From: an1788@anon.penet.fi
Subject: missed opportunities
X-Anonymously-To: talk.bizarre
Organization: Anonymous contact service
Date: Wed, 16 Dec 1992 15:56:53 GMT

[I apologize if this is a repost.]

	A tall, skinny girl, breasts fully-grown into hard little lumps,
was the first one.  At sixteen he had had almost no experience of women,
but the girl's intelligent expression and purple eyeshadow were strangely
attractive.  They talked before classes a little, but nothing ever came
of it.  
	Had he invited her out on a date, they would have become good
friends, gone to college together, and married shortly before they began
graduate school.  The marriage would have been fairly happy.
	The second one was in college.  She worked part-time in the library.
Her hair was dull black, her skin creamy, her forehead high, her figure
good but unremarkable.  Her voice was deep, almost a tenor, but womanly.
He would smile shyly at her, and when she saw his smile she would smile
back with enthusiasm.  It never went any further than that.
	Had he found some excuse for talking with her, he would have been
enthralled by her dark hair and enchanting voice even before discovering
that she was almost a female alter ego.  They would have fallen passionately
in love with each other, married because she was pregnant, and had seven
children.  Within a few years her hair would have turned gray and a little
extra fat would have appeared on her breasts and buttocks, and her mature
good looks would have caused a fresh infatuation.
	In his senior year of college he met the third one.  She was a tiny
young woman, well under five feet tall.  Her hair was buttocks-length and an
even light brown.  Her eyes were too small, but she had elegant high cheeks
and fat pouty lips,  She had been a gymnast in her youth, and just enough
woman-fat sheathed her powerful little muscles to keep her limbs from being
a boy's; her breasts were small but well-shaped, stretched over outsized
chest muscles.  Her voice was a rich alto.  She was well-read.
	They were in a few classes together, and were lab partners for a
semester.  If he had asked her to study with him -- superfluous, because
they were both fine students who worked best alone -- none of that time
would have been spent in study: they would have kissed and cuddled and
a strange mixture of repulsion and attraction would have arisen in him
as he kneaded her muscles.  She would have gotten him to exercise, and
a fine athletic pair they would have made, walking down the aisle to be
married.  Their sons would have become superb running backs, their daughter
an Olympic skater, and they would have lived to remarkably old ages in
great health, running marathons as octogenarians and having passionate
sex well into their nineties.
	The fourth woman he met in graduate school.  Her hair was wavy
and bright orange, and she wore heavy sunscreen on every square millimeter
of exposed skin to discourage freckles; she wore only black clothes.  She
was a mathematician specializing in algebra, and an opera fanatic.  He
found her beautiful and unapproachable.
	Had he bought tickets for two to _Don Giovanni_ at the Arts Complex,
and told her that he had an extra one, she would have gone with him and
they would have been mutually attracted.  True, after eighteen years of
marriage and three children she would have been killed in a freak accident
involving a combine, but they would have had some years of happiness together.
Instead, she never really got to know him, married an alcoholic Sikh, was
divorced within a year, and eventually killed herself in a car crash that
the police blamed on drunken driving.
	By the time he was thirty-six, there had been fifteen such women,
women who would have been happy with him and he with them, if he had only
had the nerve to approach them.  Instead he took up heavy drinking as a
hobby and died at forty-eight from liver failure.
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