A Fool Stumbles Into Love Ch. 02

When it came to women Caleb Burkheim was a novice; a true babe in the woods, about as inexperienced as a man could be. Now he liked women; he liked them a lot, it was just that he could never seem to get his ducks in line. He was always on the wrong page; always looking to the left when he should have been looking to the right.

His most recent wave of calamities had started with Sandy. Sandy was a real looker; the cat's meow, the proverbial rose amidst the thorns. In fact those were the very features that ended up being Cal's undoing. Sandy was a talker, a gossip, a little conniver, catty. She was always a source of pain for some poor gullible love struck fool. Like a flower with a prickly stem her modus operandi was always the same; find em, tease em, touch em, feel em, and forget em. Using just that technique she'd managed to work Cal over pretty good.

Sandy's last little trick at the tavern was especially tacky. She'd taken up with a rich country club acquaintance, an acquaintance for whom she'd been putting out. She dumped Cal for a basketball game; leaving poor Cal hanging on like a fool, with egg on his face and a pointless gift in his hand. Sure Sandy took the gift, a necklace, but left her besotted victim to the cruel mercies of an upscale crowd who enjoyed watching others suffer.

To be honest, most of the country club crowd was a pretty decent sort. Most of the better ones seldom habituated the tavern. It was Sandy, and her ilk, who skulked around the haunts of the less affluent, places like the tavern, in search of innocents they could humiliate, and it was like Cal was wearing a sign, 'please humiliate me'.

Yet Cal's worse humiliation, occurred after he fled the tavern, for he ran smack into two of the rowdier sorts who'd had a grudge against him for something with which he had almost nothing to do. Outside on the lot, accosted by two bikers, and on the verge of being brutally beaten, Cal found himself the victim of another of his miss-identifications.

Several days earlier he'd thought he'd rescued another girl from these very bikers. As it turned out, his rescued damsel had been a sixth degree black belt; a real Chuck Norris. He'd rescued no one, and that night on the parking lot, to his chagrin, he found that out; for Maureen, his one time damsel in distress, used her martial skills to rescue him!

So poor Cal wasn't a fighter, he wasn't a very good judge of women, and he certainly wasn't much of a lover, but he was still a man. He had his pride. To be humbled, exposed to ridicule, not once, but twice by women was bad, but to have that discovery made in public, in front of dozens of other people was unbearable.

After the 'show up' by Maureen he really did flee. He jumped in his pick up truck, that in itself to many the mark of a rube, and drove off into oblivion. He found a private place and released his tensions with buckets of very unmanly tears. Then he went home, watched television all night, and tried to reassemble the ravaged shreds of his pride.

Let's take a closer look at this misbegotten hero.

There were a lot things that Cal wasn't, and to anyone in the neighborhood that hot August summer those shortcomings were all too apparent, but there was a lot more to Cal than simple naiveté, innocence, and blind trust. There was a fundamental decency about Cal, and, though well hidden, a powerful intelligence, that, occasionally, did well up and save the day.

Alone in his domicile, surrounded by the emblems of his true character, Cal put the pieces of his life back together. There in his darkened cell, in the early hours of the morning he assessed himself and his situation.

The first girl, Sandy, he realized, was little more than a gilded hobby horse; a mirage with the buttons, bells and whistles. She'd dazzled him with her artificiality and the superficial charm typical of the shallow and the emotionally frivolous, the irrelevant. Sandy was the shiny wind up toy, the cheap masquerade doll; the frill one won while standing in the false evening light of a huckster's stand at the carnival, only to find it to be a worthless piece of fool's gold when examined in the clearer more sober light of the morning.

Cal wiped the scales from his eyes. His drunken besotted infatuation with Sandy had been more his own imagination than her cupidity.

The second girl was different. Maureen was real. Sure she'd gotten him at pool, and yes she'd let him believe he'd rescued her, but she'd never made him any promises, never made any simpering dishonest comments. She'd wiped him up at pool, and then she even offered to do it again! Then again when he thought he'd rescued her she hadn't pretended anything; she'd taken the supposed rescue as one of the few remaining rights of womanhood.

In Cal's mind women had the right to expect to be defended, rescued by brave men, even if the man wasn't all that tough. In fact, it had been with Maureen he'd made real plans, and had the occasion to have a real date. Maybe building a gazebo wasn't talking about building a life together, but it had been real, tangible, a fungible investment of time and energy. He'd meant it when he said he'd build it, and he'd pay for it, and he'd said it not because he was trying to buy something, he wasn't after anything. He said it he because really wanted to do it. He'd wanted to do it for her.

Cal had his good qualities. He was honest, loyal, reliable, trusting, not bad to look at, and, though few people knew it, he was pretty well off financially. Most of his resources were trapped in securities and other things that had little fluidity, but he had money, money up the ass. Cal was smart, a genius, and he'd used his genius at work to make money for others, and those investments had paid rich dividends for himself too. For Cal a few hundred dollars worth of wood and a few dozen hours of labor were a small price to pay if it benefited someone he liked. And he liked Maureen!

That was it! Cal liked Maureen. He liked her when they argued over the plans for the gazebo. He liked her even more while he lay miserable on the floor of his home made boat so she could watch the fireworks in comparative comfort, even if she did fall asleep anyway!

Sure he was a man. He liked her rich thick black velvety hair when it swirled around her pretty face in undisciplined wavy fronds. He liked her pert little nose, those shimmery liquid green eyes, and her two lush pendulous perfect pear-shaped boobs as they mischievously pressed the front of her blouse apart. He loved to look at those muscular well shaped thighs, and the long clean sweep of her neck. But he liked her crisp tongue, her sparkling bubbly lilting voice, her effervescent bouncy stride, and her crusty no nonsense dialogue even more. It wasn't just her concupiscence that attracted him; it was her vivacity!

Yeah the two girls were a lot different. Sandy left him wanting something that proved to be cloying and cheap. Maureen left him with an insatiable craving, an unslakable thirst for the real thing.

When he heard the phone message from Maureen, the desperation in her voice, her bewilderment at the heaps of supplies, her appeal for help regarding the gazebo, he couldn't deny her. To deny her would be to deny who he was, his character, his better self, and, albeit his less than wholesome pent up sexual desires.

Maureen needed his help. He had to help her, not just because it was the right and good thing to do, but because he needed her to need him. He'd fallen in love, that's right, stupid, backward, dull, sexually ignorant Cal was in love; head over heels in love.

When he reached her parent's she was in the back yard staring at the supplies Lowe's had dropped off. She was still in her pajamas. They were cotton, a girl's pajamas. She looked maybe, thirteen in in them, but a grown womanly kind of thirteen. They were a two piece set, a skimpy little top that barely reached her waist. It buttoned up the front, small white plastic buttons. The very top buttons were unfastened, and a dainty ruffled peter-pan collar fit loosely, suggestively around her neck.

Of course she was in her night things so there was no bra underneath the top. Her boobs, large womanly boobs, were rising and falling with each breath, and she was breathing heavily because she'd been crying.

She must have heard him coming because she got up. The first thing he saw was the way her pajama panties were wedged in her vagina, her woman's place. His eyes didn't stray there long. Her face needed his attention. Because she'd been crying there were little rivulets of partially dried water that meandered down her cheeks. She'd neglected to wash her evening's make up off, and the little trickling streams were highlighted by un-wiped mascara. That wasn't what held his attention though. It was her lips; her red luscious heart shaped lips, still partly reddened by last night's luminous gloss, and partly smeared under her chin, that gorgeous little dimpled chin.

She needed a handkerchief. She needed a soft consoling voice. She needed a steady supportive arm. But most of all she needed to be kissed.

After some preliminary commentary about the wood and the supplies Cal set out on a campaign of affectionate reassurance. He took her in his arms, cupped her sweet head in his hands and assaulted that gorgeous mouth with his. They mumbled and whispered endearments or something, he heard her but the words didn't register. All he could do, could think of was that beautiful sweet face, those delicious eyes, two adorable cheeks, her precious chin, and her succulent puckered up rosy red lips.

Her thick black hair wafted down and around her face. He took his hands and carefully swept away. Cal couldn't allow anything, not even something as luxuriant as her raven black tresses, to obscure the delicacies of her perfect face, her marvelous smile. It was during those moments Cal realized what hunger, starvation, really meant.

His hunger, his thirst, for this girl was an insatiable, unquenchable, need. If this was what love was, then he was truly a starving man, a drowning sailor. It frightened him. If this was love, then he was truly a lost soul, a slave, the thrall of the woman in his arms.

Maureen gently pushed him away, "Would you like to come inside?"

Cal looked down at her face. Her skin was a pinkish red and it shone with a dampened sheen. The pupils of her eyes were so large they completely enshrouded her emerald corneas. Her face glowed. Her skin felt hot to the touch.

Her question had momentarily broken the spell. He thought maybe a cup of coffee before they started would be a god idea. Besides, she needed to put something else on. He answered, "Sure."

Maureen almost floated as she led Cal across the back lawn. She hadn't wanted a man this much in her life. In truth, she never thought of men that much anyway. She'd only been with two, one on the back seat of a car, and with the other she'd been either drunk or drugged. She only remembered furtive groping hands, wincing pain, and the alcoholic stink of bad breath. No she wasn't truly a virgin, but considering what she'd had; this morning would be her first real experience with what she believed was true love.

She glanced back at this guy following her. He was an odd one. He was really quite handsome, but it was an awkward sort of handsome. She remembered watching some of those old black and white movies where the girl found some backwoodsman, or some ape man. He's all man, but in many ways not a man at all. That's what Cal reminded her of.

She'd found this huge hunk of raw marble, this great chunk of unrefined gold. It was her job to sculpt a masterpiece, take the gold and wind it into the finest jewelry. In the process she'd find the woman she knew was hiding inside herself. She remembered some of her college friends used to call her a dyke. She wasn't a dyke at all; she liked men, she was more like a frozen body someone had found in the Klondike, she was a 'Klondike', a woman trapped in ice. She knew that didn't make any sense, but it was a way of explaining how she sometimes felt. There was something missing, something missing in her, something she couldn't get at. Perhaps by making this sow's ear into a silk purse, she'd stop being the scull and become her very own fairy princess.

She led him up the steps of the back porch to the house. They had to pass through the kitchen to get to her small bedroom in the back. As they started through the kitchen Cal sauntered over to the kitchen table and sat down.

Maureen looked at him in disbelief. What was he doing? Didn't he know what she meant? She wasn't inviting him in for breakfast. She was bringing him in for her! Now the idiot was sitting at the kitchen table staring at her like a moron. He really was a hunk of marble, or more accurately a pile of rocks, a real blockhead.

Cal offered, "You want me to make the coffee while you get dressed?"

Maureen fidgeted a little, fiddled with one of the buttons on her pajama top, "No I'll make it. You just sit there."

Cal sat there enthralled while Maureen made coffee. She was just beautiful, absolutely the most perfect human being he'd even seen. He watched as she moved about the kitchen. She was so graceful. She took the empty pot to the sink and filled it with cold water. While the water filled the pot she was leaning forward, her breasts, big beautiful orbs nestled in their tight cocoon of cotton gently bounced back and forth, struggling to escape the soft fabric. He wished he could go over and wrap his hands around them. He bet they were firm but delicate.

Maureen coasted back to the pot where she poured in the water. Her strong legs carried her so lithely. She had large, not big and bulky, but muscular thighs; they rippled as she walked, and the cheeks of her ass quivered as she filled the water in the pot.

Over to the refrigerator she went. She opened the door. Cal watched as a cool blast of air hit her nipples. They grew in size, then extruded like two tiny missiles. He wished he could pinch, no kiss each tender bud.

He wondered if he dare be brazen enough to approach her, to try to take advantage of her, to attempt to, how they say it, seduce her. He wanted to. He wished he had the courage. No, that wouldn't be the gentlemanly thing to do. The time wasn't ripe.

Maureen did everything she could to get him to do something. She did everything but pour water on her pajama blouse. Did she have to wipe an ice cube on her tits? What was it going to take to get this cretin to make a move? He really was a dither.

She thought back about what Sandy had said. Sandy had commented she thought the guy was a virgin. Maureen wondered. Was he a virgin? He had to be twenty-six, no twenty-seven years old. Nobody's a virgin that long!

The coffee had perked. Maureen got two cups, and brought the pot and a hot plate over to the table. She sat down on the corner just away from Cal in order to give him a better view.

Maureen looked at him a little impatiently, "You really are raw aren't you?"

Cal didn't understand what she meant, "No I'm in pretty good shape. We can get a lot done this morning."

She frowned, "That's not what I meant."

He gave her a bewildered look, "Then what? What are you talking about?"

"I mean you haven't been with many girls have you?"

A little diffident at that he replied, "I've been with girls."

She answered, "Yeah? How many?"

Cal poured himself some coffee. He spilled a lot of it on the table, "You have a napkin?"

"Over there." Maureen pointed to the shelf next to him, but almost exactly beside where she was sitting.

Cal got up to get a napkin.

Maureen could see he had a boner; "You're a virgin aren't you?"

He dropped the napkins. In a panic he turned around, "No I'm not a virgin. What brought that up?"

Maureen pointed to his chair, "Sit down."

He went back over, wiped up the spill and sat back down, "I don't know why you'd say something like that?"

She flipped her right hand over, palm up she answered, "Oh come on."

He was on the defensive, "Come on what? Do I have to come over there and rip your clothes off?"

She didn't say anything.

He didn't move.

She answered, "Well?"

He asked, "Well what?"

"You going to come over here and rip my clothes off?"

Cal didn't know what to do, what to say. He was white as a sheet, His hands were soaking wet and shaking. His dick was as hard as a rock. If he moved he'd probably have a bad discharge right in his pants. He'd had wet dreams, but never when he was awake, and not around a girl, never right in front of a girl!

He was kind of scared, "You want me to tear your clothes off?" She was turning red. He could see she had this wet sheen all over her, and it wasn't even hot. What was he supposed to do?

She asked, "You want to tear my clothes off?"

He was losing his poise. He couldn't do that. That would be like; well it would be like rape. He couldn't do that, He tried to laugh it off, "OH come on Maureen."

She answered, "You are a virgin aren't you?"

That was the last straw. Was he a virgin? Even if he was, he wouldn't admit it to her, "OK, I haven't been with a lot of girls, but I've been with some."

She crossed her arms, "No you haven't."

He watched her cross her arms. Her elbows and forearms were pushing her breasts way up. They were pushing right up against her pajama top. The buttons were pushing apart. Her nipples were sticking out; He had to get out of there!

He quaffed down a big gulp of coffee, "Look maybe I'm not as experienced as you. No I'm no Don Juan."

She was smiling at him.

He lost his cool, "Look, I'm out of here. Call me when you're ready to start the gazebo." He got up and started for the door.

Maureen got up and intercepted him before he got out of the kitchen. She leaned back against the storm door, hands folded behind her back, breasts heaving, "What makes you think I'm so damned experienced?"

He stopped. Standing maybe two feet in front of her, "Well I'll bet you are. I bet you've been around. I bet you've been with a lot of guys. I bet you've even been with a guy, one of those guys at the country club, this week!"

He was angry. She'd called him a virgin. She could see right through him! He was sorry he said what he did even before he finished saying it. He knew it wasn't true, not even close to be being true. The look on her face gave it away. She hadn't been with anybody. He'll he knew that. Why did he say that? He'd really hurt her.

Maureen hadn't expected anything like that. What, he thought she was some kind of whore, a strumpet, some little piglet who liked to sleep around?

Maureen backed away from the door. With her right hand she pushed it open. She kept her eyes glued to the floor. She didn't say anything.

Cal didn't look to the right or the left. He walked straight through the door. Like a zombie, like a stupid zombie he walked down to his truck, opened the door, and climbed in. He put the key in the ignition, and turned it on.

Maureen let the storm door close quietly. He'd really hurt her. She walked back in the kitchen and started to cry. She looked around, decided to leave everything the way it was, and went back to her little bedroom. She fell on the bed and started to cry. She asked herself. Why did she put him on the spot like that? She knew right away he was a virgin. And why did he have to say the things he did. He was so cruel. Did he honestly believe that shit he said? She was a good girl. She kept sobbing and weeping.

Outside in the truck Cal turned the truck off. He sat there like the true asshole he was. Why did he say those mean things to her? She could read him like a book. She'd had him pegged that first night at the tavern. He couldn't do this. He couldn't just drive off. He was sorry. She was a good girl. At least she'd been good to him, excepting for the pool hustle anyway.