The Pluto Principal

Is it possible for a woman to be too attractive? Flawless skin, perfect hair, sexy long legs, a true hourglass waist, and an especially ample bosom: 36--18--33. All this and fifty--years--old, born in March, 1959.

Most definitely she does exist. She owns a collectables shop near Malibu, and she's everything I've described and more. Her lips, her eyes, those long, lithesome fingers, and even the way she dresses so stylishly retro; I wish I could take her out on a date to a carnival where some fool would attempt to guess her age. We'd stock her bedroom with every stuffed animal they had.

The only reason I'm in on the secret that she's fifty, is because I was fortunate enough to receive an invitation to her birthday party. Millicent Barbara Roberts, but don't let the Millicent throw you. She goes by her middle name, at least if you're lucky enough to be a close friend.

I'd probably never have met her had it not been that I'm a bit of a closet Transformers fan. When I was five--years--old, for my birthday I got an Optimus Prime action figure, and I played with that toy for years and years. Yet, in going off to college, graduating, getting a job, and finally my very own condo, sadly, somewhere along the way Optimus and I parted company. So you can imagine my surprise after going to lunch with a client in a different part of town, while pulling out from the restaurant, I saw one displayed in a shop window next door. Of course, I might have been able to have found one on eBay, but I hadn't even thought about Optimus until just now when suddenly I saw the action figure in the window.

I almost kept driving. But there happened to be an open parking spot on the street, and on a quick impulse I pulled in. Inside, the shop was incredible. Santa Claus would no doubt have wet dreams about the dolls and collectable toys on display. Power Rangers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Gi Joe, there were toys I hadn't thought of in years, most in their original boxes. Not only was there the vintage Optimus Prime in mint condition; she had a number of toys even I could recognize as extremely valuable collectables.

With all the plastic playthings dazzling my eyes I must admit I wasn't prepared to meet a real--life plaything. Just as a fish is attracted to the flash of a lure, I'd gone straight for the shiny Transformer in the window. Holding Optimus up and marveling at him, no doubt with a smile every bit as beaming as that which I'd displayed on my fifth birthday, he appeared exactly the same as the one I'd owned. I hadn't really even noticed in back of the counter behind the cash register hung a red velvet curtain, yet when she suddenly slipped from between the slits of the curtain, instantly the sight of her snatched my attention away from the toy.

Focusing upon me with the most peculiar expression, I couldn't help but focus upon her cheery-red lips as she asked, "May I help you?"

Seeing her appear from the curtain, she completely took me aback. She didn't seem real. All I could muster as a reply was a stunned, "I'm just looking."

Never will I forget the way in which she moved as those long legs brought her around from behind the counter and right up to me.

"My--oh--my!" For the very first time she treated me to her smile. "A Transformers fan, are we?"

Dressed in a slinky, form--fitting, zebra--striped pantsuit, with a daringly deep neckline displaying the depth of her décolletage, the sixties-styled flared bellbottoms added a bit of camp to an otherwise sexy and sultry outfit. Her hips swaying dramatically with each step, she came up to stand a little closer to me than a demure saleswoman might with an unfamiliar customer.

For a moment, I thought she might laugh and take a step back. Yet instead, reaching up slowly, her fingers brushed over mine as she slipped Optimus from my hand, then held him up appraisingly. "I knew this morning when I put him up in the window he'd draw some special attention."

Overwhelmed by her invasion of my personal space, I almost couldn't believe her. Up close, her eyelashes were impossibly long, and her blonde hair cascading down over her shoulders seemed to shine with its own luminescence. I've never been much on women who wear a lot of makeup, but never before had I encountered a woman who was so striking, I felt as though I was in the presence of a Hollywood movie star who might look into my eyes and purr, 'Alright, Mr. Demille, I'm ready for my close up.'

Watching her in wordless wonder, quickly her fingers swiveled this and clicked that, adeptly transforming Optimus Prime into his alter ego, a semi--truck. Handing the transformed toy back to me, that deliciously seductive smile of hers was as alluring as her voice. "You see, I was right to put him up in the window. Look what he brought me?"

I had no idea what she was talking about. I think I was still trying to get over that sixties mod--style pantsuit. Finally I did manage, "Who brought you what?"

Reminiscent of a game show hostess displaying a prize, delicately she wafted her hands to either side of the toy. "Why Optimus, of course. He brought me you."

As a reflex, I looked down to the shiny red and blue truck in my hands, but could only keep my eyes off of her for a moment. When I again met her gaze, I'm sure my own eyes went wide. Laughing! Her eyes were laughing. Not teasing or making fun of me, but elated, alive, filling me with a sense of how thrilled she was that I was here in her shop.

Fumbling for something to say, all I could think of was, "So how much?"

Ever so coyly she leaned in a little closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. "How much? That depends on what you want."

The effect she was having over me, it took a moment to marshal my thoughts and stumble to an answer. "The toy ... the Transformer ... him ... it ... Optimus Prime."

"Oh!" Her exclamation was so bright and innocent. "Silly me." She pointed to the shelf in the window, my eyes following and spying an orange dog with black spots, a vintage Scooby--Doo. "I thought you might have meant my pal, Scooby." Her laugh was sparkling and totally disarming. "You know...?" Playfully, she sang, "How much is that doggy in the window? The one with the waggily tail----"

At a total loss, I couldn't have come up with a response if I tried for a million years.

Suddenly getting to business, she took the Transformer from my hands. "Well ... well, let me see." Locating a small tag dangling on a piece of white string, she held it up, obviously having trouble reading the small numbering.

Maybe mentally I was starting to catch up to her, but finally I showed some life. "Here, allow me."

Clutching the toy closely to her bosom with both hands, she gave me a glare of tender reproach. "Now ... now ... don't be impatient. I have my glasses back at the counter."

Before I could protest, she turned about and sashayed her way to the counter, each lilting sway back and forth of her hips causing me to imagine I was hearing a shameless, but all--too real ... "badda- boom--badda--boom" truly as though there was a phantom drummer hidden behind the red curtain from which she had emerged.

Sheepishly following her to the counter, by the time I arrived she already had her glasses in hand, slipping the bookish, black plastic librarian--styled glasses down over her nose and peering at the tag.

"Fifty dollars." Bending down with one elbow on the counter, she peered back at me over the rims of her glasses. "Not bad, huh?"

Leaning forward, I couldn't stop my eyes as they admired the view of the tops of her breasts. Creamy and full, luscious and alluring, the cleft of her cleavage so daringly exposed to my eyes was so deeply enticing. Before I knew it, "Not bad at all," formed in my mind and escaped from my lips.

Again she showed me that curiously sweet look of reproach. "When you say, 'not bad', are you referring to this toy..." her smile spread, "...or to me?"

Feeling my flush I had to think quickly. "Oh ... uh ... the Transformer ... of course."

Putting her fingers up to the side of her glasses and fingering the black plastic she pouted. "So I guess it's true?"

Again, she was so many steps ahead of me; all I could manage was to echo a vague, "What's true?

Composing herself as if she was playfully on the verge of tears, she rhymed, "Men don't make passes at women who wear glasses."

All I could do was stand and gape.

"So!" She resumed the lead. "What'll it be? Cash, check, or plastic?"

An incredible bargain at fifty dollars, there was no question that I was going to buy it. Not having much cash on me at the moment, I shrugged, "It'll have to be plastic."

Again that incredible smile reappeared. "Groovy! I don't know what it is," she tapped the toy with her pink fingernail, "but I truly love anything to do with plastic."

Hearing the word, 'Groovy,' it wasn't so much that she actually said it as much as how she said it that caused me to need a moment to regroup my sense of reality. Finally reaching around to my back pocket, I produced my wallet. Yet as I attempted to hand her my credit card, she stepped back from the counter. "No ... no don't let me see ... and don't tell me." Folding her bottom lip in under her teeth she peered up to the ceiling, thinking for a moment, then suddenly looked back down to me. "Ken!" She clapped her hands together. "That's your name. It is isn't it?"

She was obviously still way too far ahead of me in whatever game she might be playing. "Yes," I came back slowly. "Kenneth, actually. Kenneth Handler. How'd you possibly guess?"

Using just the tips of her polished pink fingernails, delicately, she reached over and plucked the credit card from my fingers. "Oh, in my eyes, every Ken's a doll. I can spot one from a mile away."

While she was running my card, I came back to myself long enough to get myself a really good look at her. My first thought was maybe she'd once been a ballerina, as only a ballerina could have such a tiny waist. But then again, her breasts were much larger than any ballerina I had ever seen, seemingly defying gravity by standing out so dramatically away from her body. The grace with which she moved, her long arms, and how delicately and dramatically she always seemed to pose her fingers again had me thinking of a ballerina, or perhaps an actress from the stage. Yet with that long, long blonde hair she surely would have been growing it since she was a girl. And I'd never seen a ballerina with such long hair. Not that I've really ever attended the ballet.

The issue that perplexed me wasn't who she was, but how old she was. Everything about the way she made eye contact and the confidence with which she carried herself spoke of an older, experienced woman. Yet her skin was as beautiful and perfect as that of a child. The only major giveaways she was from another generation, besides the psychedelic black and white striped pantsuit with its impossibly flared legs were her lime green hoop earrings and matching bracelets. Never before outside of a costume party had I seen any woman or girl dress as this one did.

As her credit card machine came to life clicking and ticking as it printed out the slip of paper for me to sign, she handed me back my card, then produced a box and a bag from under the counter. Ever so adeptly those delicate fingers transformed the truck back into Optimus Prime, then reverently she placed him in the box and packed paper in all around him. Finally putting on the lid and taping the box closed, she placed the box in the bag and presented it to me.

"There!" She seemed so delighted when I had the bag in my hand. "Now you will have to promise me that you will give him a good home?"

With my free hand I ran my index finger up and then sideways across my chest. "Cross my heart."

This seemed to delight her to no end, and truly, I'd swear her eyes sparkled.

"You know?" She started slowly. "It's not every day that I have a handsome young man with my all--time favorite name come into my shop. Mostly, my customers are women looking for vintage dolls, and the men who come in that collect action figures are rarely as handsome as you. Do you mind my saying that? That you are handsome?"

Her voice seemed to sparkle as much as her eyes; it was as though there was something so entirely and incredibly feminine in her every word and inflection. Almost craving to hear her to say something more, even 'Groovy!' I shook my head.

"Many years ago." Accusationally, yet playfully, she waggled a finger at me. "And I'm not going to tell you how many years ago it was, but I knew another handsome young man named Ken, and you do so remind me of him. He had those same dreamy eyes like you, and he was fit and athletic like you." She cocked her head, her eyes curious. "Were you a football player in school?"

Pressing my finger to my chest I couldn't help but laugh. "Who, me? You think I played serious football? I've played some Madden on my PlayStation, but that's about it."

"Well then?" She leaned closer across the counter. "A cheerleader? I bet you were the head cheerleader?"

"No." It was difficult to suppress another laugh. "Not me."

"And why ever not?" Defiantly, she leaned back and slapped her hands to her hips. "You're certainly handsome enough!"

There was something about her I couldn't put my finger on. It wasn't just that I was as dazzled as I was flattered to receive such compliments from such an impossibly beautiful woman. Yes, she was perky and cheerful on a scale unlike anyone I had ever met. Yet there was something else there, too. Something simmering and sultry. Girls are supposed to be made of sugar and spice. Though clearly she was sweet, there was an extra portion of spice in the way she looked at me. Deep within those eyes there was no mistaking she was completely and utterly a woman. Being near to her and simply conversing with her caused me to be intensely aware of my masculinity. They say it's possible to undress another person with your eyes, but there was much more to looking at her than that. Just as fuel and flame are two elements of a fire, her being so feminine was a natural element to my being male. She stirred such a heat in me, I felt as attracted to her as a moth, ever so willing to be the fuel to her flame.

"Tell you what!" She clapped her hands. "I'm having a little party at my place this Saturday night. Would you please come? Please?"

I still had my finger pressed to my chest. "Me?"

"Do you see anybody else in here?" Again she laughed. "We are all alone. I mean, except for my pal Scooby--Doo over there."

Stunned, I came back with, "I don't even know your name."

Quickly she offered out her hand, each sculpted, pink fingernail a perfect contrast to her earrings. "Millicent Barbara Roberts, pleased to meet you."

I took her hand, startled by how soft and creamy her skin was to the touch. "It's my pleasure, Millicent. Or do you go by, Millie?"

"Nope," she shook her head, "neither." Keeping her arm extended across the counter, she left her hand in mine. "I go by my middle name, Barbara. But I let my very closest friends call me, Barbie."

Slowly I withdrew my hand from hers. "So what should I call you?"

Again she unveiled that smile. "Let's wait until Saturday night to figure that one out, shall we?"

While driving to her place on Saturday evening my mind was in a whirl. Having recently turned twenty--five, I've been lucky enough to hook up with a couple of girls I'd say were very pretty. One, who was even very, very pretty. But every night since my chance encounter with this woman, she'd filled my dreams and fired my fantasies. Yet trying to imagine myself actually hooking up with a woman like her for real seemed entirely out of the realm of reality.

My situation with my attraction to this woman is what I've dubbed the Pluto Principle. Everyone except for Flat Earthers knows that Pluto is real, and that it's truly out there orbiting the sun billions of miles away out in space. Right now, it is actually out there, as real as real can be. But how many of us have ever seen Pluto with our own eyes? And of course, no man has ever been there and no man probably ever will. Pluto's real, it exists, but to the common man it's so impossibly far away from the realm of ever experiencing it first hand, philosophically it could be argued such a place doesn't even exist.

Having been frustrated all of my life by photographs of gorgeous singers and starlets I could never hope to attain, the Pluto Principle actually applies to the charms of an incredibly beautiful woman. She's real; flesh and blood, endowed with all the physical wonders a man hungers for. Yet with a woman so truly and utterly gorgeous, so entirely out--of--my--universe, the possibility of a common guy like me ever guiding my rocket to a touch down is so impossibly remote, far--fetched and beyond the realm of reality, like Pluto, for a guy like me such a destination doesn't even exist.

With this orbiting about in my mind I spied the house number and pulled into her driveway. I'd never been to a beach house in Malibu, yet this place was everything I imagined a posh pad at the beach would be. The split-level, sixties--modern house was a light coral pink, with large mirror--tinted windows and a pink convertible corvette stingray parked out in front of the garage. It wasn't lost on me at all that for what was supposed to be a party, there was only the one car in the driveway.

With my finger poised at the doorbell, for a moment I almost bailed. Truly, what was a guy like me doing at a place like this with a woman like her? If my heart was beating this quickly now, how could I hope to survive the evening? Yet I did press the doorbell, and only a moment or two after the echo of the chimes subsided, the door opened, and there she was.

Clapping her hands and then holding her arms twined together, her smile was even more luscious than I remembered. "Oh! You did come!" Stepping back and swinging the door wide, she stretched out her arms. "How about a birthday hug?"

Coming into her arms was beyond anything I'd fantasized. The smell of her perfume up close and the press of her firm breasts up against my chest as she wrapped her arms about me was enough to send me out of this world. This wasn't any "hello--between--friends" embrace. She fully pressed herself up to me, wrapping her arms about me and swaying affectionately side to side.

Holding the gift I'd brought in one hand, I wasn't able to wrap both my arms about her. Nevertheless, that hug knocked an enormous black hole in my Pluto Principle theory, as she was most definitely quite real up under that dress.

Finally releasing me and stepping back, she looked me up and down. "Now don't you look dreamy? Absolutely dreamy. I love how your legs look in those shorts, and that Hawaiian shirt is so cute. I adore parrots and palm trees!" Then noticing the gift box I was holding, she again clapped her hands. "A present! For me!"

As I handed her the gift, I felt intensely happy I'd paid for professional wrapping with an extra-large bow. Taking the package in both hands she held it out before her at arm's length, smiling so infectiously I was grinning from ear--to--ear, as well. Then ushering me in and closing the door behind us, she placed the gift on a table and turned right back to me.

"You are so sweet!" Cocking her head down slightly, she peered up at me from the tops of her eyes. "I think you deserve a kiss."

Just as in the shop it seemed things were happening to fast and were utterly beyond my control. Before I knew it, she stepped up into me, draped her arms over my shoulders, and brought her lips to mine. The sudden sensation of her kiss causing my heart to warp into overdrive.

Breaking off the kiss, she kept her arms over my shoulders. With the skirt of her dress pressing against my shorts and her breasts so firm against my chest, again she pleasured me with her smile. "Happy Birthday to me!"