Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~~WG, ~BHM, ~BBW - What happens when a nice guy who's been looking for love in all the wrong places meets a nice girl whose hobbies seldom take her far from the kitchen?
Id always thought of myself as old-fashioned in some ways. Maybe thats why I preferred the personal ads in the weekly entertainment tabloid to online dating sites.
For all the women out there wailing about where were all the decent men, there are any number of decent men unable to find relationships. I considered myself one.
I was 27, 510 and 175 pounds. Standard hairline and dark brown hair worn a little full. Standard features, standard body, standard job, standard wardrobe, car, and apartment. My last girlfriend had dumped me for an investment banker a year ago. I regularly passed evenings in bookstores, at free talks and readings, attending movies and performances. Why the hell couldnt I find a girlfriend?
Hence the personals, which I once read strictly for entertainment. Slowly, I crossed over into perusing them and actually considering the notion.
And hers caught my eye.
SWF, 25, 56 130, brown/green. Into cooking and baking, int. desgn., movies, concerts, reading, domesticity. Fin. stbl. Looking for frndshp/reltnshp, honest, serious, no head games.
Shed given a voice-mail code. Id called and left a message. I was intrigued. Unless there was something shed left out, it begged the same old question. Why couldnt she find a guy? What was she not saying? I was actually curious. Okay, nosy.
She called back.
Usually, the prudent protocol when meeting someone introduced via personal ads is to meet them for the first time in a public place, for ones own safety. She invited me to dinner at her apartment. Either she should have been more on her guard, or I would have to be on mine.
Im Susan Harrison, said the woman at the door. She was as advertised, average height and build, with a chestnut pageboy and large green eyes. Not pretty exactly, but pleasant-enough looking.
Dominic Hayworth, I said, and, stepping in, looked around. Miss Harrison was indeed into int. desgn. Her living room was simply and tastefully furnished and laid out, and made me feel very much at home. She led me into the tiny dining-room nook and asked me if I wanted wine.
What can I say? We hit it off at once. Discovered wed been in the same audience for any number of local concerts and readings and talks, shared a taste for romantic comedies and foreign films, the same quirky sense of humor. She had a quick wit and a quick tongue, and I found myself helpless with laughter several times.
And the food? Oh. Oh. The salad was a work of art and delicious to boot. The soup was a Vidalia Onion soup that Susan said took three days to make, but each spoonful sat on the tongue and unloaded about eight flavors at once. Filet mignon, no less, with béarnaise sauce. Asparagus tips, cloverleaf rolls, honey butter.
Susan urged seconds on the soup and more on everything else. I was loving the food and the company, but I was also getting pretty stuffed. My stomach was beginning to ache and pressed heavily against my belt. I excused myself to the bathroom, and after tending to business let the belt out a notch. Mm, no help. Let the belt out a second notch, and undid the hook of my khakis to boot. Hiccupped. Took a moment to assess. No doubt about it, I was full. My belly felt heavy and warm, reminiscent of Thanksgiving dinner, and I thought I could actually see it bulging with the rich meal.
I came back out. Susan had cleared away and given me coffee (Its decaf) and a generous slice of what turned out to be chocolate chess pie.
Stuffed as I was, I didnt want to insult my hostess. I took a bite. Through a disgracefully full mouth, I uttered a mild blasphemy. Susan chuckled.
I couldnt help it. I plowed through the pie, helped along by the coffee. Afterward, I stumbled to my feet and Susan and I had more coffee out on her little balcony.
Susan was a full-time employee of a local nonprofit, which paid a pittance, but she also had a healthy trust from her parents. She was wise enough not to blow through each quarters payout. Hence her apartment was nice but not opulent, ditto her car, her vacations, her furnishings.
It was close to 11 at night before I left. Still full but not stupefied and uncomfortable, as Id been at first. In the most unlikely of places, Id found a very good friend. My last conscious thought, as I lay naked in bed, my hands resting on my gently distended belly, was to wonder what would happen next.
It's Personal
By Big Beautiful Dreamer
Id always thought of myself as old-fashioned in some ways. Maybe thats why I preferred the personal ads in the weekly entertainment tabloid to online dating sites.
For all the women out there wailing about where were all the decent men, there are any number of decent men unable to find relationships. I considered myself one.
I was 27, 510 and 175 pounds. Standard hairline and dark brown hair worn a little full. Standard features, standard body, standard job, standard wardrobe, car, and apartment. My last girlfriend had dumped me for an investment banker a year ago. I regularly passed evenings in bookstores, at free talks and readings, attending movies and performances. Why the hell couldnt I find a girlfriend?
Hence the personals, which I once read strictly for entertainment. Slowly, I crossed over into perusing them and actually considering the notion.
And hers caught my eye.
SWF, 25, 56 130, brown/green. Into cooking and baking, int. desgn., movies, concerts, reading, domesticity. Fin. stbl. Looking for frndshp/reltnshp, honest, serious, no head games.
Shed given a voice-mail code. Id called and left a message. I was intrigued. Unless there was something shed left out, it begged the same old question. Why couldnt she find a guy? What was she not saying? I was actually curious. Okay, nosy.
She called back.
Usually, the prudent protocol when meeting someone introduced via personal ads is to meet them for the first time in a public place, for ones own safety. She invited me to dinner at her apartment. Either she should have been more on her guard, or I would have to be on mine.
Im Susan Harrison, said the woman at the door. She was as advertised, average height and build, with a chestnut pageboy and large green eyes. Not pretty exactly, but pleasant-enough looking.
Dominic Hayworth, I said, and, stepping in, looked around. Miss Harrison was indeed into int. desgn. Her living room was simply and tastefully furnished and laid out, and made me feel very much at home. She led me into the tiny dining-room nook and asked me if I wanted wine.
What can I say? We hit it off at once. Discovered wed been in the same audience for any number of local concerts and readings and talks, shared a taste for romantic comedies and foreign films, the same quirky sense of humor. She had a quick wit and a quick tongue, and I found myself helpless with laughter several times.
And the food? Oh. Oh. The salad was a work of art and delicious to boot. The soup was a Vidalia Onion soup that Susan said took three days to make, but each spoonful sat on the tongue and unloaded about eight flavors at once. Filet mignon, no less, with béarnaise sauce. Asparagus tips, cloverleaf rolls, honey butter.
Susan urged seconds on the soup and more on everything else. I was loving the food and the company, but I was also getting pretty stuffed. My stomach was beginning to ache and pressed heavily against my belt. I excused myself to the bathroom, and after tending to business let the belt out a notch. Mm, no help. Let the belt out a second notch, and undid the hook of my khakis to boot. Hiccupped. Took a moment to assess. No doubt about it, I was full. My belly felt heavy and warm, reminiscent of Thanksgiving dinner, and I thought I could actually see it bulging with the rich meal.
I came back out. Susan had cleared away and given me coffee (Its decaf) and a generous slice of what turned out to be chocolate chess pie.
Stuffed as I was, I didnt want to insult my hostess. I took a bite. Through a disgracefully full mouth, I uttered a mild blasphemy. Susan chuckled.
I couldnt help it. I plowed through the pie, helped along by the coffee. Afterward, I stumbled to my feet and Susan and I had more coffee out on her little balcony.
Susan was a full-time employee of a local nonprofit, which paid a pittance, but she also had a healthy trust from her parents. She was wise enough not to blow through each quarters payout. Hence her apartment was nice but not opulent, ditto her car, her vacations, her furnishings.
It was close to 11 at night before I left. Still full but not stupefied and uncomfortable, as Id been at first. In the most unlikely of places, Id found a very good friend. My last conscious thought, as I lay naked in bed, my hands resting on my gently distended belly, was to wonder what would happen next.
