How I Met My Wife #01

#1: Eric

Over the years, I've been collecting stories of how men met their wives, or how wives met their husbands. These are stories that Ann never would have published. Here's the story of how Eric met Nicole. Of course, the names and details have been fictionalized for privacy.

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Soon after I graduated from college, I inherited a sum of money from my grandmother. I had never been short of money, but this was far more that I'd ever had before. It wasn't enough to support me for the rest of my life, but it was enough that I certainly needed professional help managing it. The executor of my grandmother's estate gave me the name of a financial advisor and I made an appointment.

The advisor's office was in a nondescript building in an office park. The reception area was furnished with a few modest chairs and some magazines, and there was a receptionist at a metal desk. As I approached her, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a picture on the side wall and I stopped and turned, startled to find such an item in so mundane a situation.

It was a photograph of a nude young woman, shown full-length. It was a large photo, nearly life size. The model was standing, one hand on her hip, her head thrown back, beautiful auburn hair cascading down her neck. She was laughing, a great big belly-laugh, as if she'd just heard the funniest joke ever.

This was no simple photograph taken with a camera from Wal-Mart, nor a snapshot taken by a boyfriend or a pornographer. I'm hardly a trained connoisseur, but I realized this was a work of art of the highest quality, produced by a master photographer.

The model's skin was very pale, and she was photographed against a white background. The lighting was carefully arranged for the subtlest of shadows, creating the effect of nearly pure unbroken whiteness. Aside from her hair, the only hints of color were a small, carefully trimmed patch of pubic hair, slightly redder than auburn, and large rose-colored nipples.

The technique was impeccable, with detail unimaginable in a photo so large. Each wisp of hair was distinct, and her skin was so luminous you wanted to touch its softness, the texture showing just the slightest hint of glisten. Even the frame was museum-quality, made of an exotic wood of just the right color to compliment the auburn and rose colors.

But what made the picture so striking was the model's pose, completely relaxed and open. You could see little of her face, because it was tilted back, but the little you could see, combined with the body language of her arms and the slight tilt of her legs, conveyed an unmistakable sense of joy and happiness. There was no mistaking that she was in the company of close friends that she loved dearly.

Even if I'd encountered this photograph in a top art museum, I would have been struck by its quality, but finding it in the suburban office of my financial advisor was nothing short of disorienting. Eventually, I remembered why I was there and I went to the receptionist's desk and introduced myself, and it occurred to me that, regardless of quality, a photo of a nude woman was an unusual item for an office.

"It's a beautiful photo," I said. She nodded. "It's an unusual subject for a financial advisor." The receptionist, a rather squat thirty-year-old, probably mother of two small children, just gave me a knowing smile and didn't comment. I didn't understand what the smile meant.

After a few minutes, the advisor came to greet me. I complimented him on the photo and he thanked me and escorted me to a small conference room, furnished with an inexpensive table, a few chairs, and a full bookshelf.

On one wall was yet another beautiful picture, also a large photo of a nude woman. I was pretty sure it was the same model, because I recognized the auburn hair and rose-colored nipples. This picture was taken from above, looking down on her as she lay on her back on a white bed, knees pulled up a little, with her arm draped over her eyes, displaying a perfectly hairless soft underarm. Her hair splayed out onto a snow-white pillow. Like the photo in the reception area, this was nearly all white, except near the center of the composition was a brown mass of hair between the model's legs. It was the back of another woman's head, curls of hair draping over the thighs of the primary model. You could see the head and neck and shoulders of the brown-haired girl, but most of her body was outside the photo.

The primary model's eyes were covered by her arm, but her mouth left no doubt what was happening. Her lips were slightly parted and she was caught in the midst of a slight gasp. Like the first photograph, this one was perfect composed and perfectly executed with the finest craftsmanship, conveying exactly the emotion of a woman enjoying oral sex from a lover she knew well.

Fortunately, the advisor gave me a good opportunity to study the photo. He told me the name of the artist, and I recognized it immediately as one of the best fashion photographers in the world. I wondered how he came to own such fine art, but there was no way to politely ask such a question. I intentionally seated myself facing away from the photo, hoping to forget it was there and concentrate on my finances.

He and I spoke for almost two hours. He asked me detailed questions about myself – my education, my up-bringing, my occupation, my career goals, and my personal goals for family, wife, children, hobbies. We talked about the lifestyle I wanted to lead and how to best structure investments, insurance, trusts, and wills to support it. He struck me as smart, articulate, knowledgeable, honest -- just the person I needed to help me. I trusted him.

As we finished the business of the meeting, I complimented him once again on the photos, and he asked if I wanted to see others. He took me into his private office, and I was dumbfounded. Facing me, on the wall over his desk, dominating the room, was a huge close-up photo of a woman's genitals, taken from between her legs, shown at, perhaps, ten times life size.

The photo include part of her white thighs, but little else of the surrounding area. I noticed the small patch of pubic hair, and the color told me it was probably the same model, but I couldn't be sure. The detail was incredible. Every pore, every tiny crease or fold of her labia, every crinkle of skin at her anus, was rendered in perfect precision. This photograph, though white-on-white like the others, was filled with the pinkness of her labia and her anus, and I remembered that they were the same rose color as the nipples I'd seen in the first photos.

The composition was, of course, perfect. Two of her fingers were in the picture, perfectly manicured and painted the same color as her labia. One finger was touching her clitoris, moving it slightly to the side. The other held one of her lips open a bit, allowing a partial view inside of her, into her vagina. The whiteness of her thighs gave way to the pinkness of her labia and her fingernails, then quickly to the darkness, and eventually blackness, of her vagina, at the very center of the photo.

Even without a view of her face, there was no doubt of her emotion. The clitoris was hard and protruding from its hood, under the touch of her finger. The labia were puffy and moist, become increasingly slick with wetness close to the vaginal opening. She was aroused, wanting sex.

In the hands of a lesser photographer, such an image would have been pornographic, but I can honestly say that my reaction was not sexual. The photo was a work of beauty and power of a kind I had rarely experienced. I couldn't take my eyes off it.

Then the advisor spoke, distracting my attention momentarily, and he told me to turn around. Behind me, on the wall next to the door, were more photos. There was a series of three, and I was drawn toward them.

In the top photo, the model was shown, from the side, on her hands and knees on a pure white bed. On the right, at the edge of the composition, there was a very dark black man mounting her, ready to penetrate her from the rear. He was mostly out of the picture, so you could see little of him-- just a portion of his thigh, and his large disembodied hands on her back, gripping her sides, and, of course his penis, uncircumcised, perfectly straight, with the head just a fraction of an inch from its destination. The woman was facing forward, not toward me, eyes closed, holding her breath, cheeks scrunched up a little, anxiously anticipating the penetration. The center of the photo was purest white, with the contrasting blackness of the man to her right, the auburn of her hair on the left, and a small glimpse of rose-colored nipple in the center.

In the second photo, she was penetrated. Only the base of his penis was visible, and his hands gripped her sides more strongly. She held her head downward now, hair cascading toward the bed, eyes wide open and mouth slightly agape, maybe startled, or maybe simply enjoying the sensations.

In the final photo, the man's penis was outside her, wet now, and his right hand held it over her backside. Glistening drops of semen were visible in a row on the small of her back, and a drop still hung at the tip of his penis. His left hand held her more lightly now, resting it on her back rather than gripping her. Her head was still held down, toward the bed, hair still cascading downward, but now her face was damp, as was her body, and she had a calm smile, proud and satisfied with her accomplishment.

Stunning.

I studied the photos for a long time. "They're beautiful," I said. "Are there more?" I hoped there were.

"Not here in the office," the advisor answered. "We have two more at home."

It may have been rude, but I had to ask. Photos of this size and quality were expensive. I wouldn't have been surprised if they were worth more than a quarter of a million dollars in total. "How did you come to own such wonderful art?" I asked.

"I know the model," he said.

I wanted to ask how he knew her. Was she his lover or wife perhaps? I checked for a ring, and he had one. It was unlikely that a pudgy man, balding, with glasses, nearly sixty years old, would have such a wife, but it was not impossible. I didn't know how to ask, so I didn't, and simply said, "You're a lucky man."

He nodded in agreement, and I changed the subject. "Please don't think I'm offended – because I'm certainly not – but they're unusual subject matter for an office."

"I know. But there's no doubt people like to look at them. The human body is beautiful," he said.

"Some more than others. She's gorgeous."

"Thank you, " he answered. I briefly wondered why he was thanking me, but, after a pause and brief consideration of what he wanted to say, he continued, "She's my daughter."

I had no idea what to say, and tried to control the expression on my face to avoid offending him. I suppose I should have wondered what kind of a man would show off photos of his daughter having sex, but I really didn't. If I had photos like that, I'd want everybody to see. "Is she a professional?" I asked. Then, realizing that my question was subject to bawdy misinterpretation, I clarified, "A professional model, I mean."

"When she can get a quality assignment like this, she takes it, but they don't come along too often. It's hardly a career. Actually, she's studying to be a financial advisor."

I had many more questions, but couldn't find a way to politely ask them, so I was quiet, and he continued. "She works here, with me. Would you like to meet her?"

I looked at him quizzically. Was he toying with me? He seemed to be serious though, so I assured him, honestly, that there was nobody in the world I more wanted to meet. So he took me down a short hallway and there, at a desk next to the coffee maker and vending machine, was a young woman, working at a computer. When she saw us, she rose from her chair and the advisor introduced us.

I have to admit that I would not have recognized her from the photos, and I wasn't even really sure it was her. She was very pretty, of course, with pale skin. She was wearing a little makeup, which the model in the photos was not. The color of her hair was right, but it was shorter now and a little curly, which it hadn't been in the photos. I looked at her, and realized that none of the photos had provided a good view of her face. In all the poses, she was looking away or half-hidden, and none provided a good look of her eyes. Her eyes were green. Perhaps the artist didn't think green would go well in the composition.

He told her that I had admired the photos. I said that they were beautiful. Somehow it seemed too personal to say that she was beautiful, so I complimented the photos instead, and she thanked me, smiling kindly.

Her father told her some things about me that he'd learned in our business meeting, and told me about her -- where she'd gone to school and what she'd studied. He bragged about her progress in passing the series of difficult examinations necessary to become a certified financial advisor.

Then he excused himself, saying that he had to go to another appointment. He put his arm around me and said, loud enough that we both could hear, "Take her someplace nice. You can afford it."

The daughter laughed, heartily, throwing her head back, and now I was sure that it was her in the photos. The laugh, the motion of her head, the expression on her face, were exactly that of the model in the first photo, the one in the reception area.

The father walked away, and she put one hand on her hip and tilted her legs, just like in the photo, looked me straight in the eye and asked, "Where are you going to take me?"

There was only one possible answer: "Wherever you want to go."

And that's how I met my wife.