...And Then, I Met Her MotherbySuperHeroRalph©
This is a Halloween contest story. Too many readers don't vote. Please vote. I need the support of your vote.
A man falls in love with a supermodel looking woman, that is, until he meets her mother at Halloween.
A year and a half after Jayne and I first started corresponding and a year after we first met last October on Halloween, having lived together six months, since May, and with it already being October again and Halloween again, it was our one year anniversary. Being that I had just popped the question and surprised her with a diamond, I was supposed to meet her mother. An understatement, especially in the way that I look compared to her, I was so nervous.
My fiancée, Jayne, looks as if she materialized from the pages of a Sports Illustrated, Swimsuit Edition magazine, photo shoot. I kid you not. Seriously she does. Honestly, she really does.
She has the kind of hair that always looks as if it's blowing in a breeze, even when there's no wind. When you look at her face, unable to look away, lost in a sexual fantasy of fun days and hot nights. When with her, you're transported to some faraway tropical island with white, sandy beaches and crystal clear, blue water, while sipping Pina Coladas. This is the kind of women that men not only leave their wives for but also they leave their mistresses. Oh, yeah. She's that hot.
A woman that the song the Girl from Ipanema could have been written for, she has a sensually shapely body that makes men gnash their teeth and grab their genitals, whenever they see her from the front, the side, and/or the rear, especially from the rear and especially when she's wearing her barely there bikini. Then, whenever her big, blue eyes are directed at you, husbands would sell their souls for the chance to be with her and wives would threaten to cut off their penises for even looking at her. That's my Jayne, the love of my life.
"I love you, Jayne."
"I love you, Charlie."
As if in a remake of Billy Joel's Uptown Girl video, we are quite the odd couple with me looking as much like Billy Joel, as she looks like Christie Brinkley. Actually, with me looking a bit like a mutated version of a cross between Danny DeVito and Joe Pesci, I'm no Tom Brady, quarterback of the New England Patriots. Yet, when I'm with Jayne, I feel as if I'm as tall, as athletic, and as handsome as Tom Brady, while walking with Tom's supermodel wife, Gisele Bundchen.
We met on one of those online dating sites and wrote to one another exclusively for months, before exchanging photos. Compatible astrologically, an important criteria for her, from all that she wrote about herself and all that she read about me, we had so very much in common. Families, traditions, religions, hobbies, movies, music, sports, foods, and likes and dislikes, we're a perfect match. As if we were made for one another, as if it was meant that we were to be together, we were fated to be with one another. Never have I felt such a strong connection with a woman so soon before.
Admittedly, being the shallow man that I am or was, a stretch for me to write this but, honestly, after reading all that she wrote and with her hitting on so many similar interests, I truly didn't care what she looked like. Fortunately for me, hitting the jackpot big time, I never figured she'd look like a supermodel. I figured she'd look much like me, average or below average. For the first time, after having developed an online correspondence without focusing on appearance, I'm a changed man and Jayne is responsible for the man that I am today. That being said, of course, like everyone else, I'd like to plant my seed, propagate the planet, and have children one day.
Specifically looking for a woman that comes from good stock, since I didn't start out my life that way, held back by my below average looks and inferior intelligence, what I failed to accomplish in my life, I hoped my children would succeed at doing. If I can give my children an edge by improving their genetic code and jumpstarting their lives by supercharging their DNA in picking them a mother, who is genetically superior, one that comes from a family that has had generations of superior genes, then that's even better. Jayne was my potential candidate.
So long as Jayne has good genes, from the connection we made through our hundreds of daily and nightly e-mail correspondences, a bigger man than I thought I was and ever could be, I was willing to accept her more for who she was on the inside than how she looked on the outside. With stars in my eyes, without having even met and without having even seen a picture of her, falling head over heels, I was already in love with my female correspondent and she confessed the same to me.
"I love you, Charlie."
"I love you, Jayne."
Not totally blindsided, we briefly described what we looked like to one another, of course. Yet, from the image that I received of her from her description, she sounded too much like a Baywatch Babe. Where others, when they step in shit, come up smelling like a rose, when I step in shit, neck deep in it, I always smell like shit. Truth be told, I didn't believe her description for a second.
Too good to be true by her description of herself, even though we were just corresponding, haven't yet met or exchanged photos, the thought that someone, who I imagined looked like her, would be interested in someone who looked like me, was cockeyed and crazy. Seemingly too good to be true, to be honest, the attraction didn't add up, especially after I bit the bullet and reluctantly and ashamedly described myself to her, 5'7" short, 200 pounds heavy, give or take 20 pounds, mostly give, and bald. Looking much like a short and heavier version of Homer Simpson, other than a Booby prize, I was no one's prize.
Knowing it wasn't true, figuring she was just exaggerating and painting a picture of someone else, a girlfriend, perhaps, just as I wanted to do with my description, but didn't, she probably assumed, just as I did, that we'd never meet in person. Nonetheless, with the image that I had of her, I spent many sleepless nights with my hand firmly around my cock, while masturbating and fantasizing about her looking exactly as she described herself. Just once, I'd love to get a hot girlfriend.
"Oh, my God, if only she looked like that. Oh, my God, if only I was taller, thinner, and had hair."
Then, when she finally sent me her photo, a photo of her beautiful face and her shapely body in a barely there blue bikini, I couldn't believe my eyes. Shocked is an understatement. I was stunned. Stunningly beautiful, she was absolutely drop dead gorgeous.
Now, sadly, knowing this bathing beauty wasn't her, if only it was her, I was filled with lustful desire and a sexual excitement I had never known for an imagined supermodel that, no doubt, wasn't Jayne. If only, just once in my life, I could get lucky and grab hold of that brass ring to catch myself a real American beauty, I'd be the happiest man in the world. Only, having learned to stick to my lot, I was, no doubt, doomed to marry an average or below average looking women, someone who would birth me plain looking children that looked much like the both of us, unfortunately.
"God help me. Wanting to end the cycle of ordinariness, I want to break the dumb and ugly mold. Not fair to me or to my future children, I didn't want to continue down the path of below average and have ordinary, dumb, and ugly children."
Just once, I'd like to break out of my strikeout cycle with a homerun, even an in the park homerun. It doesn't have to be a high flying, out of the park homerun, so long as I can run around all the bases and make it to home, before I'm thrown out by some handsome outfielder, who looks like Johnny Damon of the Tampa Bay Rays. It doesn't even have to be a grand slam. At this point in my life, I'd even take a cheap single, so long as I scored."
"Yeah, right, the little engine that couldn't, I'm infamously known as the Little League strikeout king. In more than 100 at bats, I've never even so much as hit a foul tip. Why I'd hope to hit a homerun now, is beyond me?"
Already having established a track record with all the plain, mean, miserable, and bitchy girlfriends I've had in the past, there's just no way I'd hit the jackpot to have a hot girlfriend who looked like the photo that Jayne sent me and purported to be of her. Truth be told and chagrined to admit it, but someone like her coming into my life never happens to someone like me. A real loser, someone like me is more apt to be struck by lightning than to win the lottery and/or to have a hot girlfriend who looks like Jayne supposedly looks.
Unfortunately born to live an ordinary life and enjoy nothing better than status quo, I'd never get this lucky to have someone like her, not in a million years. Truth be told, knowing full well that she didn't look like that, I never believed the photo was really her. Truth be told, wishing she really looked like the bikini clad photo she sent me, yet knowing she didn't, I took her photo as the joke that I thought it was and laughed.
I laughed, that is, until I cried. I was sad, so very sad that I wasn't tall, witty, and good looking. We had been hitting it off so well in all our numerous daily correspondences and even started talking on the phone, and now, by that appearance of a fake photo, I questioned everything she had written and said to me as a lie or an exaggeration. Why couldn't she be as honest with me with her appearance as I was with her with my appearance? For sure, after describing myself to her, the fact that she knows what I look like proves to me that she doesn't look like her photo. If she looked anything like her photo, she'd never want to be with someone who looked like me.
For sure, without doubt, if I were to merely judge her by her phony photo, she looked too much like a supermodel in that fake picture. Knowing people always lie on those dating sites about what they look like, how old they are, and how much they weigh, knowing she was lying, exaggerating, and/or kidding me, too, about her looks, I was disappointed that she didn't trust me enough to send me her real photo. Excited seeing her photo but disappointed that the photo wasn't her, I figured she looked much like me, short, overweight, and not very good looking.
Nonetheless, because we wrote for months, more attracted to who she was inside, for once, I really didn't care what she looked like. Maybe my children will have better luck improving their lot by finding someone more superior to them in every way than I did. With our heads down and our noses to the grindstone, maybe people like me are just doomed and destine to continue down the same ordinary low road in life drinking coffee and eating toast, while the beautiful people shoot for the stars and walk on the unreachable high road of life sipping champagne and eating caviar.
Looking a bit like George Constanza from Seinfeld and figuring she'd relent and send me her real photo, once she saw my ugly puss and pudgy body, I sent her my real photo and not a phony one. When and if we met finally, I didn't want her to think that I was trying to deceive her. Taking a chance by being honest and forthcoming, I wanted her to like me for the man I truly was, pot belly, bald head, bad teeth, and all.
By sending her my real photo, I wanted her to know that everything that I had written was the truth, instead of an exaggerated lie, which is what I've done before with every woman I met online. Knowing we'd never meet, just hoping the women that I corresponded with would send me topless and/or naked photos of themselves, when corresponding with a woman online before Jayne, I was always taller, better looking, and had a high paying career.
Even though I figured the photo she sent me wasn't really her, when I saw her in that bikini, just in case it really was her, not wanting to embarrass her by being seen with me, I joined a gym the next day and started working out faithfully. If I couldn't change my face, if I couldn't get any taller, maybe I could improve my body. Imagining, fantasizing actually, Jayne looking like her photo, but knowing she didn't, never have I seen a woman more beautiful, as I did in the phony photo she sent me. God, if only she resembled that photo somewhat, I'd be a happy man. Then, when I finally met her, stunned, she was all that she was in person that she was in that photo she sent me and more.
"Oh, my God. That really was her photo. Be still my heart."
Now, six months later, to think that she's with me and wants to marry me, I pinch myself every morning I wake up in bed with her beside me. My wildest dream come true, a surreal sexual fantasy, I never could have imagined, the thought of what's wrong with this picture, while waiting for the other shoe to fall, constantly goes through my mind. When standing in front of a mirror with her by my side or when I see our reflection in the glass of a department store window on the street, the stark contrast of appearances are shockingly obvious to me, as they are, no doubt, to everyone else. She's so beautiful and I'm so hideous.
Women who look like her aren't supposed to be attracted to guys who look like me. Unless I was a rich, rock star, women who look like her never marry guys who look like me. Look around, just as it doesn't make sense, it just doesn't happen. For someone who looks like her to get with someone who looks like me, not only would she have to be blind but also dumb, very dumb.
No matter how the rest of the world perceives us as a couple, every time I'm with her, I feel six inches taller, fifty pounds lighter, somehow more muscular, smarter, quicker witted, and have millions of dollars squirreled away in secret Swiss bank accounts. Every time I kiss her, I'm floating on a Heavenly cloud of bliss. Every time I make love to her, even in my wildest sexual fantasy, did I ever imagine bedding a woman as beautiful and with such an absolute sexy body as has Jayne. For her to ignore my so very average appearing outside package and be in love with the person I am inside, she's a better person than me. If I died today, I'd be happy that Jayne has been part of my life.
With her lush, blonde hair and her long, shapely legs, whoever thought of the word, sexy, was envisioning her. To be honest, a puzzle that I don't bother pondering the solution, a riddle I hope I never decipher, and a question that I need not know the answer, I don't know why she's with me. To be honest, I don't care why she's with me, so long as she is.
Still, I don't get it. I'm not rich. I'm not even good looking. I don't even have a high paying job. If I had to use a word to describe myself, aside from being short, fat, and bald, ashamed to admit it, I'm shallow. That's me alright, shallow Charlie. One dimensional, small minded, trivial, and not very deep, yet, being with Jayne has made me a better man.
Everything was perfect, better than perfect, that is, until I was invited over her house to attend her mother's annual Halloween party. A big, family tradition, Halloween is her mother's favorite holiday. She decorates the whole house with ghosts and goblins and has plenty of festive foods on hand, such as green and orange frosted homemade cupcakes, a pumpkin cake with chocolate spider web looking frosting, cookies fashioned in witches, monsters, and plenty of Halloween candies. Figuring Jayne was genetically perfected over generations of Scandinavian types, figuring her mother would look the same, albeit an older version of how Heidi Klum, no doubt, will look in twenty or thirty years, I was eager to meet her mother. Boy was I surprised, stunned actually.
"Hello," she rasped between cigarette puffs. "I'm Edna and you must be Charles," she said blowing a long, lingering cloud of blue cigarette smoke in my face that somehow improved her looks.
"Charlie," I said. "Please call me, Charlie. I'm so pleased to meet you, Edna," I said taking a cautious step back instead of taking a friendly step forward.
I wanted to put out my hand to shake her hand but she was holding a drink in one and a cigarette in the other. Not looking as if she was going to put down her drink or extinguish her cigarette for the sake of shaking my hand, I just smiled. Being that she was Jayne's mother, wanting to make a good impression, just as I wanted her to like me, I wanted to like her. I really did want to like her but, being such an odd looking, gnome like woman, with a blockish figure, she was nothing as I had expected.
"Jayne has told me all about you," she said giving me the eye, not sexually, but with an obvious and disconcerting look of disappointment. She looked from me to Jayne and back to me, before stating her criticism. "I thought you'd be taller," she said, "and better looking."
Suddenly, I felt much shorter than my 5'7" frame. With the happy mask of love concealing my less than average looks, I felt unmasked. Exposed, for the loser that I am, I felt so naked. Suddenly, I felt out of my league with Jayne. Someone who looked like her, deserved someone better than me.
If her Momzilla of a mother didn't like me, a real curmudgeon herself, I was in trouble. Hoping to pave the way to a safer ground in changing her perception of me, I made light of an uncomfortable situation to show her that I can roll with the blows. I persevered with a bit of humor.
"At six foot tall, Jayne has height enough for both of us. As far as looks goes, no man or woman can compete with Jayne. She's a real stunner," I said laughing.
She didn't think my attempt at humor was funny. With her standing barely as tall as my shoulder, as if I was talking in a foreign language that she didn't speak and/or understand, she looked up at me and stared, while sipping her drink and smoking her cigarette. Oh, boy, if her mother didn't like me, I was in trouble.
Being that at my short 5'7" height, I dwarfed her diminutive height, her mother shouldn't talk about height, when she was barely 5'0" tall. If I had a tape measure handy, I bet she wouldn't hit the 4'10" mark. With that one remark, her mother made me feel not worthy of her daughter. Suddenly, I felt embarrassed standing next to Jayne. In heels and with her hair up, she looked to be 6'5" tall.
"I'm just thinking about the children, my grandchildren, you'll be giving my daughter," she said inhaling her cigarette and blowing out more smoke in my direction. "I rather they not turn out looking like me...or like you," she said with a mean look, a horrible laugh, and a vulgar snort.
"No kidding," I inadvertently blurted.
Figuring and hoping my kids would look more like their mother than their father, and now that I met her, definitely not like their grandmother, I never considered that the our children would look anything like me. Oh, boy, beginning to perspire under Edna's inspection, I'm in trouble here. Just as I didn't like her mother, it's obvious that she didn't like me either. Now what? When I'm older and sexually frustrated, when Jayne no longer pays me the sexual attention that I need in bed, I won't be writing any mother-in-law stories on Literotica about Edna. That's for damn sure.
"What do you do for a living?"
"I work in a supermarket," I said proud of my job before and suddenly feeling disappointed about my career choice now.
"You bag groceries? You're kidding. Is that what you do? You're a bag boy?"
Being that it was Halloween and the decorations she had in her house were spooky, expecting her to pull out a knife and stab me to death, she gave me the hairy eyeball look.
"No, I don't bag groceries," I said with a laugh, even though I have bagged groceries, when the market is busy and/or we're shorthanded. "I'm in management," I said puffing out my chest knowing full well that I was just a stock clerk.