The worlds of love and porn are obsessed with beauty, or that modern catch-all adjective: hot. If you’re not good looking and sexy in a conventional way, you’re nothing. That is particularly unfair to women who are neither blessed with natural prettiness and shapeliness nor the bravado to seem attractive by force of personality.
Nothing gives me a greater thrill than sensing the sensuality beneath the plain façade of a woman who is resigned to being considered unattractive.
One Saturday afternoon when I had nothing to do, I decided to see if I could get myself such a specimen, so I spent the time wandering around department stores, looking for lone women who didn’t turn heads.
There was a nice fat woman looking at cutlery, legs like tree trunks and knock-kneed too. She had an unruly bush of orange hair yanked back by a big black band and her teeth were irregular. But she had a mighty pair of tits beneath her unflattering old tee shirt and I sensed that she could be wild in bed.
She was starting to look like my ideal woman and I was imagining the erotic thrill of undressing her in her untidy bedroom when a younger woman went up to her and dragged her off to another aisle. Out shopping with her daughter. Maybe I would bump into her another time.
Given my mission that day, the abundance of good looking females in pairs and couples and even on their own was seriously hindering my progress.
Then I had a brainwave: the optician who had tested my eyes a year or so earlier. Clean and tidy but skinny and with no dress sense, she looked like a long-term singleton who was happy these days with her cats and the TV.
She worked on her own in a tiny shop – no receptionist, even. And she was open on Saturday afternoons. I walked quickly round there, because time was marching on.
She was open and the shop was empty. She was reading a magazine but leapt to her feet when I walked in. Glasses, wrinkles, pale complexion, dowdy white blouse and knee-length green skirt.
“Mr, ah….” she ventured, recognizing me and desperately reaching for my name.
“Lemmon,” I said helpfully. “Ms Bryce.”
“Doreen, please,” she said. “And it’s… David, isn’t it?”
I told her my right eye was uncomfortable and I suspected there was a contact lens stuck in it somewhere.
“I was just about to close,” Doreen said, locking the door, “but I can have a quick look for you.”
We went through to the examination room and she sat me in a chair. I had been planning to take my woman out for a drink, but maybe we could cut to the chase, as they say.
I felt her breath on my cheek as she pulled my eyelid this way and that and told me to look up and down and sideways. She put a hand on my head to steady herself and I touched her waist, which she didn’t mind, so I rested my hand there and gave her a gentle squeeze. She smiled uneasily and stepped back, but I took her hand and kissed it.
It was an old-fashioned, courteous gesture which I thought would be well received, and indeed, she sort of fluttered her eyes and said, “Well…”
She had probably been on her own most of the day, as she was most days, and I hoped she might have passed the time with sexual fantasies. Maybe I could make one of them come true.
I kissed her hand again and then turned it over and kissed her wrist and the inside of her elbow, like some 1950s Italian gigolo.
She liked it.
I pulled her to me and down and put my hand behind her neck. She knew she was going to be kissed, and I made it a demure one, with just a flicker of my tongue at the end to leave her in no doubt as to what I was proposing.
Doreen moved some equipment aside and sat in my lap. We held each other tight and kissed long and deep. Then she got up and quickly pulled a curtain across the doorway so we couldn’t be seen from the street.
The atmosphere was electric and I was no longer playing the role of seducer. We were now in the throes of it, a fully fledged sexual encounter.
I slipped my hand up her skirt and tickled her pussy, then put it inside her blouse and stroked her stomach.
“Upstairs,” she whispered, and I followed her up to a storeroom where sat an old, dusty couch such as a doctor might use. The place had been a chiropractor’s before she had it.
Doreen briskly dusted the couch with a convenient tea towel and then sat on it. I stood between her legs and kissed her again while undoing the buttons of her blouse, then removing her bra.