area.
The second part of this emotional wave I was feeling was that I was incredibly fortunate/lucky/blessed or whatever word a guy might prefer. After an endless string of affairs with both married and single mature women (and no small number of younger girls) I finally met my match in my future wife, Allison (nee) White. We met when I was in graduate school at the University of Washington in Seattle. I was a computer science and engineering grad student working on a very promising data compression algorithm as my thesis/research project and she was herself (ironically perhaps) a high school English teacher.
Allison was my best friend Bob's sister. She was five years older than him which made her six years older than me—a veritable babe by my standards and because she was one of the few true 10s I'd ever seen, a "babe" in that sense of the word, as well. I suppose it's appropriate to ask the age-old question—does a true 10 even exist? Maybe that was a figment of our imaginations with beauty residing in the eye of the beholder. Just ask ten different guys to rate a really cute girl. The number assigned will range anywhere from 7 to 10. Perhaps what one calls a 10 is just someone that particular individual finds incredibly attractive regardless of what others think.
Regardless, Allison was as beautiful as any woman I'd even met or even seen on television. I first met her at a party a mutual friend was throwing at his modest apartment in the U-district on a Friday night. Bob brought his sister along specifically to introduce her to me even though I told him I didn't date 'girls.'
"Dude! She's a LOT older than us. And besides, based on what you've told me about what you like, you're gonna love my sister. She wears the kind of stuff you're into all the time. I mean, she always looks like she's going to work as someone's secretary, you know? I think she's kinda classy but in a frumpy sort of way. And besides, she's my sister so I can't look at her that way. She's got that whole skirt and sweater thing that turns you on down pat. I'd never paid attention to that kind of thing until you brought it up and then I thought you were crazy because who finds a secretary in a frumpy sweater all that hot?" I didn't bother explaining yet again that it wasn't "sweaters" per se, but form-fitting knit tops that showed off a woman's curves in the best way possible. (Rib knitting was an added bonus, imho.)
Bob was a great guy and whip smart in the lab but about as socially awkward as they come. He was brilliant when it came to computer technology but horribly backward where the fairer sex was involved. I found it impossible not to like him and no small part of that was undoubtedly due to an unspoken bond we shared I was sure he was unaware of. To him, I was the guy every girl wanted to date, and he was the guy who could only dream about dating those girls. He had no idea how much alike we'd been just a few short years ago until I turned 18. As far as my "sweater fetish" I had to give him a little jazz in return. "I only brought it up because you mentioned how much you like halter tops, tube tops, and pretty much anything that exposes the midriff—dude!"
Like I once was, he was easily embarrassed and I noticed he blushed slightly. "Sorry, man. I didn't mean to..."
Bob cut me off. "No, it's cool. It's just that every time I even think about that stuff I gotta go jerk off somewhere. Jesus, that shit turns me on!"
I laughed then told him, "Well, at least your 'thing' makes sense. It seems like most guys would find halter tops and big tits a real turn on. Even so, the trouble for you is that summer lasts maybe two months around here so the rest of the year you're left to um, wishful thinking. As to my thing, I'm with you. Who in the hell likes sweaters that much? Other than me, of course." We both laughed. Back to his "frumpy" comment, baggy sweaters and the things grandma would wear didn't "do it" for but put a girl in a nice knit top that shows off her curves and I immediately became a horn dog on the prowl. Well, assuming the woman wearing it was cute enough to attract my attention. In my case, I was very fortunate indeed as girls and women wore the stuff I like about nine months out of the year thanks to the average high temperatures of around 45-55 degrees. Poor Bob and lucky me, right?
Allison was all that more. The 'more' part can wait. The 'all that' part is what initially caught my attention. I saw her come in the door alone and I stopped talking in mid-sentence to a guy in one of my graduate seminars and just stared. This girl was absolutely stunningly gorgeous! Long, soft, silky blonde hair (I prefer brunettes 10 to 1 but in her case...wow!), perfect size-C tits, a tight, slender waist, nice round (but not fat at all) hips, and legs to die for. That was what made her a 9 in my mind. The promotion to perfect 10 came when I saw what she was wearing. She became even hotter to me later on when I learned how much we had in common which is where we get to the 'more' part. That evening, she had on a long-sleeved, powder blue, ribbed-knit sweater with a scooped neckline, a reasonably short black skirt, black heels, and she was wearing a gold necklace and matching earrings. I couldn't have designed a more perfect look for a woman in the lab (except for the hair color and in her case being blonde worked) had I tried.
I'd already checked out every woman in the room and out of the maybe 15 female students and five faculty members before Allison got there and I saw only two that caught my attention. There was no one above a seven within visual range except for Mrs. Janine Carter, who was a graduate advisor, and the only black woman I'd ever fucked. She was now almost 50 and when we'd hooked up three years ago, I was shocked to learn she was 47, an age she proudly announced during our earliest flirtations. When I expressed my disbelief she smiled and said in a stereotypically black accent, "Black don't crack, baby!" I laughed because this highly-educated woman was able to come up with a funny sound bite on the spot that could fit on a bumper sticker and also because her subject-verb agreement was nothing short of perfect. She was definitely a very attractive woman. I still thought she looked like a knock-off version of Halle Berry and I was all too happy to knock her off. And judging by the two follow-up liaisons and hard fuckings she requested, I had to believe she was as satisfied with me as I was with her. I noticed her husband was in the room tonight, so we did what we always did when he was around and simply avoided eye contact let alone conversation. He'd gotten very suspicious and came awfully close to catching us en flagrante delicto the last time we screwed around which was, foolishly, at her home. She was sure her husband wouldn't be back until after midnight so when the front door opened at 10pm I was slamming the shit out of his gorgeous wife. We both heard the sound and just like in the movies I ended up grabbing my stuff and exiting through the bedroom window. Thankfully, he had little interest in his wife sexually speaking so he avoided their bedroom until he was ready to go to sleep sometime around 2am each day. He was truly a clueless academic who valued tenure and the praise of his peers over everything else.
I looked away from Janine's direction and refocused my attention on Allison. As this creature of beauty got closer to me I noticed her eyes were this beautiful deep blue you read about in novels but never actually see. Someone said hello to her and when she responded, she flashed an amazingly perfect smile at them which was framed by soft, full lips. My God! This woman was utterly and completely freaking gorgeous and all I could think was, "If this isn't Allison, I don't give a shit. I'm taking THIS girl home with me today or I'm gonna go down in flames trying."
It was then I saw Bob come in a few steps behind her. He was clutching a bottle of seven-dollar wine no one would touch until everyone was so shit-faced they didn't care anymore. He looked around until he finally saw me. His face lit up and he called out loudly, "Yo, Dude! How's it goin'?" He walked up to me and indicated he wanted to fist bump—that was his thing because shaking hands was very unsanitary—and I obliged by touching knuckles with him.
