I wish I could develop good fantasies. My mind just does not work right to develop them. Mine are often not possible – they often violate the laws of physics (time travel, invisibility, etc.).
And when I do come up with a fantasy that is possible, there is often some other barrier. Like my birthday fantasy, it will not happen for two reasons. First, the lady cannot know about it in advance. Second, there are too many loose ends that will prevent it from happening. But if it ever does happen, it will be phenomenal.
My birthday fantasy involves a birthday – the birthday of the lady. And it is a birthday that ends in a zero. The fantasy happens 2-6 days after her birthday with a zero. She is probably 30 or 40. She is definitely not 20 - that is too young for the fantasy to be valid. She is also probably not 50 or 60 – these tend to be birthdays that affect men more then women. No, these fantasies involve the lady having just turned 30 or 40.
One of the things I adore about women is the total paradox of the fact that they are extremely fragile and delicate yet totally indestructible at the same time. I don’t understand it, and I barely accept it, but I love it. It makes them mysterious, difficult to understand, unpredictable, changing, and therefore interesting, and therefore desirable.
My fantasy involves a lovely lady that I know. She is lovely on the inside and the outside. She is beautiful, successful, confident, great job, great work-life balance. She is organized, and while always being available for others, she always seems to be able to find time for herself. She has great taste in food, clothing, accessories, homes, but she is not materialistic. She is active with a few local charities, and she is truly convinced she is making a difference.
But this birthday, with the new digit on the left side of her age, has hit her hard. She remembers how Jennifer Anniston said she did not want to turn 40. Instead she would change from the age of thirty-nine to the age of thirty-ten. My lady just cannot come to grips with aging. She loses her confidence, and retreats into her shell.
About 4-5 days after her big birthday party, and about 3-4 days after being holed up in her shell, she contacts me (that is the fantasy – she contacts ME), and asks me to come over. I arrive and am greeted by a pitiful site – a beautiful but unconfident woman wearing the most daggy track suit you can imagine. No makeup at all, hair a bit of a mess. She is not crying, but she has been.
I come in, and she offers to make me a cup of tea. She talks about nothing in particular, and I sense that all she wants me to do is listen. I listen. She talks about … everything and nothing. Her eyes are sad and hollow … and scared. Eventually, she stops talking, and just looks at me. She looks spiritually broken.
I stand up and try to get her to talk some more. I ask her about some photographs she has on display. She brightens up and becomes happy, telling me about the story of one photograph. She looked absolutely radiant in that photograph. At the end of the story, her smile left and she sighed heavily. The sad, hollow, broken look returned.
I do not know what to do. The only physical contact I have ever had with her was a handshake. Nothing else. Yet when I look into those broken eyes, I see a beautiful, vulnerable, broken lady. She needs something. I wish I knew what.
“Do you want a hug?”
She does not respond. There is no change in her face, there is no change in her eyes. After what seems an eternity, she slowly nods that she would like a hug. Her eyes change ever so slightly.
I walk up to her, put my hands around her waist and back, and slowly but firmly pull her to me. She puts one arm around my neck, and the other under my arm. She buries her face in the cradle of my shoulder. I expect her to begin to cry – she does not. She just breathes.
I squeeze a little bit tighter, she responds by also squeezing a little bit tighter. I reach up and gently stroke her hair with my fingertips. She squeezes me a little bit tighter.
I relax my hug. She also relaxes her hug and we look at each other. She still looks sad, hollow, and broken, but she is holding me and not letting go. I wait – my arms still wrapped around her waist, but very loosely. She stays in my arms. I hug her firmly again, and she again buries her face in the cradle of my shoulder. Again she does not cry. She just breathes.
I reach up and touch the back of her head, and kiss the hair on top of her hair. I feel her exhale heavily – almost like it was a sense of relief. While stroking her hair, I use my nose to lift her forehead out of the cradle of my shoulder. I kiss her forehead. Her eyes are closed, and her breathing is becoming slightly heavier. I can feel her vulnerability. It is frightening – like holding a Ming vase. I continue to kiss her, gently, kissing her forehead, the side of her eye, her cheek then her neck. She raises her chin for me to kiss, and gently moans. I kiss under her chin, and then kiss the other side of her neck before kissing up her other cheek and eventually reaching her lips. We kiss gently, tentatively, but with a little bit of passion. She pulls away, slightly, and looks at me. Her eyes are still hollow and broken, but she has the tiniest trace of a smile forming in her lips.
I pull her back to me, slowly and gently but purposely. I kiss her, and this time I pour my soul into the kiss – every bit of passion I can find. She responds, and her kiss has an enormous amount of urgency in it. She pulls away – her breathing quicker, a very faint glint in her eye.
Normally I would have no hesitation, but she is so vulnerable and fragile. I don’t know what to do, but I know I must do something. I pull her to me and kiss her earlobe. She responds in kind, breathing very heavily into my ear. She is normally dressed immaculately, but today she is not. The daggy track suit, no makeup, no earrings. No earrings. No earrings … I pull away, and ask her if she would like to put on some earrings for me. The change in her face is ever so slight, but there is a flicker.
She takes my hand and leads me into her bedroom. She opens her jewellery box and asked if there is anything I like. My mind is everywhere – what do I say? The sad, hollow, broken expression has returned. I ask her to select three studs for me to choose from. She turns to her jewellery box, sighs dejectedly, and starts fumbling. She touches every stud pair in her box, selecting nothing. I realize I need to do something different. Remembering how she responded to the photographs, I point to some stud earrings with what appear to be emeralds and ask her to tell me about a special time she wore them.
She perks up, smiles, and tells me the story of buying them. She had a job interview the following day, and was looking for something to make her look a little more corporate. She decided rubies were too red (she called them “romantic red”) and sapphires were too bland (light blue). Green was the colour of the go traffic light, and she wanted to be the “go-to” lady for this job. She told me how one of the interviewers had commented on them. And she told me she thought they helped her get the job – her current job.
And then she sighed heavily, and the spark left her face. The sad, hollow, broken look returned.
I asked her if she could put them on for me. She paused, and then put on the left one, then the right one. She turned to face me, waiting for me to give my opinion. The look on her face expected rejection. Her eyes were sad, hollow and broken, but now also scared. I had to choose my words VERY carefully. I had to say something that was honest but complementary at the same time. And I had to do it now.
“I can see why they hired you. They do make you look like the go-to lady.”
While the hollow, broken look remained in her eyes, the sadness softened, and the fear left completely. There was the slightest flicker of a smile from her lips.
“Can I kiss your earrings?”
This time there was no hesitation – she nodded. But otherwise she did not move, waiting for me statue like to kiss her earrings.
I put my hand on her shoulder and walked behind her, wrapping my arm around her collar bones and pulling her back into my chest. I wrapped my other hand around her stomach, pinning her arm to her side. Using my nose, I gently tilted her head to one side and started kissing hear earlobe. Very very very gently. She sighed heavily, and I FINALLY felt a little bit of tension leave her body.
Keeping my hand on her shoulder, I raise my thumb and touch her cheek while continuing to gently kiss her earlobe. I start to kiss her other cheek, and I can hear her breathe through her mouth. I notice I can see her mouth in the mirror. Not her eyes, just her mouth.
“Did you know your earrings not only look good, but they taste good?”
She smiled. An open mouthed smile – I actually saw a flash of teeth in her smile.
There had never ever been anything more than casual platonic friendship between us. She was so far out of my league that I considered her unobtainable, and was content to be a bit more than an acquaintance to her. I had fantasized about taking her, or her taking me, but this was so different to anything I had previously envisioned.
She was broken. And without actually saying anything, I realised she was asking me to repair her.
And then the enormity of the task sank in. I had no idea how to repair a lady. I had no idea how to repair THIS lady. How big is this job going to be.
I took my hand that was wrapped around her stomach, grabbed her hand, and placed it across her chest. I tucked her hand under my other arm, that was still wrapped around her neck. I then took my free hand and did the same with the other arm. All the while I was kissing her earlobe, her earring, and her neck just below and behind her ear. With her arms crossed in front of her chest, I turned her to face me. I pulled her to me with her arms still crossed in front of her chest, but now pinned to my chest. While kissing her neck and her throat, she tilted her head way back, breathing heavily through her mouth, and occasionally moaning gently. With her hands pinned, I had an opportunity to start to see the size of the job.
Holding her tightly with one hand around her waist, and kissing her, I let my other hand slowly drop down her back and onto her bum. Her bum had always looked magnificent, with just enough perkiness and roundness to make a guy want to … well … to make a guy want to do naughty things to it. And now my hand was on it! Using my fingertips I followed the contours through her track pants, and my worst fears were realized. I could feel through her pants that she was wearing Bridget Jones granny knickers.
Half in shock and half thinking I could not just let my hand stay at the seam of her granny knickers, I squeezed her bum. Hard. She inhaled forcefully, like she was startled, but she quickly resumed kissing me. I moved my hand away, and instead enjoyed the contours of her bum.
“I’m sorry, I forgot to ask. May I touch your bum?”
I had barely finished asking when she replied “Yes.”
My mind was racing. Her arms were pinned between our chests, my hands were all over her lower back and bum, and we kissed. Furiously, intensely, like there was no tomorrow. And my mind was thinking … what am I going to do?
I tried to think about how I understand the mind and psyche of a lady. Quickly. Snippets of Cosmo on the internet. Short bursts of Sex and the City. Things my sister had said to me over the years. Nothing. Then, for some reason, I remembered an episode of Beauty and the Geek. I remember one beauty saying she felt she could not do a task because she did not feel confident.
Confident. Confidence. This lady has no confidence. At all. It’s gone.
And it starts to make sense. The inability to make a decision. The fear. The hollow broken look. The attire.
She has no confidence. WHY? She had heaps of confidence before. And then I remembered … she just had a birthday! And her age ends in a zero!
How can I give her confidence right now? I can complement her, but it has to be realistic and believable. If she does not believe me, I will have more work to do. Even though she is wearing a very daggy track suit that is so unbecoming, she looks incredible in it. Maybe it is just the circumstances, but right now, her vulnerability is making her absolutely gorgeous. It will be very difficult for me to convince her of that, but I must complement her. Now.
I stop kissing her, and pull my head back a little. I keep holding her firmly to me, keeping her arms pinned between our chests. I do not know why, but I feel it is necessary to keep her arms pinned. She looked confused, but still broken and hollow.
“I love the way your lips feel against my lips.” I did – she was a magical kisser. She tilted her head a little, and smiled a little (very little, but a little).
How can I give her confidence? How can I give her confidence in Bridget Jones granny knickers? How can I get her out of her Bridget Jones granny knickers without her knowing I know she is wearing Bridget Jones granny knickers?
She is such a beautiful lady. I imagine she would look absolutely stunning in lingerie. Maybe I can get her into some? Maybe that would help her feel beautiful. But … she is wearing green earrings! What lingerie colour goes with green earrings? Since she seems unable to make a decision, this is going to have to be my choice, and I do not dare get this wrong. Why am I so bad with colour coordination? Where are the Queer Eye for a Straight Guy guys when you need them?
I take her hair and move it behind her ear. Then I move it over her ear. Back and forth. Before her funk, she used to really vary her hair. She wore it up about half the time, so I thought she would be comfortable with me trying different variations.
“I cannot decide which I like better. I like the way your earrings highlight your neck with your hair behind your ear, but I also like the way your hair frames the shape of your face with your hair down over your ear.”
I did not ask which she liked better. I did not expect a reply. She shocked me.
“I always wear my hair down when I wear studs.”
While it is not a complement, it is familiarity. “Down it is then.” Being comfortable should increase confidence. And it is obvious she trusts me fully. I cannot betray that trust.
Back on the Bridget Jones granny knickers. Must buy time to think. I kiss her. I release her arms from between our chests, and turn her head, pressing her ear into my chest instead. She wraps her arms around my chest, under my armpits. I gently kiss her hair. Holding her tightly, for some reason I begin to sway gently and slightly from side to side. And I am slowly turning us gently to the right.
She starts humming. I don’t recognize the tune. She is content for the moment. I realise I have an opportunity to think about the granny knickers.
And then I saw it! A black dressing gown, hanging behind the door. And … it had roses on it, and the roses had leaves.
Green leaves. Green leaves that would match her earrings. This can work.
I stopped. She stopped humming and looked up at me, quizzically.
“Is that your dressing gown?”
“Is it silk?”
I turned to face it. “It’s beautiful.” Inspired with insanity, I took a big leap. “Tell me about the time you felt most beautiful wearing it.”
It worked. Her face lit up, and she told me how it was a gift from her ex for Valentines Day one year. She wore it for him that day (and night). While I did not listen to the details, I was watching her face glow with excitement about the story. She was ecstatic about that day.
She stopped talking. I knew what I had to do. Before the broken hollow look could return, I said “Could you do me a huge favour?”
I intentionally paused, excessively, waiting for her to acknowledge. Finally, she nodded.
I’m thirsty. I’m going to go get us somewater. Now, it’s not Valentine’s Day, but while I am getting us some water, could you put it on for me? Please?”
“The green in the leaves matches the green in your earrings. Could you put it on for me? Pretty please?”
Finally, there was the faintest nod and a very small flicker of a smile. I left her to change – hopefully out of those knickers.
I know how to make a glass of water, but she needs confidence. Confidence comes in many forms, including doing things for the incompetent. I need to be incompetent in making a glass of water. I walk into the kitchen and instantly become incompetent. And I decide to shout, just to be more incompetent.
“Where do you keep the glasses?” Please don’t say you will come show me please don’t say you will come show me please don’t say you will come show me.
“Left of the sink.” Excellent.
“Found them. Do you want ice with yours?”
“No thanks.” I decide I also don’t want ice. I open the refrigerator. There are two types of juice, a half-consumed bottle of white wine, and some sparkling water. “Do you want water or something else? I see you have some juice.”
“Could I have some sparkling water please?” A DECISION! Progress!
“That sounds good. Could I also have a glass of sparkling with you?”
I pour two glasses of sparkling water and return the bottle to the refrigerator. Just a little more time, and then I can ask her to come out. I notice a lime in the fruit bowl.
“Do you have any lime? It would go good with the sparkling water.”
“Yes, there should be a lime in the fruit bowl.”
“Where are the knives?”
“In the top drawer on the right.”
I find a knife for slicing the lime. Then I put the lime at the bottom of the fruit bowl. “Are you sure you have a lime? I don’t see one.”
“Yes, it’s in the fruit bowl on the counter.”
“I don’t see one.”
“I’ll be right there.” It worked. She has to come to me, and she has had time to change. She either did not change at all, or she changed. And if she changed, I do hope she got rid of those granny knickers.
I heard her heels clicking on the hard wood floor. She had put on some shoes! This is major progress. She turned the corner, and she looked amazing. She had added a touch lip gloss, and her lips had a lovely shine to them. She had run a brush through her hair. She was wearing some medium high heels (slip ons). And she was wearing the dressing gown. It was perfect. ¾ length sleeves, not quite to her knees in length, no buttons at all – only a belt tied around her waist. And the belt really highlighted her shapely waist and hips.
She walked into the kitchen with purpose. She walked straight to the fruit bowl, moved two bananas, and help up the lime. “I told you it was in the fruit bowl.”
Who would have thought that a lime would have given her a little bit of attitude. I needed a genuine complement, quickly, to build on the momentum, but something not too over the top.
“You look heaps better in that than the tracky daks.” I then realized what I had said, and I hoped she would take it correctly.
She smiled. “Thanks.” Whew, dodged a bullet there.
I cut the lime and finished preparing our drinks. I washed my hands and asked “Is that real silk?”
I touched her arm with my fingertips, stroking gently, touching the silk at the arm cuff, then touching her skin, up and down her arm, very slowly. “Which to you think feels better, the silk or your skin?”
We talk. We talk about nothing, we talk about everything. As long as the conversation is light, she talks freely. She does not want to talk about herself. I have a long way to go, but she has made some progress. Eventually, I feel I can ask “Tell me another story about that dressing gown.”
She tells me about how he had planned a long weekend away. A plane trip, a spa, a wonderful romantic long weekend. The gown was part of the whole experience. She has a wistful, faraway look in her face when she told the story. When she finished, the broken hollow look returned. Maybe I had not made the progress I had thought I had.
“I was never good at being romantic. I could never get the combination right, and always screwed things up.” I looked at her. “What are some things you consider to be romantic.”
The wistful, faraway look returned. Maybe I had made some progress. She is still broken, but I can see glimpses of her old self. While I half listened to what she was saying, I paid a great deal of attention to her body language. That had improved since I arrived. She talked about how romance always involved gestures and thoughts instead of gifts. She told me the most romantic thing a guy has ever done for her was to take a course in sushi making because he thought she would like fresh sushi. We both laughed.
“Can I ask you a personal question? I cannot help but admire how you look in that dressing gown, and there is no visible panty line. Right now, are you commando?”
I think the visible panty line comment saved me. “Are you checking out my bum?”
“Hello! Your bum is lovely. Always has been lovely. Yes, I was checking out your bum. Can you blame me?”
She smiled a wry smile. “I’m commando.”
“Since you probably are not going outside dressed in your dressing gown, did you go commando for me, or for you?”
She looked at her drink, then gave me a sideways glance. Then she slyly smiled and said “For you.”
Normally I would be high-fiving myself inside my head if I heard that. But I am dealing with a broken lady. I need to do things differently, as I think she is still very fragile.
<and then I snap back to reality, and realise ... HOW DOES SHE SHAVE HER LEGS? She has 3-4 days of growth?>
See ... I cannot develop a fantasy. It is a lost cause.