All things in my life are average. My job. I’m an accountant. The most boring job in the world. I’m good with numbers. How pitiful is that? Numbers like me. I wish women did. I’m 24. If you’re curious, I’m only a virgin in terms of my zodiac sign. Not that it’s any of your business. Like we in Minnesota say: Mind your own damn business. My love life is average. Girlfriends come and go, some lasted a date, some a fuck and just one lasted more than a month. She moved on to greener pastures.

I own a little apartment. Well, the mortgage lender owns most of it, but a tiny piece of it is mine. I probably own my half bath. Yes, I want to be married by the time I’m 30, but I am in no hurry. Few people appreciate it’s hard work to become an accountant at my age. Logic within numbers fascinates me. I spent Christmas Day working in an office to get to the bottom of numbers that didn’t add up, and I filed my report. The company I worked for, Mort, More, and Mort, LLP, had invited me to their annual Christmas celebration as a reward for my efforts, I suppose. While I’m not overly excited about parties, given the lack of time off and the exhausting year I’ve had, it seemed like a good idea to release some tension and unwind. Who knows, I might end up in bed with a charming girl who’s had a few drinks. You know. It has been a while. It has been too long, my hormones were telling me.

I walked into a party that was already in full swing around ten in the evening. I missed the speeches, thank God. The bar was my first stop. I ordered a Heineken zero as a tribute to my homeland. My parents moved to the States from the rural Netherlands. Both of them had to work two jobs to pay to get me through college. Accounting education is expensive. I bet you didn’t know that. Anyway, I wanted to stay sober. Drinking a lot and having good sex don’t mix very well. I hardly knew anybody there, and that was just fine by me. I found my way to a quiet corner in the room, minding my own business and did a little people watching, when a woman sashayed in my direction. My sister explained a long time ago that the secret was in walking with their feet closer together as if on a walking on an invisible line. The end of that line ended right in my comfort zone.

“Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?” she said. She flashed a dazzling smile, showcasing her perfect teeth. I didn’t pay attention. I was staring at her white dress. It was astonishing how the strapless dress defied gravity and stayed perfectly in place. Her skin, reminiscent of a perfectly brewed dark roast coffee, was such a stark contrast with the white dress even Rembrandt would struggle to capture it on canvas. She was way out of my league, it’s not even humorous. Early in life, I had learned that the average guys need to approach average girls. Most girls are not gorgeous. They have no problem in pointing out all their weak points to you, so they are well aware of that. Every guy wants to screw the most beautiful girl in the room, but good-looking girls are just looking for good-looking guys in order to make good-looking children.

I realised it was only polite to answer the pretty lady, instead of standing there with my mouth wide open.

“I wish you joy and happiness, but above all this, I wish you love”, I quoted Miss Houston.

She laughed. Nice laugh.

“So you are the accountant that saved us almost a million dollars on taxes this year?” I was surprised that she knew who I was.

“Do you mind if I keep my maiden name after we are married?” She asked.

“Yes.”

“An old-fashioned soul in a youthful body. How refreshing.”

“Marriage is a life-changing thing, pretty woman. The tradition of addressing you as Mrs Vandenburg is non-negotiable; there will be no compromises. It looks like we’re already separated before we even got married”, I said.

“Of course not. I’m glad you stick to your traditions. Few people do these days.”

“Goes with the job, I suppose. A good accountant holds on to conservative views.”

“I guess you’re right. Would you be willing to accompany me to the dance floor? We should celebrate the fact that this year is finally coming to a close. Let’s keep our hopes up that the new one will be a significant improvement.” Without waiting for me, she swiftly spun around and gracefully moved her hips towards the makeshift dance floor.

I have decent dancing skills. I have my mother to thank for that. In my youth, she used to create a makeshift dance floor by moving the furniture aside for both of us. The sexy girl seemed reluctant to dance with other guys, and that was fine by me. Among the various songs played, we included some slow dances in our repertoire. It’s a stretch to call our moves dancing, if you ask me. I suppose it’s more akin to dry intercourse, if you catch my drift. We were not the only ones, though. Throughout the course of the evening, people became increasingly relaxed as they indulged in alcohol and, probably, drugs as well. I want to clarify that the event did not devolve into a sex party, but there was definitely a lot of inappropriate touching and strange behaviour happening around us. I take pride in being a gentle man, and I make sure to keep things tidy, especially when compared to others.

Following the countdown, we locked lips and exchanged well wishes for the new year. A chaste kiss? More like a kiss with a promise. We fulfilled that promise after we left the party around three o’clock. We took a taxi to her hotel. The old brewery in Duluth. She had a room with a marvellous view over Lake Superior. Her dress made her look absolutely gorgeous. Without the dress, she was most gorgeous. I have never seen, touched, caressed, licked, tasted, felt, entered and squirted on such a beautiful woman. I created mental snapshots every few seconds, as I wished to savour and revisit this extraordinary night endlessly.

The morning after, she joined me at breakfast. Perhaps I was the one that fled the room first.

“That was an amazing experience. Thank you, I will treasure it forever,” I said by way of saying goodbye.

“I definitely hope so,” she chuckled, “because this is just the beginning of many nights, if I have any say in it.”

I was in an alternate universe. Problem is I don’t believe in any universe I can’t see, touch or feel.

“You look surprised,” she said. “Was I that bad in bed?”

“But, but...” I stammered. “I don’t even know your name.”

“I can fix that problem for you. My name is Agrippina Mort.”

“Like the law firm?”

“The first Mort.”

“Ah,” I said, “that would be the one with the family fortune.”

“It’s just money.” That me be, but the books showed she had a shitload of it. I had been in the books for a long time and I knew the figures. “Unusual name, Agrippina. How do your friends call you?”

“Agrippina.”

“Oh. There is not a short version, huh?”

“No. Don’t bother to even try. I have heard them all. And liked none of them.”

“Well,” I said in a drawn out voice, “I will just call you Agrippina, then”.

“All the firstborn females in my family bear the name Agrippina. They have done so for the last 300 years. My family is deeply rooted in tradition and holds on strong to our customs.”

“That’s nice.” I said. “So you are up for a next date. Did I understand that well?”

“I’m open to going on a date with you. Fucking my brains out on New Year’s Eve doesn’t count as a date in my book.”

“Why would a rich and beautiful woman would want to date me?”

“Why not? Do you have so little confidence you cannot imagine a woman wants to go out with you? Confidence is important for a girl, you know? Perhaps you should order some at the breakfast buffet. Fitger’s Inn serves a mean confident boost, next to the boiled eggs over there.”

A wave of laughter swept over us, bringing smiles to our faces and warmth to our hearts. She was right. It was time to let go of overthinking and start living in the moment. It was impossible to concentrate on mindfulness because of her outfit. I found myself fixated on her legs. It was unrelated to the desire to view something different. Her face, for example.

“Do you like my legs?” She asked, a little challenging. Her long legs in black stockings looked much longer than yesterday. They were long, elegant, and so incredibly sexy. I swallowed.

“I like your boots. There is something about women wearing boots I find intriguing ... My dick has a boot radar. Whenever he smells the leather of a boot, it rises to the occasion. Everyone should at least have one fetish. Mine is boots.” I said honestly.

She smiled. “A genuine Leopold. Perhaps you want to come upstairs again and take them off for me?” I followed this wonderful, willing woman to her hotel room, and attacked her pink fortress until she asked for mercy.

I got her number. We had dinner. We went to the movies. We played mini-golf. Within a month there was no I, there was only We. We did everything together. She was great. The sex was more than great. Her beauty developed every day to a more beautiful version than yesterday. I fell for her, and she clearly had fallen for me as well. How could an average Joe be so damn lucky? I did not question my luck this time. I embraced it, like I embraced her.

Meeting the parents is a bit like the green ring in the Olympics, I suppose. The Blue would be asking a girl out, the yellow the first kiss, the black the first fuck, approval from the parents, the green and the marriage ring the last red one. What would my parents think about Agrippina, and would she be on her best behaviour when we got there? As we drove up there, I couldn’t help but feel more anxious than she did.

Looking back, there was nothing to be concerned about. Reeling in such a beautiful girl made my father proud of me. The age gap between Agrippina and me, with her being 15 years older, caused my mother to worry. As expected.

A week later, we were on our way to visit her mother. Not her parents, her mother. That visit to her mother was something that I will never forget.

“My mother is a bit of the matriarch in our family. When she eventually passes, which I sincerely hope is many years from now, I will proudly claim that title. This is the way it has to be. Just as it has always been.”

“Your family doesn’t have Italian roots, do they?” I tried to lighten the mood a bit.

“We are thoroughbred Americans. We have a strong desire to succeed in any market where it is legally acceptable to dominate our rivals. A lot of family is involved in all our businesses, but there has been always one woman at the top of the pyramid. As the oldest daughter, I’m the next one in line.”

“Meeting the in-laws, no biggie.” Lord, I’m so funny. We arrived. Yes, a mansion. A bit Hearst Castle-ish. Huge. Pompous. Extravagant. A butler that opens the door. Of course, I wasn’t intimidated at all. I always walk in a house that looks like a museum. Seeing her mother made me envision the future appearance of my dream woman, around 30 years down the line.

Of course, I was a nervous wreck. And this woman, Matriarch Agrippina, mother of MY Agrippina, did nothing to ease my nerves.

“Don’t call me Mrs Mort. Call me Mammala. Everybody does. Agrippina, go find something to do. I want to talk to this young man here.”