Finally, I turned around to face the wall, with my butt toward the mirror, and craned my neck around to inspect my booty's reflection as well. It took a bit of standing on tiptoes with the mirror at its current angle for me to be able to see derriere in it, but at last I managed to see exactly what I wanted to, and the fact was confirmed for me, on no uncertain terms- I had a nice ass...
Guys, or at least pop culture would have one to believe, were all about big and juicy cabooses these days, and by all accounts I seemed to possess such assets in abundance. Physically, at least, there seemed to be no good reason why I couldn't seem to land a boyfriend, judging by my meeting of nearly all criteria by which the opposite sex are said to peruse for a mate.
This, then, seemed to indicate that the problem lay on a much deeper level than the surface alone, which I'd half come to suspect and fear in my analysis... It wasn't guys being shallow or guys unable to develop an interest in me- it was, quite simply, I concluded, that my own standards were too high. That I'd read too many damn romance novels to settle for any sort of real life relationships, expecting something miraculous in my life that I was sure to never truly experience, and that no woman ever did, really, or at least not in this lifetime.
The talented and insanely productive (not to mention wealthy) Arthur Benton could be said to be highly responsible for my disillusionment with the dating scene, and had, over the years, largely shaped my delusional impression of what the ideal man should be like. With no relationship experience of my own to my credit, I'd become very bookish over time, devouring the sorts of romance novels one might be wont to scoff at on the bookshelves, the dime paperbacks with smutty-looking covers of shirtless men ravishing the bodies of beautiful women in their tattered dresses, with titles so cheesy that they're impossible not to roll your eyes at them when you see them. And I knew full well, even as I was reading them, that what they were describing as far as true relationships was complete and utter nonsense. And I suspect that all women do as well, when they read those sorts of things. But that didn't stop me from taking those fantastic impressions Benton made to heart, internalizing the romantic, over-the-top gestures carried out by his characters as a sort of ideal for what I should be expecting in a partner myself.
Irrationally enough, I'd simply become enamored with so many of his shirtless examples of masculine perfection, manly men who, in all likelihood, did note even exist in the fashion in which they were presented in the written word, and who, if they did exist at all outside the realm of fantasy, would surely not be interested in such a woman as myself. Hell, did I really think that any of the shirtless macho men adorning the cover of his novels would even bat an eye if I walked past them completely stark naked, much less harbor any sort of romantic attraction to me in the least?
And that, I believe, was how Arthur Benton had become a billionaire... By presenting such an amazing and fantastical portrait of the ideal man that emotionally vulnerable women such as myself would become enamored with his depictions, and in fact develop addictions to such tantalizing fantasies, thereby buying into more and more and more of his works, unable to get enough, to satisfy our cravings and make up for the senses of emptiness we must all surely possess within our dull, humdrum lives.
But, like most addicts, I didn't care whether I was simply feeding my addiction, and making living a real life more difficult for myself by consuming Benton's works. I gobbled them up like candy, never able to get enough, unable to satiate my desires, and in fact, beginning to harbor a rather ridiculous crush on the author himself- I mean hell, could you blame me? I began to think, after a while, that so many of Benton's characters shared so many of the same chivalrous, heroic attributes, that he himself must have come to adopt such traits, or at the very least that he believed they were values that all men should display, and he therefore had come to exude characteristics of his own creations. I'd seen pictures of the man from long, lazy hours of online searching (not to mention fantasizing,) and he was in fact a handsome enough man. I mean, if he hadn't struck it big as a romance author, I can just about guarantee you he had just the kind of face that could easily have established him as an actor. Dark, penetrating eyes that seemed to flash right off the screen into reality, almost burning into the pupils of the gazer, not to mention, at least for my part, making them break into an outright cold sweat... He had luscious, jet black hair, a chiseled face, and, from what I could tell, a rather sculpted physique. Honestly, he was precisely the kind of macho man who could have posed for one of his own book covers, and I began to wish that he would do just that one of these days, for the sake of seeing him shirtless if nothing else...
So, yeah, overall, Arthur Benton was probably about the nearest picture I could fathom to any sort of ideal boyfriend- a devilishly handsome, good-hearted billionaire, precisely the kind of man who was as much the polar opposite the sort of man who could possibly harbor any interest in a girl like me whatsoever. Any thoughts to the contrary, I felt certain, were nothing more than me deluding the hell out of myself. But you can bet your ass that did little to stop me from fantasizing...
And yet, things seemed to take a somewhat unexpected turn, outside the simple realm of such fantasies... You see, I was shocked, one evening, while browsing the internet, to discover that my fantastical crush was on his way to a city near me- stopping, as he was, at a point on his book tour.
I was astounded... The opportunity, of course, was far too wonderful to pass up, but almost the instant I began to consider it I could feel the butterflies in my stomach spiraling out of control, making me seriously queasy with anxiety...
I was a mess... I knew that, as great as my excitement was at the prospect of meeting him, it would more than likely end up in disappointment in some way or another. Still, though, I marked the date on my calendar, and began to hope for the best while expecting the worst.
It's hard to explain what exactly I'd hoped would happen... I mean, all I had were my fantasies about the event- him arriving shirtless, and me the only one in line to see him somehow despite his massive popularity. When I let my mind wander, it usually ended up in realms of ecstasy where he swept me off my feet and wrapped me immediately in his arms, imagery which I felt certain could never be anything more but delightful hallucinations.
I was rather stunned, then, when reality turned out to be almost as stunning as fiction itself...
However, the start of the event was just about as disappointing as I'd feared it would be. I showed up at the address at which the signing was scheduled to take place with a copy of one of my favorite of his novels in hand, only to find that the line to interview this devilishly rich and handsome celebrity spanned an entire city block, and that everyone but me had apparently had the foresight to line up almost a day in advance. I sighed heavily, and for a moment studied my fellow Benton fans. It was hard to pin down a certain profile amongst his varied readers, except, of course, that they were almost exclusively female. Many of them were older than myself, many of them younger, of all different body types and appearances, but, I couldn't help but think, whether justified or not, prettier and more appealing than myself. And yes, I knew even then that I was being ridiculous... Did I really think I had some miraculous chance of snaring this deadly gorgeous catch for myself in the first place? Honestly, no, but in my heart the fantasy persisted, and was dashed and bruised by the sight of so many more sexually appealing and worthwhile women than myself.
I sighed heavily, knowing that I was being ridiculous, and that my attitude regarding the matter was going to end up ruining this otherwise pleasant experience for me entirely. I tried to put the other girls in line out of my mind, and proceeded to whip out my phone for distraction- putting on music, and playing some pointless, goal-oriented mobile game. I stared intently at my screen, not daring to tear my eyes away and let myself drown once more in comparison to the girls around me, as inch by inch by inch the line crept forward, almost imperceptibly, drawing me nearer and nearer to the doorway by the hour.
/> Finally, I made it up to within sight of Mr. Benton, and I could feel my body beginning to tremble with anticipation. His lips were moving, although I had no idea what the hell he might be saying over the gaggle of women laughing and swooning and carrying on in his presence. He had a sort of look about him, almost a sort of jaded expression, as thought, in being given all the attention in the world by these women, a fact which a lot of men might have killed for, he was somehow exhausted by the whole ordeal of it, tired of people who only saw him as some larger than life figure, and thereby ignored the fact of his humanity, and that he bore no more connection to them than he did any other manner of complete stranger... Or was I just imagining this? Was there any shred of the truth to the thought whatsoever, or was I just hoping it to be the case so that I could prove myself the exception? Damn me...
I was shivering by the time I was three away from him in the line, and my stomach was churning so violently I felt for certain I would end up turning around and fleeing by the time I got to the front. But alas, I somehow managed to power my legs into moving forward, and before I knew it I was standing face to face with my idol, my hopeless, ridiculous (childish?) romantic crush. I could feel my jaw quivering as I gazed in awe at him, and my body tensed, so that I felt as though I could barely move. I knew that time was limited, however, that in a moment his security guards would be encouraging me to move it along so that the line could maintain its momentum. Working up every ounce of my mettle I cleared my throat, and broke away from my astonishment long enough to hand him my copy of his book. He smiled at me, as though kindly amused by how frazzled I was, and asked, “Who should I make it out to?”
“I- I- Olivia...”
“Olivia,” he repeated, grinning congenially, stooping down over the book and scrawling out his name and a concise message on the title page. “What a lovely name,” he added, and then looked up into my face as he returned the copy to my hand. I swear to God I felt my heart stop in that moment, and all the breath seemed to drain out of me in one fell swoop. He, somehow, seemed nearly as astonished as I was by the moment, and it felt like an eternity before he said, with an almost dreamy quality to his voice, “You have such... Lovely eyes...”
Accordingly, I found the lashes fluttering rapidly in response, nearly making me dizzy, before replying, dumbfounded, “Th-th-thank you...” and scrambling from the line as quickly as possible.
I could feel my cheeks glowing red hot as I scurried away from the line, clutching the book to my breasts, noting the relentless pounding of my heart up against it, and feeling as though I might seriously melt into a puddle on the spot. My hands, I noticed, were shaking, and I felt as though I were wading through a dream as I drifted toward the store's entrance, my mind spinning, already beginning to replay the scene that had just taken place, again and again and again and again, analyzing every last minute detail to excess.
And suddenly I was gasping, in response to the application of a hand upon my shoulder, making my blood run cold, and causing the minute hairs adorning my body to all stand up on end. I tore rapidly around, and shivered at the sight of one of the event security guards leering at me, looking mighty damn intimidating, with a blank, unreadable expression painted across his face, but which, in my fright, I concluded without evidence to be a look of malice, chastisement. My mind did a little bit of mixing and matching of reality as I tried to figure out what the hell he could think I'd done wrong, and I found myself equating the event security with the security of the store itself, which in turn led my thoughts promptly to the paperback clutched firmly in my grip.
“Oh! No, I, I swear I payed for this... This is my personal copy...” At this, the security guard's expression imitated that of Mr. Benton, peeling away into one of light, friendly amusement at my bewilderment, and in response to my continued befuddlement he held out a hand with a slip of paper in it.
“Mr. Benton has expressed interest in having dinner with you at some point, if such a proposal interests you in any way. He would very much like you to call him if that is the case. Here is his number...”
Needless to say, if I was flabbergasted before, I was absolutely floored at this point... I stared at the number in the man's outstretched hand, and took it rather dumbly, my eyes just about crossing as I tried to make out the series of numbers scrawled across the paper, yet somehow I felt certain that this was absolutely, without a doubt, the author's real, genuine phone number. This was, in short, no joke...
I stood there for a moment, not saying a single word to the security guard as I stared, astonished at the number, and once again he smiled at me, before turning around, and making his way back in the direction of Mr. Benton though the throng of over-eager women surrounding him.
I couldn't believe it... I didn't believe it...
I drifted from the store like a phantom, moving at what can only be described as a snail's pace, my mind reeling as I struggled to make heads or tails of whatever the hell had just happened.
It was several days before I worked up the nerve to call my unexpected suitor. It took a herculean effort, fazed as I was as I tried to imagine what the hell such a rich, powerful, attractive billionaire might have seen in me that might lead him to asking me to dinner. It was precisely the sort of thing I'd fantasized about, time and time again, and which I'd firmly believed could never in fact be a possibility were hell to freeze over. And yet here it was, happening, as real as anything, the situation simply hinging on my willingness to overcome my sheepish emotions and dial the man's phone number.
At last, I managed to work up some semblance of just such a nerve, stonily putting the number into my phone, and taking about another fifteen minutes before I got around to hitting the talk button to put the call through. I honestly, at this point, don't even remember what the hell the conversation must have consisted of, other than my certainty of the fact that there must have been more stammering on my part than you could possibly shake a stick at. But, miraculously, I managed to set a time and location with him, and the next thing I knew, aside, of course, from hours upon hours of obsessing over what I should wear for the evening, I was sitting across from my billionaire suitor, peering, disbelieving into his dark, mysterious eyes.
I drank a lot of wine that night...
We were at a plush, expensive restaurant, dimly lit, thank God, although I'm certain he could see my cheeks glowing red across the table at him all the same, light or no light. He, of course, largely took the lead in terms of conversation, plying me with casual enough questions which I answered automatically, giving fairly basic responses as I shivered beneath his gaze, and occasionally droning on on long tangents that I'm sure did more to lull him toward sleep than they did answer his questions. Yet, nonetheless, his interest never seemed to wane from the conversation as I rambled my way along, his eyes following my lips carefully as I spoke, a fact which, I can't deny, aroused me somewhat, although I knew that getting my hopes up in such a manner was about the stupidest thing I could have done at that point in time.
I was absolutely floored by how thoroughly his interest in me seemed to be rooted, able, as I'm certain he was, to have any woman in the world of his choosing, and yet somehow electing for such a plain, unassuming woman as myself to enjoy a meal with him at least- and, my mind perhaps jumping to the conclusion rather abruptly, pursuing her romantically...
At last, at what seemed an appropriate enough silence in the conversation, I cleared my throat, dabbing away at my lips with my cloth napkin, and looked at him for a long moment. I asked, carefully, if it was okay with him for me to do so, might I inquire as to what it was about myself that served as a point of attraction for him? I asked it in a way that didn't too badly denigrate me, nothing like “Why the hell would you choose me?”, but in as casual a manner as possible.
Once again there was that smile, almost patronizing, to be honest, but it was hard for me to feel too offended by it, as he stared off into the middle distance, considering how to answer such a query, and, I could tell, we
ighing his words carefully. “Well... That's a difficult question to answer,” he said, which was kind of an ambiguous, potentially disheartening response. He seemed to realize this, though, and quickly corrected himself, “Well, obviously, there's your beauty... I'm absolutely mesmerized when I look into your eyes...” I blushed, and he continued, “But beauty is only skin deep... I could go on for hours about all the little things that attract me to you in that sense-” (I wouldn't have minded a damn bit if he had-) “But to dwell too long on those sorts of things would be minimizing my true feelings for you, the deeper sort of attraction I felt toward you almost the instant I first had the privilege of laying eyes on you.” This, no surprise, did a pretty good job of lighting me up inside, and I began to feel a little bit more confidence in myself. He continued, then, “I... Suppose... You might say... I find that you possess a certain sort of... Innate lure... A hold over me... Even I can't fully put my finger on what the exact words are to describe it, other than simply a feeling... A feeling that, perhaps, might just seem a trifle bit brash to most to act upon so suddenly, or to give the amount of stock that I did. But, for lack of a better way of putting it- the instant I saw you,it was like seeing all of the best qualities I ever write into my female characters, all epitomized in the form of one single, beautiful human being... Your gentility, your grace, your ease of manner... And, I suppose, that's the best answer I can really think to give you. I'm sure, by all means, that it's an incomplete response, but... But...”
SHEIKH'S SURPRISE BABY: A Sheikh Romance Page 33
