Woman In The Mirror: Chapters 1 - 4Woman In The Mirror: Chapters 1 - 4
 
This story remains my property, and may not be posted on any other website or 
published without my written consent.  
 
This story is fiction and any resemblance with living persons is completely 
coincidental.
 
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Chapter One: A Strange Meeting
 
To say that I was nervous at that moment would have been an understatement. I 
think every hair on the nap of my neck was standing on end. I was in panic 
seeing her standing there in front of me. I could only stare in astonishment at 
her, unable to speak. I feared she knew everything. I thought she had found me 
out. Knew what I was doing, and why. 
 
I should have been paying more attention to my surroundings, but I hadn’t. I had 
already finished my brunch. I never eat a breakfast or a lunch, just a brunch. 
One cup of coffee when I wake up is all I can take. It takes me a few hours 
before I am able to eat anything.  Dinner is the only meal that I take 
seriously, and I take it very seriously. Always visiting the very best 
restaurants available in the towns and cities that I’m in. My brunch and my 
dinner are all the meals I need nowadays. It’s been that way since she left me 
and I finally stabilized in my new lifestyle. 
 
Having finished my brunch I stayed seated at my table at the open-air café in 
Miami Beach. I was taking pleasure in the cool mid-morning sea breeze flowing 
around my legs and through my hair. I was savoring the last remnants of a 
luscious cup of Cuban coffee. My laptop was open and I was answering emails to 
my stockbrokers, financial advisors and friends. 
 
I had felt safe, secure and anonymous at the café. She was the last person I 
would have expected to see in Miami Beach. She should have been back in Denver, 
far away from me. Yet she was here at my table. 
 
It seemed like everything was moving in slow motion until she repeated her 
request, “Excuse me, I don’t want to disturb you, but all the other tables are 
full, so I was wondering if I could sit at your table.” Holding up shopping bags 
in both hands as a reason, “My feet are killing me.” 
 
Wary and knowing that if she knew what was going on, that an unsightly clash 
could not be avoided, I shutdown and closed my laptop. I then pointed to the 
empty chair saying guardedly, “The Cuban coffee here is excellent.” If I was the 
purpose she was here, it was going to get very ugly, very rapidly. 
 
It was the look of delight, which then became visible on her face, as she sat 
down, that first hinted to me, that she not only didn’t know what my plans were, 
or what I had already done, she did not even know who I was… her ex-husband. 
 
Even though it had been only a little over three years since our divorce, I 
should have realized, that after all the changes I had been through, she never 
could have placed the now me, with the man I had been then. To tell you the 
truth, I seriously doubt that my own mother would have recognized me.
 
It was during our conversation that I began to recall so much of how she really 
was, before she did to me, what she did. 
 
It was she, or better said, what she had done, that led me to my new lifestyle, 
and to the settling of scores I was planning… my final step in freeing myself 
from the anguish and distress she and others had heaped upon me. 
 
It was during that first conversation at that Cuban Coffee shop that I altered 
my plans. My new plan, what I was going to do, would insure a far more lasting 
pain, almost equal to that, what I had suffered at her hands. She would not only 
feel the pain of betrayal by someone she loved, she would feel as much of a loss 
of self-esteem, as I had felt.  
 
Before I go on with on with this story though, I’m going to have to retrace and 
explain why I am who I am, and how it all came to be. 
 
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Chapter Two: A Little Boy Not Wanted
 
How can one fully describe the life of a child growing up neglected and abused 
to someone who has never endured such a life? I don’t think it can be done. 
Every time I have tried to explain the whys and wherefores, there are always the 
little pieces missing. The little pieces that made such a big difference.
 
People always seemed to think of abuse and neglect in terms of the scars left 
behind, the brutal actions taken, but it’s not so. It’s the everyday supple and 
constant hammering on the psyche of a child, which pushes them down so far into 
denial, that they see their abusers as their protectors, and their protectors as 
their abusers. 
 
It took me years to finally accept the facts as they really are, to acknowledge 
that I had been abused and neglected, and to see their justifications… as 
nothing more than justifications.
 
I began psychiatric counseling shortly after my divorce, and will remain in 
counseling for many more years. I recognize that there will always be 
imperceptible scars and festering wounds deep in my psyche. The very fact of 
“who and what I am” today, physically and mentally, is a stark reminder of this.
 
My only sibling, Tom (4 years older than me) took after our father. My father 
Jack is of Austrian/ Italian decent and at 6’2” and 215 lbs (mainly muscle). He 
had a volume that could not be overlooked. His Italian heritage gave him that 
hairy, always with a 5 o’clock shadow look. His personality was imposing, 
aggressive and overbearing. He loved his beer, he loved his women, and he loved 
his football… and all of them too much. 
 
My mother Annette I took after in ways. She is of Norwegian and German decent of 
families that had immigrated to the homesteads of Oklahoma. Her and the women of 
her family are petite, slender and small breasted, some times to an extreme. She 
is somewhat middle-of- the-road amongst her kinfolk, weighing only 110 lbs at a 
height of 5’2”. Her skin was what one would call alabaster. Even though she had 
raven black hair she could never tan, but only burn when in the sun. In her 
youth, her skin had been without blemish or freckles. She had been very 
beautiful and graceful. 
 
Her major problem, and the major reason for the abuse and neglect that I 
suffered, was that she was a hypochondriac, and because of that a drug addict. 
 
Her personality was what one would call weak and labile or unstable. She could 
seem loving and caring one moment and bitter, angry and brutal the next. You 
never knew in advance. 
 
During her lifetime, even in her teens, she had been in and out of trouble with 
the police for drug usage, more times than anyone can remember. 
 
So between, my mother being in jail or in a “mental ward” drying out, and my 
father (and brother) being in jail for drunkenness and fighting, you could say 
that my family was dysfunctional. 
 
I never had to live as “a ward of the state”, but there were many times that 
that option had been considered by the authorities. 
 
The first justification to my being abused and neglected was that I was not a 
wanted member of the family. My brother was “the son”, the strong manly son that 
they had always wanted. I was the other son, the son who had taken the place of 
the daughter that they should have had.  
 
 Oh, I knew that part well! I had it hammered into me so often, far too often, 
so that even I accepted their form of reasoning as being the truth. It was told 
to me in so many words and shown in so many ways. 
 
Words spoken were sometimes very direct, “You may be a part of this family, but 
that doesn’t mean we have to love or accept you”, to having my mother point out 
some woman or girl and say, “She’s just exactly like the daughter I should have 
had instead of you.”
 
Somehow in my mother’s hypochondriac and drug-demented mind, she took this 
“fault of mine”, to an extreme. In her fantasy world, her daughter would have 
always been there to take care of her. All the problems caused by being caught 
“doctors shopping”, driving under the influence, all the pain that she suffered, 
and all the time in jail or in mental wards would never have happened. I was at 
fault for that and I needed to be punished. 
 
So punished I was... 
 
Some times I was beaten. Never was I viciously beaten, but nonetheless, many 
time I had black and blue marks all over my body
 
Most frequently, punishment was enforced by other means. 
 
As a small child I spent many nights and days locked in closets, or slept nights 
in the cold basement. 
 
My bedroom consisted of the old and cast off mismatched furniture of others. 
 
My clothing was always hand-me-downs, or bought at the Salvation Army store. 
 
The first birthday party I ever had was during the first year of marriage to my 
wife. 
 
The only time I ever saw the insides of a doctor’s office, was when I had an 
uncontrollable asthma attack. I never saw a dentist. 
 
I was not allowed a social life either in grade school, junior high or in 
highschool. Those few friends that I did have were those asocial geeks and nerds 
that no one else wanted to be friendly with. After school I was always required 
to come home directly and do the housework, cleaning, cooking and washing 
clothes. So even they had little to do with me, but only at school. My family 
purposely pushed me into the position of socially being the nerdiest of nerds, 
unwanted and undesired.
 
Yet at the same time my brother always had the best that they could buy. When he 
was old enough he was given a car. His teen parties were wild bashes. Our 
parents always looked the other way when booze and sex with wild girls were 
brought into his parties. “That’s how a real man should act.”
 
My first sexually related encounter was during one of these parties. Friends of 
his decided to use my bedroom, and the bed I was sleeping in (at that time), to 
fuck their latest slut. It was a three-way, and they didn’t even stop long 
enough to kick me out of my bed. I lay there flabbergasted, watching it the 
whole time. When it was over the girl left last, giving me a slobbery wet & 
salty cum tasting kiss. I was 11 when that happened. It wasn’t the only or last 
time, such happened to me. My bed was used habitually for such escapades, and 
seldom did it matter if I was in the bed, or not. 
 
The other pretext (and perhaps the most significant) was how I looked. 
 
All through grade school and junior high I was the smallest in my class. Even 
the most petite girl was at least an inch or two taller than I was. 
 
As said, I took after my mother. I had her fine raven black hair, her alabaster 
skin, and her fine and feminine facial features. 
 
To make matters worse, my torso was short and my legs were long. I had wide hips 
and a bubble butt, a small waist and thin shoulders. All the hand-me-down jeans 
of my brother were always too short in the legs, tight at the hips, and the belt 
needed to hold them up, bunched them at the waist. 
 
I was very asthmatic, and never could excel at any sports. In fact, most sports 
I was not allowed to participate in. The only physical exercise that I did was 
the 2-mile walks to and from grade school/ junior high, and later the 3-mile 
walks to and from highschool. All this seemed to do was emphasize my long 
slender legs and my bubble butt. 
 
My voice? When I squealed people plugged their ears. Even in highschool I had a 
high tenor voice. Singing and music were my only non-academics back then. One of 
my much-loved pastimes was to sing along with, and imitate, the female singers 
on the radio. 
 
Since getting my hair cut was an expenditure that didn’t need to be done, most 
often my hair was of such a length, that many times I was addressed as “Miss”… 
as if I were a girl. (My mother in hearing this, took malicious pleasure, 
“rubbing my nose into” what had happened, or been said.)  
 
So in school I was the sissy that almost everyone picked on. At home I was the 
boy that should have been a girl.
 
There were three shining lights in my childhood. The illuminations that kept me 
from wholly giving up, and mentally dying, were my great aunt Madge, reading, 
and a neighbor lady named Janice. 
 
My great aunt Madge was a spinster lady, who during the summer months, I was 
sometimes allowed to visit. Those weeks and months living at her old farmhouse 
were the very first visions of a sane and peaceful world that I had ever had. 
She was the one and only person that I truly felt gave me unquestioning love. 
 
She was a kind and gentle soul, who never spoke an angry word, or laid a hand on 
anyone, in her whole life. Until the day she died, and even after that, she 
always gave more to others, than she received. 
 
Once I learned how to read, reading opened up worlds & knowledge, I never could 
have dreamed existed. During the deepest darkest times, when I had lost all 
other hope, the visions created by these books kept me going. I became fanatical 
at reading any and every thing I could get my hands on. Knowledge was, and later 
became even more so, my sword and defense. 
 
Even though Aunt Madge and books changed my life unquestionably, Janice was the 
one influence to my life that created the inertial driving force that made me 
what I am today. Without her, there would be no me.
 
As with so many things, it started out very simply, very innocently. My mother 
(when she wasn’t bombed out of her mind) always took me with her to the 
neighborhood women’s coffee klatches. She did this because many of the women 
were younger mothers with little babies or children. Since these babies and 
children were always a bother, I babysat for them during this time. 
 
I actually enjoyed these coffee klatches. I liked tending babies, and the 
conversations were always interesting. Not the least, I always did get my fill 
of cookies, cake and soda pop. Some times a few of the mothers even gave me a 
few dollars for my efforts. 
 
At one such coffee klatch, Janice misinformedly asked my mother, “Do you think 
your daughter would be able to babysitting for us on Saturday?” The laughter at 
my mistaken gender sent me red-faced scurrying away to tend the babies. 
 
That evening my mother informed me that I had a job that Saturday night, a job 
that would actually earn me some money. 
 
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Chapter Three: A Troubled Time of Change
 
Part of the motivation, why my mother allowed that I take the babysitting job, 
was that Janice was one of those women (having a resemblance to the women in our 
family) that my mother had picked out. To show me how I should have looked and 
been. Had I been the daughter, I should have been. 
 
Janice was in fact, that very woman that my mother most often used, as an 
example, to prove my failings. Janice was good. I was bad. In my mother’s mind, 
my being more around Janice, being in her house and seeing her life, would only 
rub in deeper the salt into my wounds.
 
What happened, my mother could never have foreseen. My mother’s sole intentions 
were to punish me. She was not in the slightest bit interested, in changing me 
into the fantasy daughter, she had never had. I doubt, even today, that if she 
had had that daughter, that she would have been pleased. Reality can never be, 
as good as fantasy. Yet, no other person changed, or formed, me more than did 
Janice.
 
Janice’s home, her husband, her family and her life were everything my 
dysfunctional life and family were not. They were a kind, caring, loving young 
family, and Janice was an extremely intelligent, and beautiful woman. Her 
husband a caring husband, without the machoisms of my father, and brother. He 
was a man who took pride, and joy, in his family, and in his work.      
 
My first babysitting job went off without a hitch. My next babysitting job was 
already booked, before I left their house that night. As weeks, months, and then 
years went by, I became an increasingly constant figure at their house. I also 
became less and less, a figure at my own home. I was spending afternoons after 
school, and many weekends, helping Janice at their home, with her housework. I 
tended the babies, so that she could go out shopping alone, to have some free 
time, for herself. 
 
What was important for my development at that time was my infatuation for them, 
as a family. Janice became my role model. 
 
With them in my life, I finally saw the light shining at the end of the tunnel, 
and my mother could do nothing about it. Janice (her fantasy daughter) was my 
protector. Janice could do no wrong, and if Janice wanted me there, I had to be 
there. Their house became my haven against the cruelties of my family, and the 
outside world.
 
Ted became my image of what a real man should be like. I revolted slowly and 
totally against the image my father and brother presented. The mental image I 
have even today of a father… my father, is the image of Ted. I haven’t seen him 
now in years, but many times during these last years, especially these last two, 
I wished I had had his strong caring shoulders to cry on. 
 
What changed my life forever was Janice. In the beginning of our relationship, 
Janice represented to me the image of what a mother and a wife should be, but 
she was also my image, my role model, of what a person, and a feminine woman, 
should be. 
 
I would like to say that she took over (in my mind) the image of my mother, just 
as Ted became my father figure, but events happened that kept me from seeing her 
as such then, and only now, am I slowly understanding my thoughts concerning 
her, and how she was essential in forming me, and who I am today. 
 
Puberty never hit me strongly. What I first noticed was of course getting horny 
and having hardons all the time. It didn’t take me long to figure out how to 
masturbate, and it became (after reading) my favorite past time. 
 
Janice had always fascinated me, but now she became even more for me. Where I 
idolized her before for her personality, I now idolized her as a sexual, sensual 
woman. I was seriously infatuated with her. I had loved her before as a close 
friend, but now I was “in love” with her. 
 
Yet as a teenager I had also put her on a pedestal high above me, only 
attainable in my deepest darkest fantasies. As a physical woman, she became 
untouchable for me.
 
Still, within me was such an overpowering desire to somehow unite, to bind 
myself, with her, my idol, my best friend, my role model, and heroine. My desire 
was sexual in nature, but more than just sexual. My desire was born of love, but 
more than love. My desire was born of adoration, but it was more than adoration.
 
What happened, and brought about for me this unity, began with an act not 
uncommon to happen amongst teenage boys. 
 
Janice had a woman’s feminine fetish for lingerie and clothing. This fetish went 
beyond the natural love women have for clothing. For Janice clothing was the 
essence of feminine sensuality and was an essential part of her sexuality. I 
have never since seen any woman, with so much and so many different kinds of 
feminine lingerie, as Janice had. 
 
It was not unusual for me, at times to see some of Janice’s feminine underwear. 
At home, I had for years been doing everyone’s laundry. I thought nothing of 
helping Janice do their laundry. 
 
But with puberty raging in my loins, it didn’t take long, for me, to bring her 
lingerie, into association, with contact to her, and with women in general. 
 
After that it was only a step-by-step evolution from caressing her lingerie and 
masturbating, to wearing her lingerie and masturbating for the simple reason of 
it being women’s lingerie. 
 
It also didn’t take me long to figure out, that Janice and I were more or less 
the same sizes. I was in most things still smaller than her, but most of her 
clothes fit. With that knowledge, each and every babysitting night alone at 
their house, became a sexual adventure, into the pleasures of feminine lingerie. 

 
It had to come then as it did, a date with fate so powerful that it almost 
destroyed me. 
 
For some time I was no longer satisfied with only wearing a panty, a bra, a 
girdle, a slip or a nightgown and jerking off. I wanted to go all the way. I 
wanted to fully dress as a woman.
 
Once born, this idea transcended desire and lust. This idea would not leave me, 
or let me forget, not in my waking moments, not in my dreams. It governed my 
thoughts, and even in part, my actions day and night. 
 
After they left that evening, and I had the babies soundly asleep in their 
cribs, I went into their bedroom. My whole body was shaking with excitement. I 
was aroused as I had never been before in my whole life. The thought of dressing 
fully, not only just in lingerie, but also in a dress, in shoes, everything that 
a woman would wear on a night out, had me in an uncontrollable fever of 
anticipation. 
 
Savoring every moment, I choose carefully, each and every piece of clothing, 
that I was to wear. I picked a black lace bikini panty and pushup bra set, a 
black waist-controlling girdle/garter belt, to hold up my black silk stockings, 
a full length black slip with lace around the bottom, top, and wide lace straps, 
a black satin evening dress, and a set of 2” open toe black leather heels, to 
finish it off.
 
Shaking as bad as I was it took me longer than ever to dress. Even to the stage 
of wearing only the lingerie. Each and every piece of clothing had to be slipped 
on, and then in the full-length closet mirror, admired, and modeled. I was in a 
fit of ever-increasing sexual anticipation, beyond knowing, or caring, that 
there was a world outside of that bedroom.
 
Sliding the zipper up the back of the dress, with my shaking hands, became an 
almost impossible task, for me. After multiple attempts, I finally accomplished 
it and slipped on the 2” black leather heels. I stepped then in front of the 
mirror, with an anticipation of having a slow and sensual masturbation session. 
 
It was that young woman staring back at me, who changed my life forever. 
 
Staring back at me was the young woman, I should have been… wasn’t… and never 
could be. 
 
It was almost a younger image of my mother, an image of her, before drugs had 
taken their toll.  
 
Something in me snapped. I couldn’t stand on my legs any more. They refused to 
hold me. The room was spinning. 
 
I don’t know how long I lay there on the floor, in front of the mirror. Was it 
minutes? Was it an hour, or more? 
 
What I do remember is crying, crying tears that would not stop. I was, I had let 
myself go into a complete fit of hysteria, and had no way, no knowledge, of when 
or how it would, or could, stop. 
 
Every thing since I could remember, that had been laid so brutally upon me, 
raised its evil head now against me. Guilt and condemnation were evil demons 
screaming at me. 
 
I was bad. I was wrong. I was at fault. 
 
It was the young woman staring at me out of the mirror that was the truth. She 
was what should have been. 
 
I was a lie, a parse, a cruel joke played out by the hands of fate. 
 
I lay there sobbing, tears flooding down my cheeks, but she only stood there 
silently, showing me no mercy, no sympathy, only mocking me. 
 
After what seemed like hours, I ever so slowly gained control of myself, and 
rose to begin taking off the dress and lingerie. 
 
Fearfully, I refused to look again at that haunting image, of the young woman in 
the mirror. I knew I could not take it. 
 
After they returned, I somehow left their house, and returned to my own bedroom, 
and my bed. I have no remembrance of waiting for them, but only of them 
returning. I have no remembrance of my walk home. 
 
My dreams that night were hateful, haunting, mocking dreams, leaving me 
restless, and weary the next morning. 
 
The next few days and nights were the same. For once in a long time I did not 
stop off at their house before going home. I could not bring myself to return to 
their house, knowing that she, that young woman in the mirror, was waiting for 
me. 
 
Even my mother, my father and brother seemed to have noticed that something was 
wrong, and shied away from me. At school, no one teased or tormented me. I was 
living almost alone in my own world. Only my personal demons were there to 
torment me. 
 
Only time seemed to heal the wounds that had been inflicted. With time, what 
happened and my reaction, seemed to me, to have been taken out of proportion. I 
had over reacted.
 
So when Janice called to ask why I had not been showing up, and then said that 
they needed me to babysit for them, I returned. 
 
And so began my first bout with insanity. 
 
Now, I was addicted to Janice’s clothing, and that young woman staring at me 
from the mirror. Alone, the sensual pleasure of possessing and wearing those 
feminine items of lingerie wasn’t near enough. Each time, I rushed into dressing 
completely enfemme, giving myself over increasingly into the fine details of 
doing so, into the intricacies of dressing, walking, and sitting…being… 
thinking. 
 
At times, that image of the young woman in the mirror, silently mocked me, and I 
cried hysterically for hours. 
 
Other times, I masturbated to her in a frenzy of hate, and lust. 
 
Then there were times; we shared our moments of common existence, lovingly 
together and at peace. 
 
Still, no matter how the time was spent, those hours became my life, my 
existence. Every other moment of my life, every breath I took, every thing I 
did, was only there to sustain those few hours each week. Be those few short 
hours heaven or hell, nothing else mattered.
 
Yet, after months of existing so, I could not take it any more. Every encounter 
with that young woman in the mirror, taxed me too much. My life, outside of 
those moments, was falling apart. 
 
I told Janice that I could no longer babysit for them. They would have to find 
someone else. 
 
I put that time behind me as if it had never existed. No matter how hard it was 
for me to do, no matter how much it hurt, that young woman in the mirror… was no 
more.
 
In retrospect, I now see that Janice knew some of what was going on, what I was 
going through, how I was inclined, and just let thing come as they came. Maybe, 
she should have stepped in, and talked to me about it. Maybe, things would have 
changed for the better. Maybe, they would have changed for the worse. I’ll never 
know. 
 
In retrospect, I now understand that a major part of my first attraction to 
Janice’s clothing was that she had, and I did not have. My clothing was always 
old, drab, mismatched, and used. Her clothing was always new, exciting and 
pretty. Her clothing was also the personification of her and of womanhood. 
 
In retrospect, I also understand that my mother, had only used, and magnified, 
my personality, and my physical features, against me. She abused and magnified 
only that, what was already present. If I had been anyone else, had looked any 
differently, she never would have, or could have wanted to, ridicule, and abuse 
me, as she did. 
 
Two years later, I graduated from highschool, and Aunt Madge came to my rescue 
and helped pay for my way through college. Between her help and some college 
loans, I was able to move completely away from home, and have to this day, never 
gone back. The last time I saw my parents, was two weeks before my freshman year 
of college began. Holidays and summer vacations I spent visiting Aunt Madge. 
 
Finally free from my parents, I begin to develop myself to my own advantage. I 
remained a small slight man with most women still inches taller than me. But, my 
years of experiencing the hurt that people can inflict on one, left me very 
sensitive and understanding to the emotions of others. 
 
I still had very few male friends, but women seemed to be drawn to me. Not in a 
sexual tense, but I did have more women “good friends” than any other man on 
campus. That too brought those men friends to me that I did have. I always had 
good advice for both sexes, when they had problems with their boy or 
girlfriends. I excelled in my classes and was able to help many who were lagging 
behind. I was liked by many and always invited to parties when my friends had 
them. I remember my college time, as one of the best times in my life.
 
**********************************************
 
Chapter Four: Love, Romance and Marriage
 
 My relationship to Andrea never would have developed as it did, if it were not 
for her ex-boyfriends. For the most part, they had been “grade A”, “number one” 
assholes. I was just what she at that time in her life was looking for. 
 
Around campus, she wasn’t known as a slut but she wasn’t exactly virginal 
either. Her being a friend of one of my “good friends” and having had a few 
longer counseling sessions before with me about her boyfriend problems, I knew 
that she wasn’t exactly the type that I would be hitting on.  
 
Not that I actually had a type that I would be hitting on. It’s not as if I had 
much choice in the matter. What is a 5’3”, 110 lbs (soaking wet) wispy wippy guy 
going to have as a type? He’ll be lucky at getting any. Not that I had ever 
gotten any. I was a 21year old virgin who had yet to even get a handjob out of a 
date.
 
Andrea wasn’t a sex bomb, but she definitely wasn’t a gray mouse either. She had 
a pretty face, brownish blonde hair. She stood about an inch taller than me. 
Carried about a B or C cup, and had pretty much of an hourglass figure on her. 
Her hips were fairly wide and her waist was very small. She didn’t belong to the 
popular campus crowd, but she wasn’t completely unknown by them either. 
 
What held me back from flirting with her, when she started hitting on me, was 
that I knew more about her sex life, than any of the other men around campus, 
and more than what she thought I knew. 
 
Andrea, I knew, had a fairly high libido. She liked sex a lot. She was also 
fairly impulsive sexually, and had been involved in a couple of three-ways at a 
couple of parties, and also in a couple of zippless fucks. Not a real slut, but 
definitely not a virgin.
 
Also the main reason I was skeptical about having anything to do with her was 
that she had a strong emotional dependency and attraction to alpha-male types. 
She had twice that I knew of, dumped steady boyfriends for other men that were 
stronger, more powerful and assertive types. 
 
For me, sex had always been an expression of emotion with and towards another 
person. Sex and relationships were not to be taken lightly.
 
I did worry about Andrea’s higher libido. For me, even though DIY handjobs were 
still a part of my sex life, I didn’t know if I was capable of keeping up with 
her.
 
It just was that a relationship with her, for a guy like me, was just “a kick in 
the balls, waiting to happen”. I wasn’t going to go there. Been there, done 
that, and the t-shirt didn’t fit. 
 
So for the next few weeks we played cat and mouse. She was always seeking me 
out, trying to flirt with me and I was always avoiding her, but remaining 
friendly and cordial to her when we did meet. 
 
Then one day after our last class, she cornered me, “Why are you avoiding me? Do 
I have BO or something?”
 
So being brutally honest I told her, “Listen, I know you’re trying to start 
something up with me. But I don’t know where you want this to go. And I don’t 
know if I want to go there.” She was taken back, but I continued on, “You’re a 
very beautiful hot chick, and I am extremely attracted to you. I think you’re 
sexy as hell. But I’m me, and I know my value. So let’s just let it be… and stay 
friends.”  With that I just turned, and walked away from her. 
 
That should have been enough, but it wasn’t. Before I knew it, she was walking 
beside me, “You know you’ve disappointed me. I expected more from you. You’re 
just like them. I seriously thought, at least you, would be different and 
understand me.” 
 
I had to stop at that and stare at her, “Who are them, and how I am just like 
they?”
 
Her eyes rolled for a moment into the back of her head as she let out a long 
sigh, “You, them, men, your all the same. I really, really seriously thought, 
you were different. You all look at us, and see just tits and asses.” 
 
Now she was getting to me, “Oh, so now I’m one of your cavemen? Well, gee thanks 
for the compliment. Maybe I should get a sign made up to wear around my neck, 
that says that? How about a t-shirt with giant letters across the front… 
Caveman? Don’t think anyone would believe it, but we could try. Maybe it’s you 
that doesn’t get it…” 
 
 I tried. I seriously tried to avoid any deepening of our friendship, towards a 
relationship. But, our conversation went on and on. We talked. We debated. We 
argued. It went on while we were walking through campus. It went on at the 
coffee shop on the way back to our dorms. It went on that evening when we went 
out together for a pizza. It continued on that whole weekend, until late Sunday 
night, when she kissed me goodnight, at the door to my dorm. 
 
By that time, I sure did feel like I was loosing ground. Every argument that I 
thought why the two of us didn’t fit together, she thought was an argument why 
we did fit together. 
 
But, that’s how she always was, and a part of why I learned to love her. 
 
I guess what finally caused me to give in, was my thoughts that if “it” did 
happen; it wasn’t going to be as if I wouldn’t notice that it was coming. I do 
have a very strong intuitive talent at reading people’s emotions. So, if she 
started to emotionally move away from me, became unhappy with me, I would notice 
it, even before she herself did. 
 
The other thing was, I had a lot of “good friends”. Friends that knew everything 
that went on around campus. So, I had more than sufficient direct links, into 
the campus grapevine. Not much happened, to anyone on campus, without me hearing 
about it.  
 
In the end, I just decided that our relationship was going to be an adventure, 
that was just going to happen, and I might as well enjoy the ride, for as long 
as it was lasted. 
 
I gave us three months; I figured that would be the longest our relationship 
could last. 
 
Strangely, I was proven wrong. It was that first conversation that set off the 
ground rules, for our behavior towards each other. No matter what the issue was, 
we talked, and talked some more. Nothing seemed to be off limits in our talks. 
Nothing was too trivial, or too secret. Our talks pushed us deeper, and deeper 
into intimacy, and dependency towards each other. 
 
When my three-month deadline finally hit, we were at a point, where we needed to 
see each other daily, sometimes even hourly. Mornings I would either wake up to 
my telephone ringing in my ear, or it was the first thing I reached for after 
getting up. At noon, in the cafeteria, we unconsciously gravitated to sitting 
together. Evenings and weekends found us again, no matter what we had to do, 
doing it as a couple. 
 
My three-month deadline found us also as a known couple on campus. People spoke 
of us as Andrea’s boyfriend, or as Conner’s girlfriend and it was known by all 
that our relationship wasn’t just one of those relationships. It was something 
very serious. People spoke about us always in the plural tense. Friends started 
up conversations with me, exactly where they had left them off, when talking to 
Andrea. It was obvious that even after such a short time, our friends could no 
longer see us as separate entities. 
 
The depth of Andrea and my conversations also set the field for us when we went 
sexual. Even from the beginning there was no hesitation. As divers as we were 
with our talks, so divers were we in bed. Our intimacy was, just as in our 
conversations, completely open, and naturally, secrets had no place. 
 
My fears that I would be insufficient proved to be absolutely wrong. Though size 
can make a difference, I found that I was in that aspect right in the middle. 
But as they say, “Size doesn’t matter, it’s the motion of the ocean that 
counts.” “It’s the journey not the destination that matters”, and our journeys 
were sensuous, amorous, and very satisfying for both of us; it didn’t matter if 
it was slow sensuous lovemaking, or hot monkey sex. 
 
What finally broke down my last barrier of doubt, happened one Saturday evening, 
after about six months into our relationship. 
 
We were at one of those parties. Not one of those parties we had with friends, 
but a larger social party, that type of a party. It was hosted at a house of one 
of the women’s sororities and had a room for the smorgasbord with various small 
foods, wines and other drinks, a large room for dancing, and smaller rooms for 
just standing around and talking. It was an invitation only party. Dress was not 
formal, but it also was not casual. Invited were mainly students in their junior 
and senior years, but also professors, teachers and even a few non-academia from 
the town proper. 
 
Many couples, even married couples, had been invited, but the rule of behavior 
was “mingle”. So mingle we did, sometimes together, sometimes individually. We 
chatted in various groups. We danced together, but I also danced with others, 
and so did Andrea. Nothing special, we were just mingling. 
 
The first that I noticed that something was wrong was the somewhat unusual 
attention that I was getting from one of the jocks from our football team. I 
knew about him. He wasn’t anything big on the team. But he was a jock. He was an 
alpha-male type guy. 
 
The attention wasn’t that he was following me around, or trying to get into 
conversations with me, it was more as if when he saw me, he was sizing me up. 
His whole behavior towards me was a bit standoffish, and snobbish. It was 
irritating me. I did know how to place it, but why here and why now?
 
So now that he had brought himself to my attention, I was curious. I started to 
observe his behavior with others. 
 
It didn’t take me long to see that his mingling always brought him around to 
Andrea. He was also dancing with her, more than with anyone else. He would leave 
her for shorter times, only to return. 
 
At first glance, Andrea didn’t seem to be paying him any overtly great 
consideration. She seemed though friendly towards him, as if she were enjoying 
his company, and attention. 
 
It was in closer observation of their body language towards each other that I 
began to worry. They were showing attentiveness, and a form of being connected… 
a couple’s thing. 
 
Was this “it”? Was this now that what I had foreseen and tried to avoid, in 
avoiding Andrea at the start of our relationship? 
 
Though it hurt like hell, and my stomach was cramping into a knot, feeling like 
it had been punctured by hundreds of knives and daggers, I had to know. I had to 
know now, before I went any deeper into this relationship. Better to die the one 
death quickly, than the thousands of small slow deaths later. I decided to stay 
back, and see where this was going. If Andrea was going to do “it”, it might as 
well be now. I’d give her as much room as possible, to make her own choice. I 
would only know, and act accordingly.
 
That evening was the first time in my life that I wished I was even smaller than 
I was. I wished I were so small that I could hide in Andrea’s purse, and hear 
every word of their conversation. I was seemingly stuck, always trying to 
maintain them in sight, but hidden from them, therefore always out of hearing 
distance. 
 
What I did see, did not look so good, but it could have a completely different 
meaning. Their close contact during dancing, and the whispers between them, 
could be innocent… or not. 
 
There was nothing overtly sexual in the contact between them, or their 
mannerisms towards each other, so he could have easily been a close friend of 
hers, or even her brother, for that matter. But their mannerisms could also be 
of a more getting to know each other, romantic sexual nature. 
 
Without knowing what they were saying to each other, it was impossible to read 
out of their behavior, without first reading into their behavior. 
 
Then I lost them out of my sight, and after about 10 minutes of wandering from 
room to room, and not finding them, I was getting frantic. 
 
Just before I turned the corner, in an almost empty hallway, leading to the 
bathrooms, I heard Andrea’s voice speaking to someone. 
 
I couldn’t hear every word of what was being said, but the content was obvious. 
He was on the make, trying to get Andrea’s phone number, and a promise for a 
date. Andrea wasn’t conceding into doing so, but there was some slight 
hesitation in her words. She stated her relationship to me, as a reason. That 
she was in a serious relationship, with me. 
 
It wasn’t that she was saying “maybe”, it was only her choice of words that gave 
the nuance of a hesitation, of a maybe. 
 
Picking up on Andrea’s mentioning of me, he saw his opportunity and pressed on. 
He questioned her about what she saw in me. How a person like me, could be of 
interest to her. The word “wimp” was used, and the words “real man” were used. 
 
Their tête-à-tête was going just as I feared. 
 
With that though, Andrea’s words became louder, and there was anger in her 
voice, “Wimp? Real man? Do you even know what you are talking about? Do you even 
have any idea what a real man is?”
 
 With a stop for a deep breath, she continued, “Do you even know that he is 
better in bed, pleases me more, than any lover I’ve ever had before? Do you even 
think that maybe he could be ten times better in bed than you could ever hope to 
be? No you don’t, and that’s why I’ve now had enough of this! Now leave me 
alone, and let me go to the bathroom.”    
 
In that moment, I could have shaken the hand of every one of her asshole 
ex-boyfriends, in gratitude. Thanks to them, Andrea had had it with their kind. 
No matter how dashing, clever and verbose he could be, Andrea wasn’t going to 
fall for him. Yes, she had had her moment of weakness. He had been exactly her 
type. But, she had stood the trial all alone, and on her own, she had come out 
with flying colors… my colors. 
 
She never told me about that part of the evening, but I guess she didn’t have 
to. I’m sure he wasn’t the first such episode, or the last. It was only that 
episode that I saw, and understood through seeing it, Andrea’s love for me, and 
desire to be mine, and that she seriously preferred me, over others. 
 
If, she would have told me about it, she could not have explained it, to the 
extent needed, and that would have only created, an undercurrent of insecurity, 
within me, towards her, and our relationship. 
 
With that, fell the last bastion of my uncertainties, towards our relationship. 
From that moment on, I fell completely, totally and without reservation, in love 
with her. In my mind, our relationship, which had existed only on a day-to-day 
basis, now had reason never to cease. 
 
All through my life, with the exceptions of Aunt Madge and Janice, I had always 
held in reserve, a certain depth of my emotional involvement, a protection 
against the pain and ridicule, I expected from others. Only those two, I allowed 
to emotionally enter into that inner most unprotected sanctum, of my being. 
Andrea became the third.              
 
Our last college summer, we spent traveling between her parents in Denver, and 
Aunt Madge in Oklahoma. Andrea took to Aunt Madge, like a duck to water; it was 
like a meeting of long-lost relatives. I also had little problems in meeting her 
parents, brother, and sister. 
 
Autumn of our senior year found us living together as a couple. 
 
Thanksgiving saw wedding bells. It was not an overly large wedding at that 
church in Denver, and only the aging and weakening Aunt Madge was present from 
my side of the family. But it was a happy wedding, just big enough to get loud, 
but small enough to enjoy everyone there. Even though, it was a very special 
moment for Andrea and I, it was also a very special moment for Aunt Madge and I… 

 
 Christmas saw us in the early beginning stages of our planning to move to 
Denver and also our planning of a family. 
 
Andrea’s New Year’s resolution was the throwing away of her birth control pills. 
There had always been a special part of my heart open to children. I had 
willingly adapted to babysitting. Even though I could not imagine my life 
without my own children, Andrea approached the issue of having children with 
fanaticism. The utmost goal in Andrea’s life was having a child. She saw her 
fulfillment as a woman in giving birth. All other goals took second place. 
 
I did not think it was the best of ideas. Not that having children was a bad 
idea. Only the timing was bad. We would have to make do, and do without. We were 
young, and just starting out. 
 
Oddly, Andrea’s greatest ally, in her desire to have a child, as soon as 
possible, was Aunt Madge. Aunt Madge’s only statement to my financial worries 
was, “Oh pooh, don’t forget that I’m here too.  I sure would like to see a 
fourth generation born before I die.”
 
At that time, that perplexed me. 
 
First, was the question about seeing a fourth generation born. The image of a 
small, and frail, silver-gray haired spinster was the only image of Aunt Madge 
that I could remember. I knew that Aunt Madge and I were related, and I 
considered her to be my great aunt, but how old was Aunt Madge? She had never 
made mention of her age to me.    
 
The second question was about her being there for the baby and us. 
 
Aunt Madge had always lived in the old white farmhouse, out on the homestead, 
for as long as I could remember. That white house, with shaded porches front and 
back, I knew to have been built some time in the 30’s, and other then having 
been repaired, it had never been remodeled. 
 
It also wondered me, how the homestead made enough money to support her. It 
wasn’t large, and with her obvious age, and even with the help from a few old 
ranch-hands that she employed now and then, it could not be earning much. 
 
Her clothes were old. All her vehicles, that I ever saw, were always battered, 
beaten and at least 15 years old. I never saw her buy furniture. It had always 
been there, like it was now, ever since I was a small child. Only her TV, 
refrigerator, and her telephone were new. She had a new stove, but cooked on it 
only in the summer months. Other than that, she would rather use her old 
wood-burning stove. Madge never seemed to have, or need, money.
 
I firmly believed, that that money, that helped pay my college, was about all 
she had. I could not see how Aunt Madge, could help us out financially. We both 
loved her dearly, and were both willing to take her in, if her health needed our 
care, but other than the money from the sale of the homestead, I didn’t see any 
solution there.