Ugly Girl

Martha Stuart: Ugly Girl

To the reader:

Story length: Approximately 3300 Words.

Most neighborhoods have one: A little girl who is simply misshapen, who grows to become a just plain ugly ten-year old, who, not understanding what she's doing to the human race's averages, grows to become a butt-ugly teenager, and who appears bound to spend her adult life searching for a guy willing to marry a grotesquely, ugly wife.

Martha Stuart (soon after high school she went by Marti) filled that characteristic slot for our neighborhood.

The guys repeated the quip she was so ugly she had to sneak up on a glass to a drink of water. (Some professional comedian used that bit, I think.)

Now that Martha had turned eighteen, there was the suggestion about putting a flag over her head and fucking for Old Glory.

Or the quip about her having been offered a job as poster child for birth control prophylactics.

We used to say our family bulldog had a face so ugly face only a mother could love it. I don't think our dog's mother could have found anything attractive about Martha's face.

Then there was the quip about her parents having to tie a bone around her neck so their puppy would play with her.

The sad part? It wasn't Martha's fault, not one bit. No, the fault lay with that speeding, drunk driver who crashed into her family's car late one night, sending it off a roadside cliff, and causing it to burn with Martha trapped inside. During her recovery, the hospital and surgeons tried their best, but barely kept her alive. That was back in the days before plastic surgery had made much progress; they couldn't fix her horribly deformed, four-year-old face.

You've seen pictures of WWII fighter pilots who survived a fiery plane crash? Martha made them look handsome. Her severe limp only reinforced her already ugly appearance.

Myself? I was one of the guys who failed my high school's popularity contest and everyone assumed I'd never overcome that defeat. Therefore, since that assumption also included someone having to take Martha to the early spring Sadie Hawkins Dance, and since I probably would have stayed home otherwise, it was perfectly okay for her to draft me.

Truth was, I didn't really mind, except I felt sorry for Martha because there wasn't a student or a faculty member who wouldn't look upon this whole situation as a charity date. Martha didn't deserve that, and I hated being part of it. But my parents pressured me for it, even before her actual invitation manifested itself, so I had little choice.

Although I started out with a rather poor attitude toward the evening--I would much rather have taken Becky Johanson, but there was little chance of that because she had the image and status that gave her a good chance if she asked the football team's captain, who just happened to be between girlfriends. So I made the best of it with Martha, and it turned out reasonably well.

Mid-week, Mom handed me a note with a phone number on it. No name, just a phone number. So? Was this a neighbor wanting me for some paid farm work this weekend? That might mean money, so of course I called.

Martha answered, and immediately my heart sank. No weekend work and a date even my paltry ego couldn't gather much enthusiasm for.

Someone must have coached Martha, though. Unlike, as I had come to expect from attending three years at the same school, our conversation quickly drifted away from awkwardness of the moment to some level of pleasantry. She began with every young boy's favorite subject: Cars. In our case, my car.

And it wasn't a merely a superficial 'How's your car?' as you might have expected. This side of her--if it were a 'side'--had never surfaced before. It was almost as if her father raced cars or something. Or maybe she had pit-crewed for him? By the time we'd talked ten minutes, my apprehension over our impending date had eased considerably. I guess you could say I reached a certain 'tentative level of comfort' about the whole idea.

So, by the time we'd covered several topics about cars (my car in particular) and we'd delved somewhat into three of my other favorite topics: mini-hydroplane boats, shooting, and flying, the underlying purpose of her call surfaced. By now, I was somewhat looking forward to an evening with Martha. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

I'd seen her parents with her at many of our small high school's ball games, so I knew who they were. I never thought much about them; they were just pleasant people who knew my folks 'peripherally.' I supposed that's why Martha chose to 'draft' me for the Sadie Hawkins Dance.

They also stood on significantly higher financial ground than my family, not way up there, but definitely higher. So, with normal first date jitters, I took note as I drove up to their place, of how much fancier their house was than ours, probably blowing that factor way out of proportion.

At the front door, her father and mother met me as 1^st date protocol required in our community.

"Martha will be ready in about five minutes," her mother assured me. "Let me run in and help her. Meanwhile, Frank, why don't you get Jerry a Coke or something?"

So she disappeared and after a few seconds her father had put a Coke in my hand. I also learned he was a machine design engineer--a career that interested me--so I supposed that was from where Martha had assimilated the automotive information she'd used on me during our get-a-date phone conversation. So? What the heck?

Five minutes had grown to ten by the time Martha and her mother reemerged. Had I not long ago acquiesced to enjoying our up-coming evening, I'd have been more surprised by what greeted me as I stood up from their sofa.

But as I was, I directed myself to look at everything but her disfigured face. Medium tall (even without those heels), blonde, slim, and a crooked smile that welcomed in spite of the wreckage surrounding it. But her slight limp seemed missing tonight, too.

"Very nice outfit," I said, nodding to her mother.

A quick look flashed across her mother's face before it settled to 'I'm glad you like it.' I guess I could have phrased that better. Or preambled it better.

I reached to the table at my right side and picked up the box holding Martha's corsage. Someone had told me orchids were what a gentleman bought his dance's corsage, so that's what Martha received.

I took it out and then fussed about where to pin it to her strapless top. Although Mrs. Stuart stood right there while I fussed, she made no move to help me out. Finally I 'boldly' slipped a finger inside, just at the bottom edge of Martha's left breast exposure.

"Sorry," I said.

"No need to be," Martha said. Her voice tone hinted, 'You may do that anytime.'

In a moment I had it where it looked good to me. Of course looking good may have had a lot to do with how good her breast looked behind it. Her beige dress looked like an ice cream cone, with her beautiful flesh being the vanilla ice cream filling its top--and if she bent just right, everything above her dress top might pop up and right out.

I turned away to see if her parents thought I'd committed a faux pax, but got a 'well done' signal.

"Thanks, Jerry," Martha said in a tone that hinted, 'Anytime you wish, my big man.'

I don't know if her parents caught that, but I suppose they did.

Martha and I said our good evenings to her parents, Martha completing hers with, "Have a good time at the casino, Mom--you, too, Daddy." Okay, I supposed they could afford that; my family couldn't, not with four of us kids to help through college. But otherwise, our Stone Family managed quite well enough on our farm.

As we walked to their concrete driveway, I noticed Martha walked with no limp tonight, in spite of her heels.

"You're getting along pretty good on those high heels."

"Been practicing three weeks. The physical therapist helped me a lot. I don't limp on flats anymore, either."

"Congratulations."

"I didn't think I should ask you to take me to a dance, then limp you all over the floor."

"You'll be all right?"

"I'll get tired. Takes lots of concentration to break an old habit. But when I get tired, I'll let you know."

"Well, don't force yourself. No need to be a hero."

For that she squeezed my elbow, so I knew she appreciated that.

***

She survived all but the last half hour of the dance. As I returned her to our table, she dropped into her chair like a stone.

"Tired, huh?" I said.

She nodded.

"We can leave if you want."

"Thanks, Jerry. But just let me rest for a dance or two. I'm sure I'll then be able to dance a couple more."

"You sure?"

She nodded. So I sat, too. When I did, she reached over and took my hand. "You deserve a whole woman, Honey. I promise I will do my best."

I figured she already had. And when we danced past our reflections in the room's exterior windows, I watched how good she looked. Too bad she had such a horrible face. Aside from that, she had the looks and poise of a princess. How the hell had she lost that limp and gained such poise? Her physical therapist? If I ever met him--or her, if that may be the case--I'd congratulate whichever it was.

At Martha's front door, I stopped, ready for a first date goodnight, maybe an awkward single kiss, although I wondered how a kiss would feel, coming from her scared, misshapen lips.

What I got was an invitation to come in for another Coke. Well, why not? And once inside, she sat me down on the sofa and went to the kitchen to get my drink.

Did she have any idea how good she looked walking away? Of course she did, and she looked just as good coming back--if you looked only at her body and kept your eyes off her face.

"Now," she said after we both sat back and I started drinking from my Coke for lack of anything better to cover my awkwardness. "What you want to talk about?"

"I enjoyed the dance, Martha. I hope you did."

"I'm glad you did, Jerry. You deserve it."

What could I say to that? I mean what could I say that didn't have shitty overtones? So I just smiled slightly.

"No, I don't mean it that way," she said, looking into my eyes. "You deserve it because you're a genuine nice guy. I've been watching you for two years, and that's what you are: a nice guy, plain and simple."

Now that was getting pretty close to personal for a shy farm boy like me.

"What you going to study at college?" she said. Now there was an abrupt topic change. "Something technical? Like engineering?"

I nodded.

"Mechanical? Like Daddy?"

"Likely."

"Good. Daddy will like that."

Oh, yes? And where was that going?

"So why don't you come over here and let a mechanical engineer's daughter kiss you? I know I'm not very good looking, but I've been practicing kissing."

Well, if her walking poise improvement and dance poise were any indication, kissing--.

I didn't get far into that thought before she slid over next to me and took up my hand.

"I'm getting a late start on this, so forgive me if I do it wrong at first."

What she did was obviously unpracticed and unsure. But the part that came through the unsure jumble had nothing wrong with it. I did what any red-blooded male would have done. I enjoyed the hell out of it, and then kissed her back, just as firmly.

Our kiss hung there quite a while. I think neither of us knew how to end it. But finally we ran out of breath.

As she pulled back, she whispered, "Just as good as I hoped you would kiss, Honey."

I think I smiled.

"Ready for another?"

Damned right I was

Kissing led to more, and more led to more, until I wondered if what would come next might be more than we should be doing on a first date. She pulled back, then reached forward and kissed me again. I tried to pull back more, but she stopped me.

"Forget my face, Jerry, please?"

How can you forget the face you're kissing?

"Remember that crude, little-boy saying? 'You don't fuck the face?'"

Let me tell you, although I had just turned eighteen, I was still a bit timid and sure wasn't ready for her saying that!

"Please, Jerry? Think about the rest of me? Please? I hope you like the way the rest of me looks?"

I sure as hell did, so I nodded.

"So, what's next?" she said.

I shrugged, because I hadn't a clue. I mean it wasn't like I'd had a lot of dating experience, and certainly none with girls with 'handicapped' faces.

"You ever hear that other crude old saying, 'Between her thighs her beauty lies?'"

I had, so involuntarily I must have nodded.

"Please, let me show you mine?"

What? I'd already seen her face, and beauty it wasn't!

"Please, Jerry. Let me?"

What can you politely say in a situation like this? I suppose I nodded again.

***

When I woke in my bed at home the following morning, I couldn't believe what I had no choice but to believe. Had I really had sex with Martha Stuart? Really? And several times? I must have, because I felt... well, what did I really feel?

What I felt was wondering if any of my male classmates had at some time in their lives felt as good--just plain wonderful--as I felt that morning. Did Marta feel that good as well? I owed her that, didn't I?

Should I call her? Did I dare? What if she didn't? And the other big question: Might her parents have returned from their casino evening and now be there at Martha's bedside giving her hell for what she and I had done? I took the easy way out and did nothing. Yes, what a chicken way to handle it!

When I did call at the end of the following week, her mother answered. The whole conversation went cordially: Martha was not at home, and wouldn't return for several months. She had gone to stay her aunt somewhere in the Mid-West, and planned to be gone for several months. Had I done something Martha couldn't live with and this was her family's way out? Or perhaps it was Martha's way to get away from her situation with me, and her pissed-off parents?

All I could do was go by her mother's apparently cordial greeting, because that's what it was and I had nothing more indicative to go by. I called several times over the next months, and was told each time Martha had yet to return. Well?

About the sixth month, I received a brief letter. Well, any letter from the only girl you'd ever shagged was better than none, even if it's content wasn't what you'd hoped for all that time. This one wasn't what I'd hoped, either, but wasn't all that bad:

Jerry?

I'm sorry to be so long writing. The man a girl loves deserves better, but I didn't want sending you a letter written for me by someone else.

So now. Finally, I've recovered enough I can write, even if very slowly.

I've been here in the burn institute since just the following three days after our big Sadie Hawkins Dance date. Thanks so much for taking me (Both ways!) I don't know if I could have survived all these surgeries here had I not had the pleasure you gave me to fall back upon. I mean it! I'm going to be thanking you for the rest of my life, Jerry, even if I must follow you around like a worshiping puppy, keeping you away from other girls who might wise up and decide you're as good as I know you are.

I suppose by now you are in first quarter at the Junior College, as you planned, and taking the usual 101 classes to get started on your engineering career? I hope so. The next letter I write will be to Daddy--about you. I already told him lots more about you when he and Momma visited me again two weeks ago. He promised he'd make certain you never had a speck of trouble with your pre-engineering classes. So, if you begin to, you just call him up and let him help you.

Meanwhile, I dream of you every night (and most of every day!).

I'll write again as soon as I'm able, My Love. And Honey? Please call me Marti. You've earned that familiarity, many times over.

Martha (Now Marti to you) My Love.

I didn't know what to make of much of that, but it sounded promising. So I immediately wrote her one back. I suppose it was a bit on the sterile side, but when you'd really like to write what your male hormones were feeling toward the female recipient, and someone else might get hold of it and read it (like her parents?), what else could I do?

As she recovered, she wrote more, and so did I. The burn institute turned her loose after just over a year. The letter I got announcing so came just two weeks before our junior college's Sadie Hawkins Dance. (Yes, they had one, too, but it fell much later in the school year than our highschool equivalent.)

It all seemed sort of hush-hush, but Marti returned home with a week to spare. (But neither she nor her parents gave me a hint.)

So, I arrived on their porch to begin our year-after-our-first-date date, with a corsage box in hand. Her parents welcomed me, as they had the year prior, and her father sidetracked me with a glass of Coke like before.

When I turned around from that, there stood the most beautiful, tall, slim blonde woman I'd ever seen. Who was this? Grace Kelly? Elke Sommer? Kim Novak? Or Marti's unknown sister I'd never met nor heard even existed?

"I hope you like me, Jerry," she said softly with a distinct come-hither in her voice and on her face. "This is as good as I'll ever look. Please, take me to the dance? I want to go with you, but not with anyone else."

Let me tell you, I was caught flat-footed. I looked first at her mother, then her father. Both their expressions said: 'Go, you dunce! What are you waiting for? Take her!'

"Come on, Jerry? What are we waiting for?" Marti said, taking a good grip on my elbow and urging me toward the front door.

I complied in spite of my feet refusing to move. She sounded like the old Martha, and most of her looked like the old Martha, but her face, hair, and all the rest--all that beauty threatening to pop out from the top of her dress--certainly didn't look like the old Martha.

"Bye, Mom. Bye Dad. We'll see you in the morning. Have fun at the casino! You gonna go see that California band that's playing?"

Casino? We'll see you? Both of us? In the morning? And have fun? Maybe not at the casino, but it sounded as if they wanted both Marti and me to enjoy ourselves while they frittered away their money at that local gambling palace. Okay? Let's go!

And Jerry, I had to remind myself the whole evening, somehow keep your eyes off her beautiful breasts. Those must be D-cups for sure. Later that night I learned they were Marti's 19^th birthday present from her parents. Facial reconstruction wasn't her burn surgeons' only talent, let me tell you! A face like that? And a body like that! Wow!