Copyright© 2002-2004 by DB.
This story contains Constitutionally protected material intended for adults over 18 years of age in the United States of America, and whatever passes for adult status in other countries. If you are under legal age, acting under legal age, not allowed to view such material in your area, or easily offended, please do not continue. This is not for you.
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Author's Note: This story is part of my emerging cosmology about the evolution of robots into our near future society and the myriad ways we will learn to interact with our creations. Read it now, and be prepared.
A special thanks to Gorgo his excellent and much appreciated proofreading. All remaining mistakes are mine.
The doorbell rang unexpectedly.
I was surfing the web to see if Elf Sternberg (http://www.drizzle.com/~elf/) had posted anything new on his latest AI (what I generally call robot) storyline. Although he recently, publicly referred to my writing as "abusively shallow", he also admits that it has affected him enough to provoke him into writing stores in response, so a lot of good has come from this in unexpected ways. Besides, having Elf as a critic is an honor to anyone who realizes that your worth as a writer can be measured by the quality of critics it attracts.
Anyway, it was keeping me busy while waiting for my own latest story to come back from my proofreader. I e-mailed it to him only a couple hours ago, so it was completely unreasonable for me to expect any reply in less than another day at best. Especially since he is ten time zones away, has a full-time job, never knows when he will receive something new from me, and proofreads for a number of other writers as well. He also writes his own anime fanfic. But I was impatient.
When I complete a story I want to post it immediately. I'm so happy with it that I want to share it this very second and hope for feedback. (I used to wait for feedback. Now I just hope for it.) The euphoria of typing "End" is unbelievable. My story is absolutely perfect right down the last period. And it says exactly what I wanted to say. Fortunately I know now not to post that mess.
My first drafts are pure creative blitz writing. Get the idea into the computer. While I'll correct many spelling errors on the fly, I don't stop for anything else except sleep - and only then if it's already after two in the morning and I need to be up for something vital later this next morning that I've already infringed into.
Instead of posting that mess however, I give it at least a day, and then perform a full read-through/rewrite in one sitting if possible. Most of my work is short enough to make this feasible.
Here is where I try to catch and simplify my overly long and complex sentences that my creative mind loves to spew out, like this one. Overused adjectives, missing quote marks, redundancies, names misspelled where the spell checker is no help to me, and ideas I completely forgot to put in are fixed here, I hope.
I also try to catch all my tense problems. My problem with tenses is that I know my story before I sit down to write it. As such, when I do type it in, to me it is all now in the past and gets told as past tense, even when it is intended otherwise. I spend a lot of time afterwards correcting the story back to the real-time way it actually happened. And I always seem to miss a few, though I don't see them at the time.
So when my copy is perfect, I send it off to my proofreader, whose only reward for his hard work is getting to see my work ahead of everyone else. (He says it's worth it!) A day or three later it comes back with a collection of embarrassing errors and gaffes spelled out in red for me to deal with.
As I fix these in my copy, I usually find a couple more errors he missed, and a couple more passages I want to touch up.
After that, it is time to create the text and html versions (insert double hard returns for the text paragraph separations, and wash the horrible Microsoft Word html conversion through DreamWeaver to clear out the worst excesses). Post to ASSM/ASFR (and any other appropriate news group if it falls into a specialty category, like a rip-off - err make that take-off - hou about homage - of another author's work). Add it to the sites hosting my work and update relevant contents pages. Finally sit back and monitor Usenet and e-mail for any comments - while starting the process all over again for my next story. Yeah, a lot of labor goes into the production of one of these stories. Such is a virtually unknown writer's life.
About that doorbell, I don't mind the interruption. I have friends for whom any knock on the door, ringing telephone, or e-mail popping in is greeted with amazing hostility. They don't want to be distracted from whatever task is at hand.
I'm not that way. I am always hoping the next event in my life will be something good, like Publisher's Clearinghouse showing up with a giant check. It doesn't always happen, however the optimism remains. Today that optimism finally paid off as I opened my door to reveal the two most stunning women I have ever met in person. I believe the one standing in front said something to me soon after I opened the door, but the words didn't register.
I stared. I admit it. I stared. Staring isn't polite and many women - especially the attractive ones - find it offensive, or even threatening. I know this. I stared anyway. They were worth staring at.
My first impression was of height and hair. The dark-haired one in front nearly matched me eye-to-eye. Her blonde companion standing half behind her and a couple inches taller still did look straight across at me with clear, unblinking lovely blue eyes. They both looked to be in their mid-20's, being at that point where they have fully grown into their beauty and clear complexions. And both of them have great amounts of luxurious hair done in the elaborate coiffure style of the early 60's that I've always liked so much, and never see anymore. My other favorite fashion item from that time - nylons and high spike heels - neither of these women needed.
After their hair, I was next struck by the perfection of their faces, and of their make-up.
Now I don't talk about make-up much in my stories. I prefer to let my readers form their own images. My fantasy may not be yours. But properly done make-up adds a lot, and a sexy face makes a sexy woman. The difficulty here is in the phrase "properly done". More does not equate to better. In fact, most women would look better with a bit less than they actually use, since the more make-up a woman uses, the far more expert her art in applying it must be. These women were wearing a lot, and carrying it off to perfection. Tammy Faye could learn a lot from them.
As lovely as their faces are (supermodels, both of them, my mind has already decided), my eyes quickly dropped from their faces. Not out of embarrassment, or a desire to start a conversation with their boobs (which were well covered anyway by the long-sleeved fine silk blouses both were wearing). Rather it is my automatic reaction to all tall women I meet.
I like all women. However I recognize that there is something special about how a tall woman carries and presents herself that others cannot match. Cute and sexy will never apply to a statuesque female. The cute and sexy ones are five-feet-four and seem cloned by the hundreds to fill college cheerleading teams, strip clubs, and many magazine centerfolds.
But in the same way cute and sexy can't apply to a tall woman, their shorter sisters will never be referred to as elegant or regal either. These two women before me redefined elegant and regal.
I dropped my eyes down to see if they were cheating on their height. To my great pleasure, both wore low heels - an inch and a half at best. And they didn't hide their feet. A thin strap across the toes and another around the thinnest ankles I've ever seen managed to hold these shoes on their bare elegant feet. And the tan I noticed on their faces and hands carries evenly right down to their perfectly manicured toes, with the blonde being a rich golden shade, while her brunette friend comes in a dark exotic color to go with her equally dark exotic eyes.
I took stock of their clothing as I lifted my eyes again. The brunette encased her legs in dark brown slacks of some exceptionally soft looking material that somehow still maintained a crisp crease. Above a dividing dark belt to match her hair, was a very loose blouse was a bold abstract of autumn colors up to her open neckline.
I got a bit more of a glimpse of the blonde, who wore a pleated skirt short enough to just graze her knees. The rest of her was held up by smooth exposed legs tapering down to shoes to match her eyes. The leg she did show made erotic promises that would be hard to keep about what she kept hidden underneath the skirt. Her blouse is also silky and loose over her apparently abundant chest. It made overtures to the pleasures to be found beneath it in colors of bright yellows and pale blues to match her hair and eyes.
I finally dragged my gaze back to both their faces, while unhandled interrupt in my mind finally broke through to remind me that one of them had said something when I'd opened the door. But for the life of me, I couldn't recall what it was.
.... There is more of this story ...