“I have a surprise for you!” calls Vivian from the hallway, slamming the front door. She storms into the kitchen in a sudden eruption of cheap heels on tiles that has me almost drop the tray of cookies I’m about to put in the oven. Most moms wear Sketchers and shapeless cardigans, but not Vivian. Her blonde curls are done in a messy yet sexy updo, and she has her usual skin-tight yoga wear on. The woman stops in her tracks, looking over my form with disapproval.
“Janie,” she complains. “Why are you baking cookies on a Friday afternoon? Shouldn’t you be getting ready to be somewhere?”
I shrug, placing the baking tray on the middle shelf and closing the oven. “Like where?”
“Like a party? A date? A friend’s house? Something?” Vivian exhales, exasperated. I right myself and wipe my floury hands on my apron, calmly reaching out for the “surprise” she’s holding. I’ve long given up explaining to my mom that I enjoy my own company and I’m not interested in all that high school stuff. But she just doesn’t get it.
“What’s this?” I ask, ignoring her comments and opening the box.
“It’s a dress,” Vivian grumps.
“I can see that,” I retort. “What for?” Vivian rolls her eyes.
“For you to wear somewhere, of course. Somewhere fun!” I look at the cloth in my hands: it’s a black silky thing, and by the looks of it, way sexier than I would ever choose for myself. Vivian and I are so different, and I think it’s something she’s never forgiven me for. My mom’s what lots of men would consider a bombshell: thin, bleach blonde, and always tan. No one ever believes I'm her daughter with my brown curly hair, milky skin, and generously curvy body that has given me plenty of cause to be shy about. After all, my Double D’s are four times the size of Vivian’s, my big thighs and ass would never fit her jeans, and my soft arms jiggle more than her entire body put together.
And yet this dress isn’t exactly something Vivian would wear herself, either. She’s clearly made a real effort to find something she thought I’d like. The tag is still on it. She must have just gone shopping.
“Mom,” I say, smiling at her in a sudden rush of affection. “That’s really sweet. But I don’t have anywhere to wear this to.” Vivian gestures impatiently at the dress. “The point is that now you have it, you find somewhere to where it to. That’s how little black dresses work.”
I don’t think that’s true, and I also don’t think little black dresses are meant to be this tiny, but I keep all this to myself. “Thanks,” I say warily, before handing it back to her. She looks at me incredulously as I go back to my cookie dough, starting to prepare the second baking sheet to go in the oven.
“Janie,” says Vivian in her attempt at the strict mom-voice. It never was her thing. “These are the best years of your life. You’re a high school senior! You should be out there having fun! Going to parties! Hell, even breaking the rules a little bit!”
“Most parents would be happy to know their kid chooses straight A’s over underage drinking, Mom,” I retort. She snorts, folding her thin, veiny arms. I look up at her accusingly, unable to hide the salt in my voice. “And those straight A’s will get me into college. You know my only shot at going is by getting a scholarship.”
At least Vivian has the grace to look a little ashamed.
“I know, Janie. And I’m proud of you. But being social is important, too. I mean, look at me! Thirty-six, yet with the social life of a twenty-one year-old!” she proclaims proudly.
I resist the temptation to roll my eyes because my mom’s also been married three times and divorced three times in her thirty-six years. How’s that for a doozie? But she just doesn’t get it, and continues to hound me.
“How about some fun? I mean, boys, Janie. Boys. Have you ever even been kissed before?” My face burns and I continue to focus on the little dollops of cookie dough I’m spooning out onto the baking sheet. “Well?” she insists.
“You know I haven’t, Mom,” I mumble.
“That’s okay!” Vivian exclaims quickly, in an overly sympathetic tone that suggests it’s not. “But you’ll want to, you know, get that over with, before you go to college, don’t you think?”
Here she goes again. I let her drone on about the importance of losing my virginity before going to college, but it’s not that simple. Because I want to hold out for someone special. Someone who really gets my juices flowing hopefully. Vivian’s different because I was born right after she graduated high school, and I think she has some regrets having me so early. As a result, she wants me to do things a little differently, like live it up while I’m single.
But the thing is that my mom and I are just fundamentally different. It’s not like I’m not interested in sex. But so far, none of the acne-ridden boys in my high school have inspired me to lust. What I need is a man. Someone big and strong, with rippling muscles and a deep voice, someone who’d know what to do with my body, someone who’d take me. Someone who was seriously hung with a huge, thick cock. Someone like the men in the romance novels I like to read.
But who am I kidding? Those novels are fantasies. Men like that don’t exist. And even if they did, they’d never be interested in curvy, nerdy, Janie Martin.
Although there is that guy who just moved next door. I think his name is Trent - his mail was sticking out of his mail box one time and I secretly stole a glance at the address. I bet he’s hung, all right. He’s very mysterious and I’ve only seen him a couple of times, but on those occassions I felt as if the lust I’d only experienced reading my romance novels had been manifested in the flesh. Vivian and I had been unloading some grocery bags from the car and there he was, working on his car in the driveway. His shirt was off, showing off an incredibly muscled upper body covered in tattoos. His black hair was combed back, glinting in the sunlight, one strand falling over his brow as he tinkered with the engine. Vivian had practically dropped the brown paper bags, tripping over herself to go and say hi. I’d died of course. This was my mom, after all.
But since that day, I haven't seen him since. Trent’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen and if I'm honest with myself, I have to admit I’m incredibly turned on by him.
But back to the problem at hand.
“At least try it on for me,” wheedles Vivian, and I’m aware I haven’t been listening to a word she’s been saying. Not that she’s noticed.
“What would be the point, Mom?” I say, finishing off the second baking tray and placing it in the oven. The warm waft of sugariness of the first tray blasts me full in the face, making my mouth water. “The point would be for me to at least be able to see it on you! Just once! Even if you’re too ungrateful to actually wear it out,” she retorts. I roll my eyes.
“Fine,” I say, and untying my apron I stalk to my room, snatching the dress from Vivian’s hand.
Impatiently, I unzip my jeans and throw them on the floor and yank my T-shirt over my head. Standing in front of my full-length mirror, I stand looking at myself in underwear. Uck, I’m all folds and jiggles. I pull a face and hastily drag the black, silky material over my head and chest and down to my legs - where it ends, much to my disdain - high up on my thighs.
Great, I think. Thanks for nothing, Mom. But then I glance up at the mirror and I have to admit, the dress is flattering.
My arms may be soft but my shoulders are small and so is my waist, two facts that are highlighted by this particular cut. My huge tits aren’t crushed by the material, as is the case with most dresses I’ve tried, but are liberated by the incredibly low neckline and are pushed up and together. The material clings to my soft belly rolls and wide hips in a way that doesn’t make me look like beached whale, but rather a diva. And turning around to admire my large ass, I’m pleasantly surprised by the way the material ends just under by butt cheeks for a flattering fit. Yes, the dress is slutty - but I find myself wondering what that guy Trent would say if he saw me in this. What would a man like that do? And I can’t help it as a shiver runs through my frame … because I desperately want to find out.