I met her in April of 2001. Like most men, I am shallow and superficial, in that outward appearance grabs me first; it was a prerequisite to finding out more about a girl back in my dating days. Well, she wasn’t pretty, by even the most gracious standards. Her face was sort of flattened, like a Boston Terrier’s, and her eyes set wide apart; she was tall, more so than I, and I’m no runt at six-foot two; and she was a big girl, bigger than any I’d been with before. Her white skin stretched across her considerable expanse; she was heavy-set and especially wide in the rear. I could tell that she had been with several men before me, some of whom had treated her less than kindly. She had a shop-worn look about her, like a tired but willing saloon hag inevitably left alone, still swilling beer and chain-smoking at night’s end. Still, something about her intrigued me; I felt a wobble in the knees and a skip in the heartbeat as I approached her. After spending a little time getting to know her a little better, I sensed there was something about her, some innate quality that satisfied a desperate need, the extent of which I could feel but not fully fathom. I decided then and there I had to have her. I asked, and she came willingly, with a deep and heavy purr befitting a lady of her size; our affair was born.
I’ve seen her almost daily since then. Initially, though completely dependent upon each other for support, we were equally distrustful of one another as well; I sensed she might somehow take advantage of our arrangement or deny me that which I so desperately sought from her. She, having been mistreated by lesser men in her past, was afraid I, too, would hurt her. Gradually, we began to earn each other’s trust. Our relationship has since grown to one of complete mutual reliance, both for our physical needs and for our very survival. Though I’m a married man and love my wife dearly, I am neither ashamed of our relationship, nor to say that I would be lost without her. I love her passionately, and though she hasn’t (and likely won’t) tell me so, I know she feels the same about me.
She’s an older woman, and looks older still. Her name: Bernice, which is a fitting one, in that it conjures images of flowered mu-mus, chained bifocals, orthotics and drooping support hose. She’s old, run-down, moody but feisty; that sounds like a less than glamorous description for a mistress, but heck, I’m getting that way too, and how arrogant for me to think I deserve to get better than what she’s willing to give, which is everything she’s got. I think she’s dead sexy, in her own way, and I definitely look sexy when I’m with her. I know time will take her from me some day, but until then I promise to be faithful…to my mistress.