Fucking Up

by

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Cheating, Interracial, .

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: I met this girl that took my breath away. She was perfect and perfectly out of my league. But she loved me, I thought. I taught her sex, I thought. She made me feel ten feet high. But in the end, I guess I got what I deserved.

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.

.... There is more of this story ...

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Cheating / Interracial /