She was beautiful. She stood just slightly over five feet, with shoulder length brown hair, taut stomach, slender hips, legs like dancer, and breasts that made you wonder how she didn’t constantly fall over. But, as always, it was the eyes and the smile that made the woman (even though she wasn’t much older than seventeen). I could look into her eyes and fall into them without too much difficulty, completely losing myself in all that was her, and her smile reminded me of the carefree life I so yearned for.
I had little to offer her. I was a twenty-one year old college drop-out working two part-time jobs and living with my folks in order to get back into school, far, far away. I wasn’t especially handsome, talented, or intelligent. On the whole, I was terribly average. That she wanted me was nothing short of impossible. But she did.
She told me once (one of the many times that I asked how it was she decided upon me, as opposed to the many others vying for her affections) that she loved the way I listened. I didn’t stare at her boobs, or ass, but met her eyes without fevered desire. That among the lewd comments made by the others in our group, mine were the most inane, and almost sweet. That when those comments went too far, I stepped in and put them to a halt.
This struck me as odd, seeing as I didn’t do anything out of keeping with my character. Certainly I desired her, but meeting her gaze was the proper thing to do, so I did it. Certainly my comments were just as rapacious as the next guy’s, but were far more subtle, and laced with romantic innuendo as opposed to that of the sexual variety. Can I help being a romantic? And as to my intervention, my parents raised me to be a gentleman of integrity, and as much of a guy as I can be, I have to draw the line somewhere.