Evan Loves Curves

Throughout that day, the day of "the Tweet," any time I checked my account balance, it had grown by a step of five figures. Can you imagine? Did I mention the insanity? And me praying, please don't let the insanity stop! By the next morning, I was a bonafide millionaire. No lie.

Back right before the twins were born, I'd traded my beloved blue Subaru WRX sedan for a silver minivan. I'd wanted white, but my ex- hated white cars, so we ended up with silver. I'd been driving it for years now and it had well over 100k on it. So with all this sudden new cash, I checked around the auto websites and found a loaded white low-miles minivan that had recently turned up at a local dealer off a two year lease (why not new? at that time, the older van and the new one looked the same, and the money I saved by avoiding depreciation went to guitars and amps, horse-riding lessons for my daughter and go karts for my boys because hey I might be newly rich but I'm still frugal). My ex had traded me her Jeep for a week over the summer to take the kids to the beach in the roomier minivan, so I took the old silver thing over and dropped it off at my old house. Just gave it to her. She already knew about my sudden fortune, and it was awkward. She'd been drinking wine. She made a pass at me. I passed. She got pissed, and I was so happy that I could close the door on that argument. I went back to my apartment, looked around at the spartan furnishings, checked my bank account, smiled like a motherfucker, bought a porn subscription to a favorite site, jacked off, and then played my newly arrived Les Paul until I fell asleep.

I got calls from all three of the big local news stations and ended up doing interviews for them all the next day. It was really odd, especially when I got interviewed by the ABC guy I had watched most mornings for a decade. The questions were all meatballs, the journos were all smiles and so was I, they were all "Somewhat Local Dude Done Good" types of deals, and after the 30-second blurbs ran in the morning and evening cycles, I got lots of social media hits and maybe even sold enough more books to buy another guitar or three...dozen. I actually got a little worried about what this was all doing and what could it mean, especially when I got a weird social media direct message from a high school classmate who thought I'd based a dumb character on him (I had!) and he was mad about it. So I went out and bought a big shiny .45 pistol from Para Ord. Learned how to shoot it.

When I hired a tax attorney, she told me to hire a financial adviser. I talked to my old boss about breaking my lease. I got a realtor, looked at houses. And of course, I started looking for a fast car to buy.

If you are one of the two Literotica readers who are still with me (thanks!), you already know that my dad was a Navy fighter pilot who retired to fly airliners and always drove red Porsches. I have fond memories of sitting in his cars, making vroom vroom noises and moving the gear lever while he was off halfway around the world flying Tomcats off the JFK. Later, after he married his 4th wife and settled down, my ex- and I had honeymooned at his northern California home and he let me drive his '96 911 Turbo up and down the PCH-1. I loved everything about it except the color (not that I don't like red cars, I just like red more on Italian cars than German ones). Known among gearheads around the world as the Porsche 993 Twin Turbo variant, it was the top Porsche on all the magazine covers back when I was in high school, and therefore has always been a bit of a dream car for me even if I hadn't talked my father into buying one later so I could drive it.

Now, I thought, it was finally time to own my own.

So then I got a new issue of the Porsche club newsletter in my mailbox and turned to "The Mart" where members sell their prized sports cars to other members. One ad immediately caught my eye:

"1997 911 Turbo - White over Special Order Lipstick Red full leather with black piping, dash and carpets - 27,600 miles - Dealer-maintained with all records and paperwork from new - new clutch/flywheel kit, power steering rack lines and pump, hood and engine cover struts at 25k miles - 2 owners, no accidents or paintwork - Bose sound - 8-way power heated seats with "turbo" script - rear window wiper - stock excepting: Bilstein PSS10 suspension, Behr intercooler and hard pipes, B&B Stage 2 stainless exhaust and braided stainless brake lines (all original parts go with the car) - Fresh fluids and brand new Michelin Pilot Sport tires, needs nothing - Serious Inquiries only"

That last bit was due to the price, which was a little high, according to book. Which I had memorized. Didn't matter. Porsche only built this model of car for two years, and they were expensive and rare when new. Most of them were silver, red or black, and probably only a few had a red interior. This was a special, very low mileage car with tasteful modifications, and it would never be cheaper than it was right that moment, as opposed to a brand new Turbo-which would depreciate by about 60% in the next five years, and also was not offered with three pedals and a stick shift, this being flappy-paddle happy 2013. Can you say, "non-starter?"

I had read the ad on my walk up from my mailbox to my no-longer-discounted (but who cares?) apartment and I knew right away that not only was this an exceptional car, but it was optioned and modified in about the exact same way I would have done it, had I hit the lottery when I was 19 years old. I called the guy right then and there, before I even got inside my door, made my realtor wait a half hour while the seller and I had a discussion, and I was the owner of my first Porsche the next day. A week later, it arrived in front of my mom's house in a big orange semi truck. Seeing it roll out the back was as memorable as the births of my children. I swears. A super special car. Hunkered down, racy, and then you open the door and it is this blazing bright red leather, set off by a black leather dash, door tops, belts and carpet.

What did you think, I was gonna buy a Harley and get a tattoo?

My first drive in the old white Turbo, I almost killed myself, but you could not have made me stop smiling even if you stuck a gun in my face. It was just. That. Fast. I rocketed downtown to take an old friend for a ride to lunch in it, then my Mom was home when I got back to her place. She had a funny look on her face, and it made me remember that the last time she'd ridden in a Porsche had been with her ex-husband. After a while, the funny look went away. She told me over and over that she really liked the car, which was her way of saying she was proud of me.

I put 800 miles on it that first weekend, but kept it parked in my Mom's garage beside her Honda until a week after that, when I bought my own house.

I'd looked at a bunch of places, and my heart was torn between a beautiful old brick Colonial-beautiful and unique walnut and marble bar in the basement, exquisite wordwork and grand kitchen and master bedroom-in the middle of a very nice old neighborhood, or a place out at the edge of my kids' school district, with almost 3 acres, 2 more stalls in the garage, plus a nice pool, but much less character. I ended up choosing the latter. Pretty bland floorplan but just a nice big house with lots of space, and it had been built in the last ten years with solid modern materials and appliances. Story on this house went that grandparents retired, built it, grandkids had to move away, grandparents bought an RV, explored the country, found Scottsdale, moved to Scottsdale. It actually went into contract before I could make an offer, and then after a few days, when I was just about to settle on the Colonial and told myself I would be happy there and I'd have to spend some ridiculous amount to build a bigger garage, the big house with the pool and 4-car garage came back on the market. By the time I got to make an offer, it was empty, which meant ready to move into, when a lot of other houses on the market were not. It couldn't have been more perfect for me at that moment. However, the entire house was the same shade of beige paint and the same shade of beige carpet. Time to fix that.

I went to the house closing with my "new" minivan full of paint, signed the papers, transferred the funds, got the key, drove over and met the painting crew I'd worked with at the apartments. Within a few hours, most of the rooms had been sprayed a different color and it felt more like home.

This was a huge step for me. I don't want to get into it too much, but one of my things with my ex was just that she's a control freak. Now I was painting the rooms colors I chose, or my kids chose, not her. The furniture was all stuff I picked, and it went where I wanted it to. I put up pictures of airplanes, basketball players, rock stars, fast cars and motorcycles. I got a china cabinet for the dining room but filled it with 1:18 scale diecast model race cars. I changed the basement decor from Syracuse Orange to Indiana's Cream and Crimson. Oh my fucking god it was awesome.

CHAPTER 2

For the first time in my life, an actual moving company came to my little apartment, packed all of my junk, went to my Mom's house to pack up the rest of the stuff she let me store there, then drove it all across town and unpacked it in my big new house right where I wanted it. All I had to do was stand around and supervise-point here and there, sip some Gatorade- and it felt surprisingly inexpensive in the scheme of things. Then the furniture truck came with all my new shit, and I was a little manic, I will admit. But man, I'd had furniture from my dorm room that was still seeing primary use, and I was 35! That weekend, with the whole joint still smelling a bit like fresh paint, I threw a big housewarming party, breaking in my new BBQ smoker and my first new Weber grill. I really wanted to thank my family and friends for all of the help and support, and honestly, I felt like I had freeloaded here and there, been a bit of a mooch, and for once I wanted everyone to show up empty-handed and leave stuffed thanks to me and money that I had earned.

So I had a surreal moment there during the party when I sneaked off to vape a little weed. There were ribs in the smoker, shrimp ready to grill, burgers waiting to sizzle, all kinds of sides and stuff I had prepared, everyone was having a good time, kids and old people in the pool and the weather was great: low 80s, not real humid and with a light breeze, a few puffy clouds but nothing dark in that deep blue sky. I was in the garage and decided to pour myself a quick half glass of Bell's Two Hearted ale from my new keg-o-rater out there and it made me pause to think about all of the times-years ago-I had been grilling out, having a beer, dreading the end of the night, knowing I had to go back to work at my shitty job the next day. But it was that alone time that I always loved, the aroma of the meat as smoke rose from my old, ancient Weber, the quiet, and I was always thinking about how good things were right then, and my mind would turn to how they could get better, and I would daydream about cars and guitars and airplanes and beach houses while ignoring my ex yelling at the kids to get their coloring books or Lego off the table so we could get the silverware and salad dressing out. But eventually, the spell would break and I would worry about how far we could stretch the next paycheck, when could I get some good beer, or another bag of weed, or whatever. And here I was, finally, feeding my friends and family, and here I was, plenty of pot, plenty of beer, and in the garage was the nice late model minivan and my classic white 911 Turbo, gleaming, all paid for and insured, the keys hanging from the hook I'd recently hung inside the door of my new house. The moment felt like such an alternate reality from where I thought I was headed. If I even knew. How many times had I popped into my old garage for a puff or to sneak a can of beer from a stash and seen the minivan and my ex's sedan, or later, the minivan and her Jeep and thought, oh Christ, well, maybe someday...? Here I was. It was hard enough to wrap my head around in that moment, and maybe it was just because I was drinking too much Two Hearted and kept hitting the vape pen with the good pot oil, but I couldn't shake the feeling that even though something was missing, I still thought it could all be a dream.

That missing thing wasn't a fancier house or a condo at the beach. It wasn't an airplane. It wasn't even another car or motorcycle or truck to tow said car or motorcycle, although all of those things were certainly in the cards. And sooner, rather than later, because I felt like I was old enough and had waited long enough and who knew, right? But no, the missing thing had big lush breasts, a wet pussy, a curvy ass and a hot, kissable mouth that she wanted desperately to pour all over me. And I had no idea how to get that.

Yes I did. The Porsche, clubs, the gym, a bar. I had money, even a little bit of fame, a nice house all to myself every other week because I was a divorced dad, and I could park the minivan around the back so she'd just see the Porsche in the garage. Would she care? Would she just want to say she fucked a best selling author? Would she just want me for my money? Would she just want my big dick? Did I care?

"You need a slut," my old friend Anna said. Well, she was actually my ex-sister-in-law, who I was still friends with. See, told you the divorce wasn't that messy...

Anna was a short, chubby, loveable bull dyke lesbian who liked sports and was a great aunt to my kids. Hanging out with her was a lot like hanging out with one of my old pals except for her huge boobs and sometimes a few complaints about period cramps, so hearing her say that wasn't a shock. And she had a point.

"I mean, you've gotten laid since the divorce, right?" she went on. She had found me in the garage and asked what I was doing out there, so I poured her some beer and gave her the vape pen with the good pot oil and told her what I was thinking about. Now I just puffed on the pen, handed it back and looked at the garage door.

"You haven't had sex with anyone in like, a year? Really? Evan?"

"Been busy, I guess," is all I said.

"No, man, no. There's no excuse for that. I mean, what's going on? Get on Tinder or Babbel or something, bro. What are you afraid of?"

I didn't want to talk about it. I just shrugged.

"Is the wedding tackle not working? You need a blue pill, or a red one? I know it's not because you ain't foxy or packing."

I shook my head. I had no issues there. I was almost 6'4, in great shape from using the gym at the apartment community for the last half year after I quit drinking for a while and starved myself while writing the novel. Now I had a nice haircut, six-pack abs, and of course, being family, Anna had somehow heard or whatever that I do pack some heat in my pants. Close enough to nine inches to call it nine, and hey, maybe with the right person, who knew? Yep.

We talked it over. We went back out to the deck and she stood there by the grill while I flipped the skewered shrimp. Anna was so easy to talk to, and she'd been in a lot more relationships than me. She got it. Even the male role, I think she sort of got that too.

"I mean, it sounds to me like you just don't have confidence like you should bro," she said after a while. I started to protest, telling her again, hey I've been out of the game for so long.

"It's not like you were ever in the game. You went girlfriend to girlfriend, easy pickings. I'm not saying it was rebound after rebound, because you always seem to stick around, even maybe when you shouldn't."

I just looked at her. The words were ringing up true.

"So that's it, right? You got no game, you got no confidence, and you know what, that's fine, that's cool. That's why you need an easy one at first. A slut. A meatball, right over the plate."

I just looked at her, but she wasn't messing with me, even if she was more than a little tipsy. So I nodded, I got was she was saying. "Dude, seriously though, you don't got a Tinder profile?" She looked up at me like I was crazy, then giggled. "I mean, you can put 'Best Selling Author' as your job title. Come on."

I laughed and handed her the platter of shrimp.

But I thought about it. She was right, not only had it had been so long since I'd played the game, I'd never been good at it. I was good at being me and treating a lady right, but they didn't always want that, and not the ones who wanted to fuck right away. Right? But, maybe I'd picked up a few things? Like, how many times had I looked back at one of those situations, agonized over it, if only I'd said this or did that? And of course, I had single friends who shared their stories, all of which had been carefully considered and catalogued in the "if only" databanks, because you never know. So, I had some ideas. And those ideas twisted to fit certain women I knew, or wanted to know, or thought maybe I could know better.

But I wasn't looking for a rebound. Like Anna said, I was looking for a slut. One with a hot body-big tits or a big ass, but preferably both-and no attachments. I felt dirty, but excited.

Later on, as the party was winding down, she found me in the garage again, puffing again.

Suddenly, she snapped her fingers. "Hey, I know who you can hook up with."

I snorted. "Who?"

She sneered. "You remember Burley?"

The name hit me like a scented feather pillow to the face. Of course I remembered Burley.

God, so I'd only met her once before, but it had been years ago, ages, before kids, before a house, when my wife was working her summer job at a fancy Italian joint and Anna had brought a little entourage of friends up from our home town to visit and have dinner. Anna is friends with everyone. She networks at a subconscious level, that's just her, and she was always hanging out with new interesting people and bringing them to meet you. So here was Anna's girlfriend, who was nice and seemed normal, a weird punk rock fatty chick, a tall statuesque Adonis type dude with curly blond hair and the most perfect slut ever on the planet. This girl.

They said her name was Burley.

I could barely look at her. I felt like if I so much as glanced at her, my wife would find out and then I would find myself on the wrong end of nuclear debate annihilation on the objectification of women. She was tall, curvy as sin, with long, thick chestnut brown hair and a deep tan like mine, but slightly more orangey. She was in fact a bit of a butterface, but she could have had one eye and a kazoo for a nose and nobody would have noticed for several minutes after meeting her because her body was just that blazing hot. Because I am so crude and it just helps, I'm going with a guess of around 5'7", 140ish, 34F-27-38, with long perfectly toned legs. I'll never forget her outfit, even though I was only around her for about four or five hours, because she wore a sleeveless black midriff-baring blouse and white butt-hugger shorts, with black high-heel sandals. The top wasn't even low cut, but just the sheer volume of breasts overpowered whatever no doubt sexy bra was trying mightily to contain them, causing sexy bulges and jigglings aplenty. And oh yeah, she was wearing a thong, and it was black, which everyone probably knew by the end of the night because it was so easy to spot when she bent over. Which she did. A lot.

The slut.

I didn't know at the time, but Burley was her last name. When I shook her hand, she looked at me with a big smile and Anna said, "uh oh," which I pretended not to notice. But Burley liked me from the start. Probably because I'm handsome and tall and radiate that hung studness that hung studs radiate even when they aren't showing off their big packages. Kidding, dear reader. Kind of. Probably more because I was married and that's how Burley was wired. She liked a challenge. She was used to everyone giving her attention, even married guys. I decided almost as soon as I met her that if either of us was going to be tortured, it was going to be her and not me. So I basically ignored her. In fact, I figured she was with the Adonis type anyway, but then I figured out pretty quick he was gay. So who was Burley, some fag hag?