Fucking Up

Part One, some background.

You're supposed to know who you are when you turn 18. I guess that is why they make such a fuss of that age. Well, I already knew all about myself when I turned 14. I knew by then all there was to know about who I was and always would be. I am 29 now and earn a lot of money as an advertising copywriter. 29 is an age where you can hide behind your wallet. You can buy yourself a mask. 14 is not an age where you can do that. At 14 you are what people say you are, and they love to tell it to you over and over. You must be quite dense not to get the message.

The zoo they call high school keeps its labels simple and easy to memorize. My label was geek. You also could be a jock or a nerd, a freak, a babe, a bitch or a slut. More than four or five letters were hardly ever needed. Which of course suited the labelers well. They never had an urge to look where the longer words lived.

The labelers were usually the ones excelling in sports, and the blonde long legged pompom wielders. Before I turned thirteen I had innocently tried to take part in their outdoor activities. But by the time I turned fourteen the futility of that ambition had been rubbed in with wonderful efficiency. The jocks made it clear on day one: Geeks Don't Do Sports. They are not only bad at it, but they deserve to be ridiculed and bullied into understanding it too.

At 14 I understood. By 15 I knew that I'd better read books and talk about them with geeks who read books too. I also knew at what table to sit for lunch and at what tables not. But most of all I knew this: beautiful girls were not for the likes of me. You did not date them. And if you tried, the catch of the sports episode (see above) came into function. You just ended up with a red face and a sinking heart.

When I reached the age of 16 I found out that dating plain girls was not only easier, it also made me feel a lot more comfortable. Of course my cock did not agree with that, but by then that part of my body had long ceased to be a successful advisor. Anyway: the brain is a beautiful thing. While kissing and necking a braced and bespectacled plain-jane, it conjured up images of every fabulous tit I ever saw. Or more realistic: I ever almost saw.

I first got laid on prom night. Marie had a great body, actually. But her face was Ground Zero after five years of relentless acne. She was intelligent, witty and fun. But who needs those on the backseat of an old car after gallons of illegal beer and the sweaty dancing of a proms night? Well, you get the picture.

I went to college and the only difference there was the larger number of geeks and nerds. It gave me just more plain girls to choose from. And I did, after a few months of shyness and hesitance. About that time another law kicked in: plain girls are more eager. They are also more loyal. Of course: they have to, as they have to do battle for each conquest. It teaches them to hold on to what they have. Same thing goes for plain guys like me, of course. But I was a slow learner. I kept trying to hop around, until I at last had to admit that it was no use to turn in one ugly girl for another. That's when I met Irene and went as steady as steady goes.

I know, I know... I sound terrible. As if the beauty of a girl is the only quality to look for. But I am honest too, at least here. At that time it was indeed the only criterion. And the law came down as hard on the girls as on the likes of me. You see, when you raise kids and tell them they can't have candy, candy will be the one thing they crave for all the time. When they play at other children's homes, they beg for them all the time. Same with me. I was a healthy boy with a healthy appetite. My hormones were tickled by high, hard tits and swaying asses, by moist, generous lips and endless legs. And they were denied me. Let's say it made me dream of candy 24/7.

Irene was a miracle. Under her straight mousy hair dwelt a mind of mercury. I never again met a girl who could turn a gray, rainy afternoon into paradise, just with words and images, with little touches and butterfly kisses. And when she smiled, her plain, stub nosed face seemed to catch a ray of sunlight. Of course that is how I remember her now. Back then, being the one tracked oaf I was, I just took it all for granted. As a matter of fact I felt sorry for myself, punished to always be with girls like her. It is actually how I thought about her: girls like her -- a species, a faceless part of a faceless multitude. God, was I pathetic, back then.

Part Two, the miracle.

Nowadays I am so much more with it, being a well to do single urban professional. I go to the gym, I have lasered eyes and a sun tan. My apartment is in magazines. I wear Boss, Armani. Designer jeans. I frequent three star restaurants, rock concerts, operas. I travel abroad, meet the rich and famous (okay, let's say the well to do and the local snobs). Isn't it lovely, my life? Yeah, exactly who am I fooling? Truth is that I do have all that. But one icy glance of a gorgeous beauty and all of it slides off me like flesh off a skeleton in a horror movie. It leaves me as naked and ugly as fifteen years back -- fumbling, stuttering. Believe me: men like me don't blush adoringly. They sweat.

Last year I met Marie at the school reunion. She had found a famous cosmetic surgeon, who had turned her into Angelina Jolie. Then she had met a local zillionnaire and wore the ring to prove it. I know...I should never have gone to that reunion. Yesterday I saw Irene in a glossy magazine. She just had her first novel published. It went to the top of the seller list in a week. Next to her in the picture was her tall, dark, handsome husband. She smiled like sunshine. She made me sweat. Curse too. Then again, maybe I could use her name in conversation. Tell someone she had been my girlfriend, once. Wouldn't that make me look like somebody?

I saw the magazine at the reading table in the agency, sipping a cup of latte. That's when I heard a laugh. People use to call laughter like that silvery. I wont disagree most of the time, but this silver had life in it, a pulse, a breath. And it belonged to the most stunning girl I ever saw. First thing was her smile. Hard to miss, as it shone like a 100 watt lamp in her dark face. Her complexion was chocolate, her skin perfect. My routine is face-tits-eyes, taking two seconds to complete the round. All three stages were spectacular. She was gorgeous looking, her tits were high and round, her eyes, well... I have ever since wondered how to describe her eyes, but I can't tell you. They touched me where I live -- a profoundly unnerving experience.

Her name was Aimee and she preferred her coffee weak and sweet. I did not find that out, of course. I was as usual still getting the knot out of my tongue when good slick old Arnie had already poured the coffee for her, complimented her on her name, asked her if she was waiting for the Fredericks of Hollywood casting session that afternoon, and had taken her on a tour of the premises.

To be sure, Aimee had walked in for an interview at the accountants' company that occupied a few floors beneath us. She had gotten out of the elevator on the wrong floor. Three days later I met her in the reception lobby. As we rode to our separate floors, I at last succeeded in asking her a question. She told me she had gotten the job of secretary to one of the many bean counters.

Somehow I kept bumping into Aimee quite a lot in the next weeks. And I discovered that she was something I had never seen in a girl as beautiful as her -- Aimee was shy. She fumbled with her fingers, never raised her voice and often looked down. Her complexion was too dark to see if she blushed, but I am certain she often did. Another remarkable thing was the formal and conservative way she dressed. She often wore Chanel-type suits that should have been on elderly Washington politicians' wives and wealthy grannies. Her skirts hardly ever left her knees free, her blouses were wide and buttoned up, her heels seemed either flat or less than an inch in height. And still she looked dazzling.

It took me two weeks to ask her out for lunch. She declined. I felt the familiar tons of geek shit descend on me. She was very sweet about it, whispered her apologies, but she really had to refuse.

It took me two weeks to ask her again. Two weeks in hell. They taught me I would die if I did not ask her again. But also that I might really die if she refused once more. Yes, I had fallen in love with Aimee. And no, she did not turn me down the next time. We saw a movie (well, I guess she saw more of it than I did). Then we had a few drinks and some supper. It all seemed wrapped up in a pink haze. But when I conjured up all my courage to kiss her, she offered me her perfect cheek.

No need to bore you with the tediousness of our courtship. We dated quite a bit in the next weeks, but each date ended right at the doorstep of her humble apartment. Of course I tried to lure her to mine, but she never even seemed to acknowledge my suggestions. Then I made a huge mistake. One day we had a short and pleasant little lunch in the mall. On the way back I tried to get her attention focused on a rather sexy outfit in one of the windows. It was a short, deeply red velvet dress with spaghetti-type straps that would allow the low cut top to just cover her nipples -- at least in my overheated anticipation. I suggested for her to try it on, and I was for the first time introduced to an expression I would see more of in the months to come: deep hurt, mixed with disappointment. She left me standing right there and it would take me weeks to have her answer my phone calls again.

Why did I keep courting Aimee? She was like a fata morgana, those appearing and disappearing little oases in the shimmering desert. And yes, that cartoon-like man crawling in the hot sands was me. Or maybe she was more like a slippery fish in a pond, always escaping the cage of my hands. She drove me mad.

Then, one day, she pushed me over the edge. We had a company party -- a small celebration at the offices. So I asked Aimee to meet me there and attend it as my date. She agreed and for days I nursed these exciting thoughts about stunning my colleagues with my eye candy.

She didn't show up. I phoned her all evening and the next day, but she never answered. Nor did I see her in the building. That was when I decided to forget about her. Or at least give her the impression I did, because I never could get her out of my mind for more than ten seconds. It took her a week to call me. Her voice on the phone was thick with emotions. She told me she had panicked at the thought of going to the party. She could see why I hated her, but she had been too scared. She was so very sorry. She sobbed. She understood if I didn't want to see her anymore, but she had been so, so scared. In short, after she had sobbed and sorried for ten minutes, you could wipe me up from the floor.

Aimee and I married half a year later. It was a very small ceremony as I was an only child with one surviving parent -- my mother -- and an aunt. Aimee had a brother and a few cousins in Louisiana who did not bother to fly up. There were friends and colleagues. We took a honeymoon on the Bahama's.

In the weeks after the time she stood me up at the party, she changed a lot. I admired her for her courage, as it must have been hard for her to open up -- to break through her shyness and accompany me to parties, wearing nice and sexy dresses. She had to make small talk with people she did not know. And, yes...she even came with me to my apartment afterwards. The first time I hardly dared ask. We had been to a company function, where she had easily been the evening's main attraction. By then the amazement of me having a girl like her on the arm, had died down a bit. But her attraction to the male population at the party had only increased. The panting pussy hounds didn't even bother if I was around to let their tongues hang down her cleavage. It only made my ego swell with a feeling I had never ever had. The feeling of alpha male pride, I guess. And it went straight to my crotch. So when she pushed me inside my apartment the moment I had opened my front door, I was as ready as the next hormone-ridden teenager. Too ready, maybe.

Her mouth was soft and hot and seemed to have no bottom. It must have been the drinks. I'd never seen her like this. She took my hand and put it on her pussy, right through her flimsy dress. I surfaced from the kiss, taking in gulps of air and looking into her eyes. There was a glint I'd never seen before. It matched the little curls at the corners of her lips.

"Love me tonight, Harry, before I change my mind," she whispered into my ear. And I thought I would come in my pants right there and then. But I didn't, thank God. Well, to be true, I did that after having been inside her silk tight pussy for twenty seconds. It left me devastated. I apologized and begged her to understand. It had all been so exciting, she had made me wait for so long. She only put her finger on my whining mouth and clucked her tongue. "Ssssshhh," she said. She lay back on my pillows, looking glorious. The tits I had been sucking only minutes ago, looked just perfect. The legs I was kneeling between, felt like silk and seemed to have no ending.

She just took my dripping, spent cock in her hands and caressed it with the soft satin of her palms. Then she came up and took the head in her pillow like lips. She started to suck me. I have been sucked a lot in college and later on, so I knew Aimee was average at best. It was clear she had a rather limited experience. But I felt so very honored. I was proud that she could bring herself to do it at all. I lay my hands on her head, feeling almost ashamed.

It must have been the sheer thrill and excitement that restored my erection in minutes. I grew into her soft mouth and she even sucked me deeper into her. I slowly pulled out of her mouth, looking deep and grateful into her eyes. Then I once again settled between her legs and slid the head past her still wet pussy-lips. I now had the stamina to wait for her orgasm, I hoped. But I wasn't sure if her soft moans and tiny spasms were exactly that.

In the weeks after this first time we fucked almost every night, twice in weekends. Aimee had not been a virgin. She told me she had had a few young lovers in high school and college, but they had been as clumsy and new at it as she was. She learned amazingly fast. The intimacy of it all plunged us into the dream world where new lovers live, forgetting the world around us. We went everywhere together, feeling proud and self-assured.

In bed we did everything by now. Aimee sucked me like a goddess and when I ate her out, she came and came. We did 69 and doggies and she even loved it when I pushed a finger or two up her tight ass hole when I fucked her. She also became more expressive, using words she may not even have known before. I never wondered where the shy Aimee went. You know me by now. Because I was so very proud of myself, I took all the credit. All her changes should be written on my account. Me Tarzan, you Aimee.

Part Three, reality.

It was six months after our honeymoon when fate knocked on my office door. We were working hard on a new campaign for one of our biggest accounts. We put in long hours and in these last weeks I had been travelling a lot. I tried to be with Aimee as often as I could, but too often I could not. She never complained and was always as sweet as candy when I came home. I usually was all over her as soon as I was three steps inside the door.

That morning I drank coffee, reading a report we might need for the campaign. There was some scratching at the glass door to my office. I looked up and saw Winston, ehm...what's his name from the mail room. Winston is a black guy, just out of his teens. We don't employ many blacks, maybe eight or nine, so few even that it might get the company in trouble. Advertising is still quite a white stronghold.

"Hi Winston. What can I do for you?" I smiled at him, clueless why he might want to see me. "Sit down and spill it. I can see there is something on your mind." I love to sound magnanimous. Although it might only sound like that to me. It sure did nothing to make Winston less nervous. He sat down in front of me.

"Why does she only fuck white guys?" he asked. I just stared.

"Aren't we good enough for her?" he continued and stared down on his fingers.

My mind raced. What or who on earth could he mean and why ask me? "Ehm, Winston," I tried. "I'm not sure I know what you mean?"

Winston looked up, his eyes were sad. "Why does she fuck the white guys in here and not me or Jermaine or Kevin?"

I had read some Kafka and felt myself slide into his crazy world. "Who, Winston?" I asked. "Who the fuck are you talking about?"

He now looked puzzled. "Your mrs. of course," he blurted. "Your wife. Is she too good for us? Or don't you allow her? She is herself black, for Christ's sake!"

An ice-cold rain soaked me. I tried to speak, but couldn't. I felt numb and removed from reality. I gasped. Then I rose to close the door. My knees hardly held me up. I returned to my chair, watching the guy's sullen face. "Are you fucking with me, Winston?" I said. "That...that is my goddamn wife you are talking about!"

He looked puzzled. Then his eyes widened as if a sudden revelation came over him. "Fuck...," he whispered. "You...you don't know?" What he told me then was so utterly weird and unbelievable that I twice felt the urge to punch him in the face to make him stop. I wanted to grab him and kick him out of the office. But I only sat and heard his words through a buzz in my skull.

He tried to be cool about it. It almost sounded like a rap, but for me none of the words rhymed. He told me how he had picked up stories at the office. Stories about the stunning black chick that spread her legs for everyone. Then, at the office party about a month ago, he had seen who she was. I remembered that party. I could not attend, being abroad. Aimee had asked me what to do and I told her she should go. No reason to stay home and be bored only because I was away. I remembered her sighing on the phone and I gathered that her shyness made her feel reluctant to go. So I told her just to have a look and stay as long as she had a good time. The next day she phoned me and said it had been okay. She has stayed an hour. Then she had taken a cab home.

Winston had quite a different version of that party. Aimee had been hit upon right from the moment she walked in, wearing an incredibly sexy dress. As he described it I had no idea ever to have seen it before. Or since, for that matter. Aimee had been offered a lot of drinks and she seemed very much at ease, talking to some of the white guys "from upstairs". Which meant management in office talk. Winston said he had watched her closely as he had heard all the stories -- and because he wouldn't often see a sexy chick like her close up.

But after a while he got distracted and when he again looked for her, she had gone, only to return half an hour later. This seemed to have set a pattern. After her second disappearance, Winston got curious. He followed her the moment she left again in the company of Dan Johnston, the Vice President of Finances. They had gone to Dan's office and closed the door, so he could not see what they did. But sure enough, half an hour later they reappeared. The girl had gone straight to the lady's to restore her hair and make up. The man had rejoined the party --- and his wife -- at once.

After the party the corridors had buzzed with excited gossip about Harry's wife having been fucked by management. And as the weeks went on, new stories were added, involving every white guy, single or married, who had any position of consequence in the company. When I had seemed oblivious of it all, they had supposed I knew. Maybe, they thought, I used Aimee to get a promotion or something. Especially because, at the last function, two weeks ago, I had been there with Aimee and she had had herself fucked nevertheless.