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The Coolest Chick I Knew

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"I still can't believe you're showing your face here, Brown," Dave Pohl snickered as I came in and sat down at the table I would hate forever. He, of all people, knew what had happened on it earlier. "You've had a hard night. Can you even afford to be here?"

He was talking tough, but it'd been a different story just a minute ago. When he first opened the hotel room door and saw it was me, he'd tried to shut it immediately, the pussy. It'd taken me a while to convince him that I'd be no trouble. Not that any one of them probably couldn't have kicked my ass - well, everyone but Kenny - but they just wanted to play their game, and I assured him that's all I wanted, too. It shows how little they thought of me that they let me in.

I'd always hated him. Nothing ever changes, does it? The petty part of me was enjoying the fact that he was pushing three bills - not in a good way - and was wearing a spectacularly rodent-like hairpiece. We weren't even thirty yet.

"Let him be," sneered Roger, another one of the cronies. "Check out the balls on him. He has major wife trouble in front of everybody, and he still shows up here. Probably wants revenge. No way he'll be able to concentrate. We'll clean him out in twenty minutes."

I could see where they were coming from. I only had five thousand dollars to buy in with. That was the bare minimum for this game. I'd have to make something happen early, or I would be gone soon.

I was very much in the mood to make something happen.

~~~~~

They say there's no such thing as an ugly baby, but I have to respectfully disagree. My wife never wanted to show off her baby pictures. Her grade school yearbooks were at the bottom of a box up in the attic. She didn't look much better in junior high where we met and didn't look so hot in high school, either. She was always the "ugly one" of the class and took a total rash of shit her entire childhood. I remember. I was there for some of it. It had been bad.

Me? Well, I was no prize back then, either. People told me I looked like a "squirly Michael Keaton." The opinion at that time was that Mr. Keaton was already squirly-looking to begin with, and I merely pushed the envelope that much further. I wasn't harassed as much as ignored, which was fine with me. Okay, not really, but what are you gonna do? At least nobody beat me up or anything. Plus, I had a really dumb name.

I only knew her slightly to nod to her in the halls, but Gloria and I got to know each other really well our junior year of high school when we worked on the school newspaper together. The student editor, a senior, cracked under "all the pressure," and we were appointed co-editors so that we wouldn't be overwhelmed, too. God, we worked hard on that piece of shit rag. We spent many a long hour alone together editing the submitted copy, rewriting the copy, editing the submitted layout, re-laying out the layout, cropping the submitted pictures, retaking the pictures. You get the idea. It became our baby, just ours. Gloria and I often didn't leave the school until after eleven, so late that our advisor cheated and gave us a key so we could lock up ourselves, definitely a no no.

As I got to know her more, I realized that, whatever else was happening, Gloria was the coolest chick I'd ever met, and not just because she was the only girl who would talk to me. I wasn't a pariah or anything. She was alone a lot, but she had spent her time well. She knew everything, and she knew the answer to about anything you could ask her. Add to that a rapier wit and a keen ability to read people, courtesy of her dad. I thought she was great, just great. We were friends for a long time until we went to the Junior Prom together.

I don't think either of us realized we had feelings for each other; we just wanted to go and knew we wouldn't make it there any other way. She didn't look so great in her dress, I definitely didn't look good in my tux, but we crossed the friend line that night and we have the pictures to prove it, so there.

I always thought the consensus was that we were dating at the equivalent level, but I learned in the locker room how people really felt. I heard Brad Weedie tell Dave Pohl that I might be a retarded Michael Keaton, but Gloria just plain looked retarded. I clenched my fists when I heard, but they were both jocks, high school royalty, and either one could easily hurt me plenty, so she went undefended. When people finally noticed we were dating, those two were some of our worst detractors, especially Brad, who asked me point blank how I could stand to even be seen in public with her.

I would just say, "You don't know her. She's awesome," but, in a way, they were right. I wasn't ashamed of her or anything, but I did know that, in terms of attractiveness, I had her beat by a country mile. Not for nothing, but I was on the water polo team, and my body was lean and muscular enough for girls to notice me, at least a little bit.

So, was I some saint who didn't care about looks and was impressed only by inner beauty, some sort of sapiosexual? Hell no. Of course I lusted after the cheerleaders, especially the delectable Devita Delacourt, whose claim to fame was her perfect bent over cotton shorts camel toe. She even teased ugly guys like me, God bless her. I didn't think I could do any better than Gloria, and, after a while, I didn't want to. She truly was the coolest chick I knew.

In those days, she could best be described as scrawny. She had no tits, no ass, no curves to be found anywhere. Chekhov wrote that eyes and hair are the saving grace of unattractive women, but Gloria had short - way too short - red hair, and she might have had pretty eyes, but who could tell under those coke bottles? Her complexion was mostly freckles with some skin poking out sometimes. but it was her teeth - aahhgh - her teeth were so big they practically distorted her whole face.

She couldn't understand it, because her mother was one stacked specimen of gorgeousness, and her college-age brother was better than all right looking. Her mother saw our distress and urged us both to take it in stride.

"Just you wait, you two." she would say. "Just you wait. I have a feeling."

You never want your parents to be right about anything, but in this case we did. She was absolutely on the money, but growing up took so much longer than we hoped.

Have you noticed that Michael Keaton got better looking as he went along? Same thing for me. I was also an all conference on the water polo team in college, so my body only got better and better. I started getting appreciative looks wherever I went, which was nice, but I was small potatoes.

The summer between our junior and senior year of college, Gloria went through a transformation. She became a lithe hourglass almost overnight, it seemed. She told me later that it felt like growing pains and hurt like hell, but we both agreed it was so worth it. Her hair, once she let it grow out, became a fiery mane with flowing tresses I couldn't stop touching. Her freckles disappeared, except for a delightful little patch on the inside of her right knee. It always tickled her when I kissed them, and her skin became a milky, alabaster miracle.

The most amazing change, though, came to her face. She wore braces for six years. That's right, six fucking years. It was just one of those things. I told you her teeth were bad. But - and this is big - between her braces coming off, LASIK surgery and just getting older and growing into herself, at the age of twenty-one, she suddenly could give a young Ann Margret a run for her money. She didn't look like her mother so much as her Aunt Kim, who had been a successful bikini model in the nineties.

I started to look real smart. All my friends and acquaintances told me I must have know all along what was coming, but I was as surprised as anyone.. Gloria knew it and loved me for it. She was hit on constantly, sometimes even when I was standing right next to her if I so much as turned my head, but she would just laugh when it happened.

"You've got to be kidding me," she would say as she snuggled into me and kissed my neck.

Yeah, life was good. We were already living together and engaged to be engaged when all this happened, and neither one of us felt inclined to change a thing. We planned on getting married as soon as the first one of us got a job after graduation. It turned out to be me, but it easily could have gone the other way.

Life turned out pretty well for us. We rarely argued, and when we did, we fought fair, at first. We had both chosen successful careers and purchased our first little starter home only three years into our marriage. It was tough going at first, but we made it.

Much earlier, we had given each other our virginities, and it wasn't great. Gloria to the rescue. After our second, miserable fumble, she insisted that we both undergo an intense Gloria-directed series of learning sessions that included medical texts, pornography, sex manuals, anecdotal stories and anything else that would make us better. And, boy, oh boy, did we get better. By the time we were done, I don't think there were many sex therapists or surrogates who knew as much about human sexual response as we did. I knew more than fifty ways to make her cum, and she could make me shoot off in three seconds or last three hours, her choice. She usually tried to land somewhere in the middle.

We both agreed that, even though neither of us had ever slept with anybody else, we would never, ever cheat. There was no way anyone else could be as good a screw as we were, especially for each other. That was a good thing. I don't think either of us could have taken the rejection. We both promised that we would be honest with each other if we ever felt restless; head things off at the pass, so to speak.

Her father, a recovering alcoholic, had shamelessly cheated on her mother for years with multiple, multiple partners. Gloria loved him, but had, shall we say, quite strong feelings about the whole matter, and I agreed with her. We got married young - why wait - and both of us were pleased we'd found our one and only so early.

She called me her "hot husband" and I called her my "wow wow wife." Don't ask. Pet names are stupid.

Our only real stumbling block was Gloria's low tolerance for alcohol. She was definitely a cheap date. Two beers and she was drunk off her ass. Just one mixed drink would make her horny as hell, DTF in the worst way. You'd think I'd take advantage of that, but if you'd had the real Gloria, the substitute, sloppy noodle was no fun at all. This girl had skills. You wanted her to use them.

I hoped it would be a wake-up call for her when I spent my second New Year's Eve in a row waiting outside the restroom at a club while she got sick. Nothing like ending the year listening through a door as your wife pukes while everyone else is counting down. Twice.

I was pissed, but no dice. Things finally came to a head when she got a DUI and lost her license for six months. The courts insisted she attend AA meetings. She went with her dad, who had been going since before she was born. It was a way for them to reconnect, because he had been out of her life for a very long time by then. We came to be grateful the DUI happened, because it forced all of us to resolve a few things.

"Quit acting all high and mighty. This is just like your stupid gambling, you degenerate," she snarled one time. "There's no difference."

"Sure there is," I replied. "I'm GOOD at gambling."

She didn't have a leg to stand on there. I learned how to play poker in my first college stats class, and when Texas hold 'em became a national craze, I made me some money. Excuse me, made US some money. We were living together by then, and my little hobby was sometimes the difference between meat and ramen that week. I never got a thank you, but she was more than willing to eat up that chicken.

As we neared our late twenties, I noticed a change in her. We'd gotten married young with the idea that we'd have kids young, too. We'd have all the energy in the world to run after them in our mid-twenties, and when they flew the coop we'd still be in our forties and spry enough to enjoy our alone time together. No empty nest for us.

But for years now, she was resisting. At first, there was never a good reason, or a consistent one, at least. She wanted to get ahead at work, she wanted to spend more time together with just us, she wanted to wait until she was more mature, what about our nest egg, we should travel first, yada, yada, yada.

One night, after a particularly great time together, she lay back and watched my cum leak out of her pussy. She gave me a loving look as she dipped her finger and brought a smear close to my face.

"You see this?" she asked. "It's going to be a new little person soon."

"When?" I asked. "Are we..."

"No, not yet," she said. "Cool it, Daddy. I'm still on the pill."

"So, when?" I asked. She was right to tell me to settle down. I was already excited. We had waited far too long.

"How about right after the reunion?" she asked. "I'll get off it when we get back, and we'll turn into baby making MACHINES! What do you say?"

"Why wait?" I hugged her and kissed her on the nose.

"Because it's just around the corner. We won't be waiting long. You know it's going to be stressful. I don't want anything getting in the way of our baby making."

"Why be stressed?" I asked. "You hate those people. Are you sure you even want to go?"

"Hell yes, I want to go!" she said. "They're going to take one look at all this and their eyes are going to pop out. I want them to see what they missed."

"Hmm," I said, not liking this so much. "I don't think I missed a thing."

"Of course you didn't, honey," she said, maybe realizing she'd been insensitive, "But you can't really blame me for wanting to strut a little, can you? They made my life worse than hell."

"It was no picnic for me, either, you know," I put in.

"True, you had it bad," she admitted, 'But nothing like me. That's why I'm going to rule that night."

"Umm, babe," I said, "I hate to burst your bubble, but from what I understand, it doesn't matter how much you've changed. Everyone usually falls back into their pre-designated roles. You might not like that."

"No way that's happening," she declared. "I guarantee you, I will be the hottest thing there and shove it down their THROATS."

"And what about me?" I asked. "Where do I fit into your little scheme?"

"Oh, you'll be right there with me, my hot husband," she said. I started to wonder about that, but then she began stroking my cock to see if she could get it up again. For her, no problem at all.

She took the entire thing into her mouth in one smooth motion, and her nose was soon nestled in my pubic hair. Her throat muscles worked the head of my cock as her tongue massaged my balls. She knew it was my favorite thing, but up until now this move had been a strictly foreplay or first-time activity because I always lasted too long after I came the first time. Now she kept at it for awhile, alternately taking me deep and then using those long, smooth strokes I loved. She added light teeth scraping to enhance my pleasure, refusing to stop until I blew down her throat, groaning with the intensity of my release as she swallowed every drop. She pulled off slowly, softly kissed my stomach and retreated to the bathroom to clean up.

As I lay back in the drowsy afterglow of my orgasm, I admired her use of the never-fail, tried-and-true feminine ploy of shutting me up with sex. Of course it worked - duh - but I realized it was a tactic she'd never felt the need to use on me before. She was putting distance between us that I neither liked nor understood, and I was worried plenty.

~~~~~

Gloria was never one to shy away from research, so when she decided she wanted to get into perfect shape for the reunion, her trips to our gym - which we were members of but rarely attended - became lengthy and intense. She invited me along, but we both knew she didn't mean it. She knew I hated what she wore there and didn't want to watch her get hit on every five minutes, either. Instead, I found an insane intramural basketball game that more than got my heart rate up.

Her results were almost legendary. In a few short weeks, she dropped a dress size and her thighs had slimmed to iron bars for my pleasure. She'd never been out of shape, per se, she'd just tightened up her already awesome awesomeness into perfection.

But it wasn't for me.

She left her laptop open one day when she was running late and had to jump in the shower. I saw that she'd been Facebook stalking all the beautiful people headed to the reunion; Hope Lanwell, Heidi Clemens, Brad and Devita Weede, Roger Mayhew, Dave Pohl, all of them the in crowd that had given her hell. They were all going to be there. I hoped she wouldn't embarrass herself - or me - too much that night and could finally purge herself of whatever demons were driving her.

Self-esteem is a harsh mistress.

~~~~~

I noticed she wasn't meeting my eye when we were driving back to our home town before the reunion, a sure sign that something was up that she didn't want to tell me. It was a behavior I remembered from her drunk days, and I did not miss it, let me tell you.

"You're going to really push it, aren't you?"

"Push what?" she asked, all wide-eyed and faux innocence, but I wasn't fooled. She had become increasingly short with me as this weekend approached. That had to mean something.

"What are you going to do tonight?"

"Why don't you tell me what you mean? I can't respond to what you're asking if you're not clear. I can't read your mind."

She was sounding irritated, which was another one of the old tactics she used to use to put me on the defensive. She knew it always made me shut down to avoid a confrontation. I'd had an ass full of it before, and I wasn't in the mood. If she was going to manipulate me, she should have at least bothered to learn some new tricks.

"You know exactly what I mean," I said, tersely. "Why wouldn't you let me see your dress?"

"Because I want to surprise you with how sexy I'm going to look, moron," she said playfully.

"Oh, I KNOW how sexy you are," I said, "I'm proud of you. I don't mind you showing off."

"Good," she said, triumphant, "Because that's just what I'm going to do."

"But don't show too much, okay?"

"Define 'too much.' "

I was quiet.

"Look, Rick, you know me. Have I ever embarrassed you, ever?"

I was still quiet, but I must have given her a look.

"I mean besides THAT. God," she sputtered. "It's been three years. Three years. You'd think that would earn me some credit, at least."

"Just tell me what you're going to do." I said.

"Well, RICK," she replied testily. "I'm not going to DO anything. But I am going to look amazing, I am going to have fun, and they're all going to be sorry they were so mean to me back then."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would they be sorry now? Why should they care? That was then. What possible difference does it make what you're like now, ten years later?"

"Oh, Ricky, Ricky, Ricky," she sang. "You know a lot about a lot, but you don't know women. They'll care, trust me."

"So it's just the women you want to impress?" I asked.

"Mostly," she said, sounding a little defensive. "Sweetie, you can't blame me for wanting to get a little back at the guys who were so foul, you just can't."

"Are you happy with me, Gloria?" I asked. "Are you satisfied with the life we have?"

"Oh, baby," she said, releasing her seatbelt and moving over to snuggle me. "Is that what this is about? I love you. I love us. Don't ever doubt it."

"Yeah, well, I notice that there's no 'we' in any of what you're saying. It's all 'me' and 'me' and, now that I think about it, more 'me'. It's like you don't even care that I'm along. Maybe it'd be better for you if I had just stayed home."

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