© Sauce*Box, Summer 1996. All rights revert to author.

Plain Women
by Lisa Prosimo

As a boy, I was adored. My mother said the highlight of her day was dressing me in my sailor suit, or some other charming outfit, and taking me to the park. "People stopped to stare," she was fond of saying. "You were always so handsome."
I'd catch her gazing at me, beaming really, as if I were the grandest prize anyone could ever receive. I know why she was particularly proud to be my mother. She was plain. It was astounding that a woman so unbeautiful, together with a husband many considered ugly, could produce a child so fair. After my father died when I was four (a terrible work-related accident) the two of us would sometimes lie in bed gathering love, like warmth, from each other. We'd play a game called, "Who's the best, most beautiful boy in the world and who is lucky enough to be his mother!"
In truth, I was the lucky one. My mother was sweet; she had the truest heart of any person I've ever known, and I am privileged to have learned so much from her. She died shortly after I left for college. I miss her to this day.

As a man, I am adored. I am not being immodest when I say that I can have just about any woman I desire. I am handsome, successful, and easy to get on with; therefore, I am sought after. Dazzling women slip me their telephone numbers all the time. But I do not seek the company of gorgeous women. Some of my friends think I'm insane, but really, where's the challenge in being with the perfect body, the exquisite face? No. It is the unadorned woman that presents the contest. I learned long ago the art of reaching past the austere appearance of a lady to get to the secret person of the heart. Inside each bare root a rose waits to blossom. And what lovely bouquets I have gathered.
Once, while traveling alone through Europe, I met a middle-aged couple and their daughter. Being the only Americans in a small Italian pensione, we naturally gravitated to each other, often having dinner and taking in the sights together. Constance, the daughter, seemed to shrink in my presence, withdrawing deeply into herself and hardly speaking a word. For days, I couldn't tell the color of her eyes because she refused to look up at me. Her mother confessed that she and her husband had coaxed Constance to take a sabbatical from teaching to visit Europe with them. "She's never been anywhere," said the mother. "'How much longer will we be here?' we told the silly girl. 'We're getting on dear, you know. Do travel with us!'"
Constance was shy to the point of being transparent, yet I sensed in her a resource worth tapping. The hint of a smile, the way she moved her head, revealed the rich emotion that had lain buried under the surface far too long. Why should a woman so sweet remain unfulfilled?
After a long day of cathedrals and museums, I suggested dinner at a bistro in a nearby town. "Oh," said the mother, "my feet are killing me. Father and I thought we'd take supper in our room tonight."
I turned to Constance. "Would you do me the honor of dining with me this evening," I asked. She immediately brought hand to throat and looked away; her face had turned a bright pink.
"Oh, go on, dear," said the mother. "No need to worry about us. You go have dinner with Jeffrey."

Constance picked at her dinner, her eyes never leaving the plate. I leaned over and took her hand. "You hardly said a word on the way over. Do I make you uncomfortable?"
She look up, blushed, and pulled her hand away. "No," she stammered. "Yes, you do."
"Why?"
Constance picked up her glass of wine and downed the ruby liquid in one gulp. "Because I don't know what to make of you."
"Why make anything of me? Why shouldn't two people who enjoy each other's company have dinner together?"
"Why do you enjoy my company? I'm not a sterling conversationalist, or . . ."
"Yes?"
She took a deep breath. "Why me?"
I took her hand again, turned it over and kissed her palm. "Why not you, Constance? You're a lovely woman."
I didn't expect tears, but there they were. She shook her head. "No, I'm not," she said. "You're making fun of me."
"I would never do that," I said.
"I'm not pretty and I have a terrible figure. And I'm boring."
"No, you are not boring." I took a handkerchief from my breast pocket and dabbed at her eyes. "I would very much like to make love to you, Constance," I whispered.
From her expression, it was clear to see that I had stunned her. After a long moment of silence, the questions in her eyes dissolved and she nodded, yes.
"My parents . . ." she began.
"I'll take care of that," I said.
I secured a room at a hotel and left Constance to make the call to her parents. "I'm afraid we've had some engine trouble and will not be able to get the necessary part until tomorrow . . ."
Actually, I believe the mother knew I was lying, but she met my lie with a lie of her own, saying she understood the problem, and wished us a good night's sleep.

I found Constance sitting on the bed with her head in her hands. I sat beside her and gently took her hands from her face. I kissed her.
"What do you want me to do for you?" she said in a small voice.
I smiled. "No, Constance. What do you want me to do for you?"
"Oh . . . I don't know."
"Yes, you do. Tell me."
"I want you to . . . touch me."
I pulled her into my arms, holding her back to my chest, and drew the zipper on her dress down slowly, pausing along the way to kiss her back and caress her skin. She moaned. "Does this feel good, Constance?"
"Oh, yes. Yes."
Her skin was soft and smooth inside the dress. My hands traveled down her torso to her hips and stopped at her panties, then I slipped my fingers under the lacy material. She shivered and I could feel the chills rise on her skin. She bent her head forward and I kissed the back of her neck, then began to peel the dress from her body. With slow and deliberate movements I finished undressing Constance. First I removed her bra, pausing to kiss and lick each breast. Although not heavy of flesh, she had lovely large nipples that responded to my tongue by becoming wonderfully hard. I ran my tongue along her legs as I rolled down each stocking. Easily her best feature, her legs were long and shapely and as smooth as satin. I licked between each toe and she moaned again, lay back, and rested on her elbows. I pulled her legs over the side of the bed and knelt on the floor before her. My hands went to the elastic of her panties and she lifted her hips while I pulled them down. I rested the flat of my palm across her mound, moving it slightly, subtly. Her body rose against my hand; she cooed, tried to keep the sound secret, then I moved my hand down lower and parted the lips of her cunt. "Ahhhh . . .," she moaned, a cry seductive and revealing all at once. "Ahhhh . . . ."
The bed was one of those wrought-iron things popular in Italy at the time. Someone had hung a necklace over one of the spikes and forgotten it. As Constance moved beneath my hand, the jewelry made a chiming noise that added just the right music for lovemaking. With my left hand, I pulled her lips apart and slipped two fingers deep inside her. She churned against my fingers, flooding them with her juices. My thumb whorled over her clitoris and as she continued to writhe, I murmured words that expressed how wonderful I thought she was, how lovely. I brought my tongue to the tip of her clit and moved it slowly, very slowly over the soft flesh in warm, repeated licks. She pushed against my mouth, giving herself over to me, as if my tongue were the key to opening her most secret place. I sensed her coming, heard her crying, whimpering, then felt the swift spasms of her orgasm. When her convulsions had subsided, I withdrew my tongue and lay beside her. She turned to face me, tears in her eyes.
"That's never happened for me before," she said softly.
"But it should," I whispered. "And often."
She put her hand on my chest and smiled, and in that moment, she was radiant. "You still have your clothes on."
"Would you like to undress me, Constance?"
Constance nodded and began to pull the clothes from my body. She didn't kiss me or caress me as I had her, but that was fine. I wanted her to do what she was moved to do, my only wish that she enjoy and discover the wonder within her. When she had finished undressing me, she stood shyly at the foot of the bed looking down at my swollen cock. "For me?" she said, a hint of surprise in her voice.
"For you," I assured her.
Constance lay next to me and rested her face in the space between my shoulder and my ear. "I've had sex three times in my life," she breathed. "But always in the dark. I've never seen a man up close before. May I look at your . . . . May I look at it up close?"
"Of course you may look at . . . does the word, 'cock' unnerve you, Constance?"
"I don't think so. At least, not when you say it."
She brought her head close to my cock and as her eyes traveled up and down, her face took on the glow of happy astonishment. "So many ridges and veins."
I looked down, too. My cock was standing straight up, shining from the silky fluid that dripped onto my stomach. I moved my palm over the head and spread the drops over the glans. "Would you like to touch me, Constance?"
"Yes," she said, and moved her hand to my cock in a tentative caress. Just a few moments, and her hand seemed sure of itself, began to stroke the shaft up and down lightly.
"Does touching me excite you?"
"Yes. I love that line of soft, dark hair that goes down your belly. And--it--your penis looks meaty and hungry, and I like that, too."
I placed my hand over hers and moved it to my balls. "And these?" How do they feel?"
"Heavy, full."
Her other hand crawled around past my hip and grasped my ass. I lifted myself up closer to her face. "What do you want me to do with it, Constance?"
"Put it in my mouth," she said.
"You do it," I whispered.
Constance's lips came down on my cock slowly, soft, wide open, and wet. I held her hair off her face so that I could watch her mouth take me in, deeper, further. I hardly moved at all, it was all her doing, her show. Soon, she was sliding her tongue down the sides and over the head. She even moved her mouth off my hard-on to take my balls and gently suck the taut skin. Now she was driving me toward the edge, this woman who had thought herself ugly, but who now opened to me like the beautiful flower she truly was. I felt my climax building and carefully withdrew from her mouth. I pulled her up and kissed her. My hand rested between her legs and her cunt gushed against my fingers. "You're so hot and wet. Do you want me to fuck you now?"
"Please. Yes. Now."
I kissed her again, tenderly, as I sank into her. She groaned against my lips and I swallowed the sound. I could feel my cock, thick and smooth, rubbing against the walls of her cunt. Her heat was exquisite. I moved above her, watching her face as I drove in and out of her slowly. She took up my rhythm, her body rising to meet my thrusts. Her eyes were closed and her cheeks flushed, the passion transforming sallow skin to cream and honey, the fire in this woman changing her countenance completely. This was the look I loved, the one I worked for. She began to peak, and so did I. Together we moved into that place where flesh is everything and nothing at the same time, intensity and dissolution striking simultaneously. And I watched the moment arrive when her face was allowed--no--expected to be grotesque, as it was twisted by lust, knowing that my own face reflected the exact same ugliness.

A few days later, I moved on to France and Constance and her parents flew home. But it was a new woman who boarded the plane to Wisconsin, one whose eyes and smile were softer, whose skin was more supple to the touch, and whose attitude had been transformed. That day, a true beauty left Italy.
There have been many like Constance. Women thin, or massive, noses bumpy, and skin coarse. Some flat chested, or heavy-thighed, perhaps carrying certain infirmities. But all, in some way, beautiful; treasures who come in plain wrappers. Like my wonderful mother, God rest her soul.

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