Chapter 1
THE BEGINNING
If most of you were familiar with my story, there would be no need for explanations, but as most of you are not, let me start with an introduction. My name is, or rather was, Harold Frances Holt. I am, at the writing of this tale, forty-three years old, and I am not the person I once was. I am not even the man I once was. Things have occurred in my life that I would never have imagined. I must qualify this as it was not my original intention to go down the path this story leads. I was persuaded to change my course by Ms. Jenna Marie Fowler in this and other matters presented in this manuscript, but I digress. I shall start from the beginning.
In the beginning, I was a twenty-four-year-old male of independent means; that is, my parents died in an unexpected car crash some twenty months earlier, and I inherited a small fortune. There were stocks, bonds, realty holdings, savings, and insurance; even after the government and its taxes, the residual amount was substantial. There was enough to last a prudent person or a capable businessman a lifetime. I was neither.
Physically, my appearance was pleasant enough. I was short for a man, being but five feet and four inches barefooted. My habitus was thin, with my weight at that time being one hundred and forty-five pounds. My face was narrow and my hair a light brown, almost blond. I’m not overly muscular but firm and flat. I possessed a piano player’s fingers, though I never touch a keyboard in my life. My friends and acquaintances called me delicate, but this was, in my opinion, inaccurate. I was very fit even though not particularly into sports or the physical side of life. These basic descriptions being out of the way, I can add that from a manly side well endowed. If I hadn’t been so naive and immature, things might have gone differently. But as it was, I spent most of the last twenty months engaging in physically enjoyable activities, which is to say, sexual activities. I had gone through several short-lived relationships and had just ended the latest one on the usual sour note.
This story actually starts, as many stories do, in a bar. It was one of my favorites and well-frequented. I had just broken up with my latest love fixation, Deirdre. She had been my girlfriend for all of seventeen weeks, three days, and nine hours. I was drinking to drown my sorry, she was a great fuck, and I missed her immediately and simultaneously to celebrate my return to freedom and availability. To this end, I was engaged in my best-loved and most practiced hobby, alcohol consumption. I have never been very good with female relationships. Women and men both consider me to be wimpish. However, since I’ve inherited considerable wealth, I have found it much easier to start one. So far, money hasn’t bought one that lasted. They still never go beyond the initial stages.
This particular bar was located outside, a couple of streets off the beach. It had palapas over the tables and sand underfoot in an attempt to convince the patron that they were actually on the beach of some tropical island. The bartender, Mike, wore a colorful island shirt to add to the ambiance, stained from a day’s work. Mike gave me a friendly smile as he came up and refilled my beer, my fifth. Needless to say I was feeling no pain.
So it was in this setting and circumstance that a dream from heaven smoothly slid her pretty bottom onto the bar stool next to me. Being a supposed member of the male gender, I immediately assessed her attributes. They were considerable. To start with, she was dressed to kill. Her outfit was a silky one-piece dress that clung to her slim figure and was obviously tailored just for her. Her breasts were a large B cup, by my estimate, and she had rounded, but not overwhelming, buttocks. Her head was more or less level with mine, and I judged our heights almost equal; she might even be a little taller. She did not wear the latest fashionable stiletto shoe but rather a flat-heel open-toe affair that showed her perfectly pedicured and polished toes. I remember thinking that the flats were ultimately more practical for a night of drinking. Her height struck me as being perfect. So many women were considerably taller than the five-foot four-inch frame that I possessed. Her blonde hair was loose but styled perfectly, and any hair out of place would have ruined the illusion of that golden hair framing her perfect face. Her makeup was minimal, for her gorgeous skin did not need much to enhance her drop-dead beauty. Even with no makeup, there would be no distinct lines or wrinkles to upset the vision of perpetual youth that emanated from her every pore. Her lips were thin, her teeth pure white without a defect to be seen, and a nose of moderate size that exquisitely matched her face. Her figure was of the precisely correct proportions, no one part overpowering another. Her legs were just right, with calves that were neither too large nor too thin. She sported well-manicured nails on both hands and feet. Overall, the impression was that of a Greek goddess had come to earth.
I tried not to stare into those pools of deep blue that replaced her eyes, but it was hard as hell. I could not judge her age at all. At first, she looked about twenty, but the longer I observed her, the older I considered her to be. Her age could have been anywhere from twenty to thirty. Since nothing ends a conversation faster than asking a beautiful woman her age, as I discovered with several past attempted relationships, I let the matter drop. I later learned that she was thirty-two at the time of this first meeting.
My first coherent thought after an initial assessment was to ask myself what this goddess was doing sitting next to me. I’m not ugly, but I had neither the stature nor status to stand beside perfection. Still, you never can understand a woman’s reasoning.
“Hi,” I said, trying not to act overly inebriated.
“Hi back,” she replied smoothly.
“You seem a little bit above this establishment,” I countered, “with friends or just slumming?”
“Just went through a rather nasty break up, and I am treating myself to a night out,” she stated, her face assuming a sad expression.
Raising my glass, I saluted her, “I see we have that much in common.”
“Tell me all about yours, and I’ll tell you all about mine,” she said, putting on a very sexy smile and sliding her stool closer, “but first introductions. I’m Jenna, Jenna Marie Fowler,” she said, extending a hand.
“Harold Francis Holt,” I replied, taking that soft, smooth, gorgeous hand in mine. It was like some electrical connection as we held hands, and a shiver went through me.
With that, I started my tale, lamenting the wows of my recently ended amorous affair. Being a bit tipsy, I left almost nothing out of my dissertation on love lost. Indeed, I embellished it some, well, maybe more than I intended. It was obviously not my fault, as was plainly seen from my exhausting account. Of course, I did not dwell on my frequent and lengthy absences for various events, such as all-night pool games and the rare sailing trip, neither of which Deirdre enjoyed. I knew the relationship was doomed from the start. Yet we had fun while it lasted. The final stone was when I forgot to show for a party she had been planning for a week; I’ll never get all the glass out of the carpet in my condo. Of course, that’s not the story I gave Jenna.
Jenna pretended enraptured interest in my tale, looking sympathetic at the correct times and pleased at the end when I explained how I left her to prevent her from destroying her life in hopeless love for me. She lay her hand on mine in sympathetic support, and I was her’s forever.
I remember little of her tale. It seemed disjointed, never really making any sense, but I blamed that firmly on the quantity of alcohol I had so recently consumed. But I was convinced that the son of a bitch who left her was totally insane. Jenna became tearful, and I reached out to comfort her from a cruel world. We held each other for a few minutes, and as she dried her eyes, she pleaded with me not to make her spend the rest of the night alone. In the end, being in no condition to drive or to resist such temptation, we left the bar together. Mostly, I was in no condition to act with any sense of caution.
She led me, which is to say supported me, to her car, a red Mercedes convertible. I may have been drunk, but even in that state, I could see this little lady was holding something back.
“Harold, I want to ask you to do something for me,” she said.
“Sure, what do you need,” I asked, expecting a request for money and the end of this brief relationship.
“Well, if there is any chance we’re going to have sex, then I need to know you’re safe, and you need to know I’m safe, right,” she started to explain.
“Well, ya, I guess that would be a good idea,” I replied, excited over the talk of sex with this goddess.
“Then don’t you think we should get tested,” she finished.
I have had this conversation before. I started it sometimes and the girl at other times. It usually was just a verbal assurance by both parties that neither of us had any known diseases. I informed Jenna that I had recently been tested, which was true, after my breakup with Deirdre, and I knew I was clean. She said that was great but thought we should both get a more up-to-date test and exchange results to reassure each other. Her request was new territory for me. I had never been with a girl who wanted mutual testing before the first date began.
“Well, I’m okay with that, but I don’t see it happening right now,” was my reply.
“Actually, I know a place that is open 24 hours, and we can have the results in an hour or so.”
I couldn’t see the harm in it, and it would be good to know before the relationship that everything was safe, so I said let’s go for it.
Jenna drove for about thirty minutes and pulled into a 24-hour urgent care center. I had recovered some during the drive, and I was able to make my way into the clinic without assistance or falling on my ass. Once inside, I saw the sign that stated ‘on-site STD testing.’ Jenna talked to the girl at the front window, who was saying that this kind of service would be costly. Jenna smiled and produced an American Express Platinum card, and the girl, after a moment to reboot her first impression, took the card and went to take care of the charge. When she returned, she was all smiles, and as we were the only ones in the clinic, they rushed us back. Once in the back, they drew some blood and had us both pee in cups. We then ended up back in the waiting area. In about an hour and a half, Jenna woke me up and told me that the results were ready. We read the reports together, and as expected, they both stated that neither of us had any infections. The woman at the front desk informed us that a couple of the tests would not be ready for another 24 hours, and they would send the results. With our minds much relieved, we walked back to the car, and I immediately went back to sleep.
We drove for what seemed a long time to the other side of the city and then out into the countryside. I alternated between sleeping and waking. I remember thinking that this woman would likely dump my drunk ass in the middle of nowhere and keep driving. Eventually, Jenna pulled up into the drive of a large house in an area full of expensive homes and landed estates. The houses were few and far between. I didn’t take much notice of her house and land at the time, as it was dark, and my wits were not very sharp at that moment. She led me inside through the garage to a nearby bedroom. I recall her helping me undress. I remembered no more until waking the next day beside her, both of us naked.
I have to say she was as exquisite in totality as she was when dressed to impress. She stretched those white marble limbs, arching her back to show off those marvelous breasts, reddish nipples, full, firm, and pointing up towards heaven. She turned her head toward me and smiled. It was one of those smiles that made you want to give her anything she asked for. Whether her looks were natural or surgical, I do not know, but I can say in truth that I never have, before or after, seen a woman that was so perfectly proportioned. The one thing that just stood out was her lack of hair. There was no stubble, as there would be with shaving; there was just no hair on her body below her eyes. She quite literally looked like a marble statue with blonde hair. That she was a natural blonde, I have no doubt, but there was not a gray or off-color hair that I could see. She smiled again, and it was a mischievous smile. Soon, we were fondling each other’s intimate parts. I do not know what we might have done last night, though I doubt anything considering my condition, but this morning in the daylight, it was beyond my wildest expectations.
“Just relax, I’ll get us some coffee,” she said and jumped up strutting that gorgeous body across the bedroom.
“Life is good.
Rene C. Delacroix - Author 