Chapter 1

The black bordered advertisement on the back page of the newspaper seemed out of place for a Sunday when things were supposed to be all laid back and peaceful.

The ad was accompanied by a string of portrait photos of females of all ages and descriptions with their sad eyes the only common thread. Of course, being an inveterate curiosity addict, I entered the “dotcom” address and discovered no less than one hundred files of available female prospects for marital bliss. They all came with a “money back guarantee” and I chuckled wondering exactly how that might work especially across international borders.

At the back of the site there were a group of about a half dozen women with the caption that assured the reader they were all eager to mate with any American gentleman desirous of impregnating them with the seeds of life in return for a valid marriage certificate and a fifty percent share of the new spouse’s assets. I had immediate visions of a lawyer drawing up a divorce suit shortly after the new bride tossed the flowers to some stranger in the crowd.

The concept of a “Mail Order Bride” seemed totally old-fashioned and I could only equate it to desperate measures to bring the supposedly submissive gender to some remote area that was long on bearded men living alone and terribly short on anything in skirts.

It just so happened at the time that I was living on an island in the Atlantic that was completely devoid of nubile females in the off-season, which lasted from October thru March. Since the visiting females, who were few and far between, were too bright to consider the barren place as suitable for year round habitation, I surmised this offer might be the ideal solution for my problem of “lack of nooky” for the better part of the year.

Most of the photos were strictly “head shots” or portraits that accentuated the female’s facial features but gave no clue whatsoever about her geography below the neck. It was almost like playing Russian roulette with the process of wife selection and seemed quite risky to say the least.

Still, I was in the midst of a period of severe loneliness and I was so deprived of the touch of a feminine finger taking firm control of my center of deprived flesh and bringing me to the “tingle” that filled my memory with previous “happy endings”, that I started to seriously start a selection process that obsessed me night and day. In fact, my perusal of several of the head-only shots led me into shameful bouts of self-gratification based entirely on sheer speculation about the remainder of the poor girl’s body parts. Strangely, that particular method seemed the best predictor of possible future wedded bliss than any other format based on length of hair or sparkle in the subject girl’s eyes. Fortunately, most of the candidates were in their early twenties. It was an age that most men seemed to think best suited for prospective brides. Hopefully, at that age they would probably have a bit of experience to help grease the wheels of horizontal communications and eliminate unnecessary fumbling to get into a good rhythm of joyful humping and mutual satisfaction. On the other hand, they were young enough for one to assume their youthful female parts were relatively untested and generally tight and nubile and easily consummated by even older gentlemen with only partially stiffened resolve.

My dear departed father, Harold Walker, Senior was aggressive in his advice that the only thing better than a real Cuban cigar, was a young pussy with “a bit of fuzz around that tight elastic that gives the best tingle a man can ever expect.”

I made a habit out of following my father’s advice and I certainly found that particular bit of advice most illuminating and I tried to follow it to the best of my ability except for those cases of certain widows or dissatisfied housewives that practically put “it” right in my lap at risk of seeming a bit crude in describing the circumstances of such relationships. I confess that on rare occasions I had dipped my wick in the pussy pie of one or two actual virgins that tearfully thanked me for my efforts in “opening” their nubile stage of life with gentle introduction to the world of intimate relations. Of course, they were strictly experimental in nature and I had no inclination to enact a prolonged training course to bring such darling sparrows into the real world. It had often seemed to me that males in that position found themselves being used by the female in question just to “polish” her receptive techniques.

Eventually, I narrowed it down to only three candidates out of the one hundred listed as available for immediate shipment to the prospective husband’s location. Apparently, the parent company had a good response to the initial ad, and the second advertisement the following week had only forty of the initial offering still available for contract. I was gratified to see that my focus of attention, the smiling face of Rose McGowan was still in the mix and I decided I would enter my bid for her hand in marriage on the off chance she might still be available for transportation to my lonely little island. I had to agree with the fact that my island was not complete without that special feminine touch needed to make it shine. Especially, in the nocturnal hours when companionship was the name of the game cuddling under the covers for pulse-pounding slap and tickle that made everything seem a bit more inviting when the sun rose in the morning.

I sent off my letter along with the requested application fee that carried the promise of full refund if Miss Rose McGowan was not delivered at my doorstep on the contracted date.

I went to bed that evening with the picture of Rose McGowan taped to the headboard and fell sound asleep in the midst of rocking the bed with agitated thrusting as I gazed into her sparkling eyes filled with that faint promise of happy days and joyful nights straight ahead. When I awoke in the morning, I finished my sinful draining lost in those deep eyes that never complained no matter how rough I gave it to her at those times when the loneliness overwhelmed me with despair.

I received the answer within the week informing me that Miss Rose McGowan would be arriving at the island in five days accompanied by a representative of the company to finalize the contract and a minister of her choosing to perform the ceremony. Suddenly, I was totally a nervous wreck imagining her disappointment with my shortcomings or some dreadful consideration that had escaped my notice whilst making my plans to wed and bed the pretty Miss McGowan.

The single-engine fishing boat carrying my weekly order from the central market in the tiny seaport arrived exactly five days later with my Rose and a spindly sliver of maleness with a white collar of the clergy and a middle-aged, rotund woman with a terrible bonnet that made her face look like the “doughboy” ad in one of the old magazines in the common room.