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LOOKING FOR THE PERFECT BEAT
I had an epiphany (actually, one among many) regarding the quality of my love life, in my junior year, at
the University: that beautiful women have the same needs as visually challenged females. They need and expect love,
just like everyone else. And they expect me or you or whomever they choose to love them as well as we might a plainer
woman. This startling revelation evolved over a 2-3 year time period as I moved from an unsophisticated under classman
from plane janeville to an accomplished man of letters with an eye for unattended beauty. During my freshman and sophomore
years at the University, I encountered many beautiful coeds who complained about their inability to find a suitable boyfriend.
I was far too objective when being told about the problem. It would be years before I understood why the complainants
were telling me! I did know that the ratio of men to women was 1:7. It was player's choice. The women came
from very diverse locales because of the U's sterling academic reputation. There were some women from Detroit (and this one
beauty from Saginaw!), Atlanta and D.C. (Delilah, SEND ME AN EMAIL!) that stood out as the most stunningly beautiful women
on campus. For reasons unknown to this writer, the men on campus tended to gravitate to plane janes. I'm not sure
if it was because they thought pjs made better study partners or if it was the age old belief that plain girls are desperate
for men. As a consequence, pj's and the homely had boyfriends-that they tormented because of their angst over being
fugly-while the fine girls cried in their pillows or ate themselves into size 16 dresses. During my freshman year, I was insensitive
to the needs of the fine. My first day on campus, for the fall semester, I ran into a stunner from Muskegon, Michigan
that I had met during summer orientation. Pamela was tall, athletically built, talented and extremely beautiful.
She was graced with an ass to die for, a small waist, long legs and almond shaped eyes. I had no clue, that she would
consider ME as a suitable candidate for boyfriend. Pamela was glad to see me(!)AND remembered me from summer orientation!
I was overwhelmed! She asked me to escort her to a freshman seminar, that evening. We agreed to meet in
front of the dormitory complex, a little before 7. I waited and waited for her, at our appointed rendezvous, then dejectedly
crawled to the meeting. By the time I arrived, the room was full of people. I sat, in the back, at the end of
the last row. There were just two seats left. The room was hot. The air was still. The upperclassmen
were at the podium droning on about our responsibility to the University, to our respective communities, how to comport ourselves
on campus, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Some clumsy freshman broke the monotony of the drone
by kicking one of the doors, as she was looking in the room... for ME! It was Pamela. All eyes turned to the door.
I waved at her and she came through the door with a sheepish smile on her face. I was smiling inside. I became
seven feet tall, my chair transformed into a throne, as she approached me and placed that celestial body next to mine. I was
the King of the Freshmen. The men were jealous and the women were shocked and surprised. I don't remember what
else happened at that meeting, but will never forget the rest of my evening. It had rained while we were at the seminar.
It was early September. The rain had stopped. The campus became an equatorial rain forest. We made a wrong
turn, on our way back to the dormitory complex. That long walk in the steamy evening air was like walking in Eden in blue
jeans. I was in the presence of a goddess. Pamela was an artist, an intellectual. I was (am) an astute brute.
We walked and talked. We eventually found our way back to my room. We were nervous at being alone in my dorm room.
No boundaries. No drugs. No drinks. I hadn't unpacked the stereo. No music, except for the angel playing
the harp, in my head. We made awkward conversation, then decided to go investigate her room. We needed to see
if the courage to release our passion was waiting for us in her room. My big city bravado was stifled. I was in
Eden with a goddess. I was in awe of her. Instead of awkward molestation, we made more stilted conversation, until
her new roommate barged in on us with her family and ended our make nice party.
I didn't see Pamela alone, or without an entourage, for almost 3 years. By then, we were in different
orbits. 3 year later, I was on the road to discovery of other beautiful women in need of some positive attention.
Dorm life, which included uninhibited substance abuse, frank group discussions regarding male female relations and my careless
slide into adulthood provided a new type of awareness for me. I felt more dangerous than I believed myself to be as
a teenager on the streets of Detroit. I wanted to possess beauty with a vengeance. I was meeting women that had never
been exposed to astute brutes from the hood, to aide and abet my lasciviousness. I was still raw enough to stand apart
from those refined young gentlemen from the East and the South. The men from Detroit were tougher than the jocks and
as smart as the geeks. We had made the cut, by surviving Sophomore Year. 75% of the people that had come to campus with
us, our freshman year, had been sent home packing. Thinking became an exponential process. Life had no boundaries.
The summer I encountered Pamela again became the best year I had at the University. I was working part-time, as the
night watchman, for the local power company. I had a car, some money and was 21-years-old. I had my own little
apartment. My sophomore year roommate, who had gone home for the summer, signed up to be my summer roommate, so I had
the room all to myself. I did not perceive myself as having limitations, except when it came to attending class.
The first night I moved into my summer residence, Sheri, the girlfriend of a former dorm mate, called me
at midnight and told me that she was "afraid" to be alone in her room. Ever the gentleman, I invited her for a sleep
over. She came to my room and slept securely in my arms, all night. Beautiful girls are afraid of the dark but
some harbor even darker fears, in the light of day. A few days after our sleep over, Sheri expressed extreme guilt over
sharing my bed. She swore it would not happen again. We had betrayed her homatic boyfriend. No amount of
pleading would change her mind. I went to her room, day after day, pleading for her to acquiesce. On the fourth
Friday, I decided to go begging one more time. Her door was wide open. Sitting on her bed was a thick bronze goddess
with almond eyes, heavy eyebrows; 36 D's and close cropped dark brown hair. It was Sheri's high school friend Jasmine,
home from college for the summer. We connected immediately. We made pleasant conversation, under the watchful eye of
Sheri's lusty roommate.
We waited patiently for Sheri. I suggested that we go to my room, have some wine and wait for Sheri in a
more relaxed environment. Jasmine was horizontal within the hour. She was 19 and eager. We wasted no time
in getting to know one another. We had no time to waste. About 2 hours later, there was a knock at my door. Sheri
tried not to betray herself, when the door opened and she saw Jasmine sprawled on my bed, pants unbuttoned and me standing
in the doorway with lipstick smeared all over my face and shirt. Sheri took it well. Her upper middle class upbringing
would not allow her to karate kick me in the groin and punch Jasmine in her perfectly formed mouth. Instead she sat
down and had some wine with us. I felt good at being able to help Sheri with her moral catharsis regarding our sleep
over. Unfortunately, she stuck to her commitment to stay out of my bed, late or any other time of the night or day,
for years. Over the remainder of the summer, Jasmine proved to be the perfect compliment to my emerging life without
limitations. She was everything an over sexed 21-year-old could ask for: a screamer, orally inclined and on the pill.
Jasmine willingly drove her mother's Oldsmobile to the power plant, so we could rock the cracked green leather
couch in the ladies lounge. We had the whole facility to ourselves, each weekend. Our torrid relationship allowed
me to stop pining for Pamela and eased the loss of my well stacked midnight lover. Jasmine was a libidinal dream right
up until she returned to school for her sophomore year.
I went to visit her a few days after her classes began. Jasmine came to the door with a blond wig
on. She told me her name was Marie. This new girl Marie was a little creepy. When I attempted to put my
hand inside of her brassier, she pushed my hand away with a worried look on her face, cautioning me that her roommate might
come in. During the summer, Jasmine had intimated that she had had several "nervous breakdowns" during her freshman
year. She did not however alert me to Marie. It took me at least a half an hour to get Marie out of her clothing.
She wouldn't take the wig off or let me visit with the more adventurous Jasmine. It felt funny running my fingers through
the synthetic fibers that made up the hair on the wig. It was very disconcerting. Marie wasn't orally inclined.
As the semester waned, me, Jasmine and Marie, saw less and less of one another. The physical distance between us, the
splits in her personality, her sedentary roommate and my attention deficit disorder worked against our lusty undergraduate
affair. The U was my main bitch and always pervaded my thoughts.
During my protracted senior year, I was able to be a good student and an aficionado of the beautiful.
I just never found enough time to devote myself to the neglected underclasswomen. In my last six months at the U, I
met two high school townies, at the bar. The townies filled up my social calendar, right up until I flipped my tassel
but that's another blog. To this day, I go to alumni functions by myself. I am still chasing some of those women
that I did not devote enough time to, while at the U. So much beauty, so little time. Sheri doesn't deal with
me anymore. We kissed and made up, several years after she divorced her wayward spouse. We managed to have, what
I thought was a good relationship, until the turn of the century. Unfortunately, Sheri developed a religious aversion
to fornication, about 5 years ago.
During my best summer, I learned to take nothing for granted and to pay close attention. I learned
about accommodation. I learned how to be flexible under pressure and how to properly utilize available resources. I
grew to understand that all women are substantial. Many are complex, all need attention. I learned that there
is no correlation between virtue and beauty. Jasmine bragged that I was her 33rd man, since the beginning of her freshman
year! No wonder Marie was such a prude! Today, when I see a beautiful woman that I like, I approach. I no
longer make assumptions about them based solely on their beauty. I learned years ago that they have the same needs and
wants that the rest of us have. They are not stuck up. They are cautious or have become jaded because of the constant
assaults and confrontations because of their appearance. They all want to be attended to. Give the plain girls
a break-they have too many men anyway-and step up to the plate and befriend a beautiful woman. And if you're a confident
man, you'll find one your own age.
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