GIRL 16 ~ Computer French Girl
I stared at the screen. It was Girl 6, Alayna, but with dark chocolate skin and black wavy hair. She was a degreed computer engineer, a project director running a shop of programmers, coders, at a vast insurance company. Who knows, I thought. At worst, she could be a new client for Girl Zero.
I wrote her and tried to use all my charms. It worked. She asked for my number, and in the cell-hole filled landscape of northern Delaware where my construction project was being erected, it seemed all she got was my voice mail. For a full week, our voice mail systems had a relationship. In my in box was the sweetest French accented female voice. Her name was Aurélie, and the way she said it, it was not only the purest music, but exciting as well. My imagination raced ahead to visions of introducing this exotic, beautiful French girl to my children and my ex.
She walked into the Italian restaurant in Cherry Hill wearing a blue dress, what Girl 6 had called a “shift.” I dropped my jaw.
Aurélie was six feet tall and wore four inch stiletto pumps. She didn’t just look exotic, she was as African as the day is long, with cornrows in her hair going all the way to her waist. Her chest was huge, the biggest breasts I think I’d ever seen.
Stripper tits, I thought. I was no stranger to fake boobs. Girl 6 had introduced me to them. She had complained that her breasts were two raisins on a wall, so she had gone in for the ten thousand dollar breast enhancement surgery just to get a B-cup. The result was the most gorgeous, perfectly shaped, palm-fitting bosoms, each one a mouth-watering sexual experience. They felt better than natural, so firm, so sexual, so athletic. After Girl 6, I honestly thought I’d never again find a pair of breasts I’d like.
But Aurélie’s breasts looked comical.
It was worse. This dress had the square footage of a napkin. It barely reached up to hug those circus tits. Her waist was small, her hips generous, her ass a double cantaloupe set of perfect spheres barely contained in the microminiskirt. But what struck me most were her legs. I’d never seen legs so muscular and toned.
I was a lover of athletic women, and the weight lifting women in the gym made my blood run hot, but Aurélie didn’t look like a woman. She looked like a man in a dress. I stared at her and thought, there has to be a penis under that thong.
We got very drunk that night, but neither one of us touched the other, not even a caress of a shoulder or a brush against the thigh. And by the end of the night, Computer French Girl’s accent had begun to drive me crazy. Even if I had been into her, her accent would have killed it. I looked at her lips, all puckered for a kiss as she sat in the supple leather seat of her shining new Land Rover, her legs a mile long, her impossibly huge breasts thrusting out at me above her taught abdominal muscles.
I shook her hand. She opened her eyes in surprise as I walked to my truck, my eyes averted.
I looked over at the supreme being, who chomped away on my gum as he reclined in the shotgun seat of the SUV. For the dozenth time since Girl Zero, I asked him, “What the hell was that about?” But before he could answer I held up my palm. “Forget it, I don’t want to know.”
It was a long, silent drive home.
I stared at the screen. It was Girl 6, Alayna, but with dark chocolate skin and black wavy hair. She was a degreed computer engineer, a project director running a shop of programmers, coders, at a vast insurance company. Who knows, I thought. At worst, she could be a new client for Girl Zero.
I wrote her and tried to use all my charms. It worked. She asked for my number, and in the cell-hole filled landscape of northern Delaware where my construction project was being erected, it seemed all she got was my voice mail. For a full week, our voice mail systems had a relationship. In my in box was the sweetest French accented female voice. Her name was Aurélie, and the way she said it, it was not only the purest music, but exciting as well. My imagination raced ahead to visions of introducing this exotic, beautiful French girl to my children and my ex.
She walked into the Italian restaurant in Cherry Hill wearing a blue dress, what Girl 6 had called a “shift.” I dropped my jaw.
Aurélie was six feet tall and wore four inch stiletto pumps. She didn’t just look exotic, she was as African as the day is long, with cornrows in her hair going all the way to her waist. Her chest was huge, the biggest breasts I think I’d ever seen.
Stripper tits, I thought. I was no stranger to fake boobs. Girl 6 had introduced me to them. She had complained that her breasts were two raisins on a wall, so she had gone in for the ten thousand dollar breast enhancement surgery just to get a B-cup. The result was the most gorgeous, perfectly shaped, palm-fitting bosoms, each one a mouth-watering sexual experience. They felt better than natural, so firm, so sexual, so athletic. After Girl 6, I honestly thought I’d never again find a pair of breasts I’d like.
But Aurélie’s breasts looked comical.
It was worse. This dress had the square footage of a napkin. It barely reached up to hug those circus tits. Her waist was small, her hips generous, her ass a double cantaloupe set of perfect spheres barely contained in the microminiskirt. But what struck me most were her legs. I’d never seen legs so muscular and toned.
I was a lover of athletic women, and the weight lifting women in the gym made my blood run hot, but Aurélie didn’t look like a woman. She looked like a man in a dress. I stared at her and thought, there has to be a penis under that thong.
We got very drunk that night, but neither one of us touched the other, not even a caress of a shoulder or a brush against the thigh. And by the end of the night, Computer French Girl’s accent had begun to drive me crazy. Even if I had been into her, her accent would have killed it. I looked at her lips, all puckered for a kiss as she sat in the supple leather seat of her shining new Land Rover, her legs a mile long, her impossibly huge breasts thrusting out at me above her taught abdominal muscles.
I shook her hand. She opened her eyes in surprise as I walked to my truck, my eyes averted.
I looked over at the supreme being, who chomped away on my gum as he reclined in the shotgun seat of the SUV. For the dozenth time since Girl Zero, I asked him, “What the hell was that about?” But before he could answer I held up my palm. “Forget it, I don’t want to know.”
It was a long, silent drive home.