©Neville Goedhals 2007. Visit my site at: www.NevilleGoedhals.com





Neville C Goedhals



Chapter 1


Joe’s Pit Stop


I could imagine the swell of her full breasts, feel them press against my chest as her long slender legs wrapped around my thighs, her soft hands stroking …

Damn but I was horny! I pinched the bridge of my nose to ward off the unlikely fantasy. Such thoughts were to be expected after over a year’s layoff; I was practically a born-again virgin.

I nestled back into the car seat and sighed. The evening would probably have a very different ending; but I could hope ... couldn’t I? Not that my intentions were to get laid; however, it had been a year.

Besides, fantasizing about Gwen was dangerous, an open invitation to disappointment. All I knew of her was based on her online profile; what if she turned out to be an ice-maiden?

I eased my fingers from their death grip on the steering wheel and flipped the visor down. My teeth were still clean; nothing had changed since I last checked them three minutes ago.

All right, so I was nervous. I stepped out of the car and the door slammed with a German engineered thud.

I held my shoulders back in a gesture of bravery and marched across the parking lot toward Joe’s Pit Stop. The bar wasn’t exactly the venue I would have selected for a first meeting, but after all, I had given her the choice. “Always let the woman feel secure,” advised my friends.

Their advice sounded good. “Only select those with a photo,” was another tidbit for the uninitiated. Well, I’d followed their guidance and Gwen looked gorgeous. I paused outside the bar and dug her profile printout from my jacket pocket.

The flickering neon sign above the entrance clearly showed three rows of people in the picture; a family group. Gwen was squeezed in near the middle with only her head showing. At least her assertion that she was slender had to be correct.

In the cold light of a cheap bar sign Gwen wasn’t so much gorgeous as grainy, the picture small and low-resolution. I readjusted her image in my mind to something less flattering.

I stuffed the printout back into my jacket, braced myself and pushed the door open.

The bar hummed, a dozen conversations competing with a battered jukebox playing some old hit from the eighties. A couple of tall bar tables stood off to the side and--


I fought desperately to keep my jaw from thudding into my chest, while a cold cynical voice at the back of my mind remarked, “so that’s how she squeezed into the middle of the photo.”

I walked forward; it felt like I was stumbling.

Gwen?” I squeaked.

“And you must be Larry.” Her voice was strong, authoritative. She gestured with stubby fingers at the tall chair opposite her. Her entire arm was shorter than my forearm.

I glanced down as I pulled the chair out. No legs. Well she had legs, but they didn’t so much hang as jut straight out. All I could see were the soles of two small sneakers swallowed by cropped jeans. How had she managed to get up there?

What in hell was I supposed to do? I have nothing against dwarfs, but that doesn’t mean that I want to have intimate relations with one. But I had to take her feelings into account. After all, imagine the strength of character she must possess to--

Wait a minute; Gwen lied on her profile, or as good as lied. Her height had been left blank, but that was lying by omission. It should have stated in large bold letters “WARNING - PERSON OF RESTRICTED GROWTH.” I didn’t have to take this crap.

“Beer?” She signaled to someone behind the bar.


“So how long have you been on Match.com?” she asked while rummaging in a small purse. She withdrew a cigarette, placed it between her lips and pointed at it, her eyebrows raised in question.

“No, go ahead.” It was a bit too late for Gwen to worry about stunted growth. “I joined two days ago. You’re my first date.”

Her eyes lit up, sparkling as though LEDs deep inside her skull had activated. Cigarette smoke trickled lazily from her button nose and brown ringlets framed her face giving her a doll like appearance; the Bride of Chucky came to mind. She gave a predatory smile.

The barman set two drafts on the table, grinned at Gwen and made a clicking sound with his tongue as if to say, “another virgin to the slaughter.”

I was being a total wimp. Where was my spine? “So, you read my profile?”

“Of course I did.”

“Even the part where it says that I’m six foot two?” I tensed, ready for the punishing lightning bolt from heaven.

“Yeah.” She grinned. “I like ‘em big.”

Was she referring to men or their equipment?

She glanced in the direction of my crotch and waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Oh God, she meant the latter! I had to get out. Perhaps there was a rear door near the restrooms. Gut instinct warned me that since Gwen had chosen the bar that all avenues of escape would be locked and bolted, even fire escapes.

“Want to go sit back there?” With a toss of her curls she gestured toward the back of the bar. A dimly lit corner with a single bench seat beckoned, about as inviting as a spider’s web. “It would be more private, more ... intimate.”

Her last whispered word hissed through the air like an axe slicing toward my neck; though at her height the blow would be more likely to cleave my--

Gwen, you don’t even know me.” I wiped my now clammy palms on my trousers.

“Yeah, but I’d like to. And I’m sure there’s a lot to like.”

“I could be dangerous.”

Her grin broadened. “I hope so. Not much scares me.”

I chugged my beer to buy time. Perhaps I could scare her. Hell, at this point I didn’t have much to lose. I had to take the offensive. There would be no quarter given. Hit hard and make it count. Shock her.

I took a deep breath. “In that case I hope you like anal sex.” I forced what I hoped was a menacing smile.

“Hmmm.” Gwen’s eyes roved up and down my body, calculating. Her small pink tongue brushed thoughtfully across her upper lip.

Nooo! I’m so screwed.

Bach's Toccata in D-minor chimed urgently from my hip. I tore franticly at my cell phone.

Larry speaking.” I could hear a child wailing in the background as a woman apologized for dialing the wrong number. She hung-up before I could respond.

“Sorry I can’t hear,” I said loudly. “Hold on a second.” I covered the phone with my hand. “Work,” I explained. “Could be important. Be back in a moment.”

# #

“It was mortifying.”

“Meow-purrr.” Fang sauntered across my desk, stepped over the keyboard and rubbed his head against my shoulder.

“I know I should have been straight with her. Told her that I wasn’t interested, that ... that the chemistry wasn’t there.”


“I guess that makes me one of those heels that women always complain about; walking out on her like that.”


I tickled Fang’s chin, my way of thanking him for his feline support. He sat alongside me, watching as the cursor moved across the computer display.

“Ah! See that Fang? Some lady has sent me a ‘wink’. That’s a sure in.” I clicked on the ‘Winks received’ and a picture of my admirer appeared in the upper left-hand corner. She lacked any sign of a visible neck; her head seemed to be attached directly to a set of large beefy shoulders.

I aggressively clicked the ‘Delete Profile’ icon. Don’t these people read the ‘Required Match’ section? It’s not as if I’m looking for a Playboy model or something ... just not Jabba the Hut. For my potential match I had checked off ‘About average’, ‘Athletic & toned’, ‘Curvy’ and ‘Slender’. If that didn’t cover a broad enough range of sins then I was at a loss.

After all, do I not take pride in keeping my own body looking trim? For someone of forty I know I’m in pretty good shape, and I still have my wavy dark-brown hair--gray at the temples, but then I’d been told by numerous coworkers that the gray looked distinguished, sexy even.

I turned to Fang. “What’s not to like?”


“Precisely my thoughts. You’re so lucky you don’t have to go through this internet dating crap.”


Fang’s expression was that of a Saber-toothed tiger who’d bitten into a rotten skunk. He turned with haughty grace, sprang to the floor and headed toward his sandbox; no doubt to air his grievance at my unthinking remark.

“I’m sorry Fang,” I called after him, “I had to have you fixed.”

Returning to the screen I selected the ‘Your Emails’ folder. Three women had responded to my earlier messages. ‘Wendy’ wanted to know if my pictures were current (of course they were), and ‘hornybutlonelyintampa’ said how impressed she was with the humor I displayed in my profile. Both were obviously women of great discernment.

‘Lynette2’ wanted to meet me on Wednesday evening. I’d be back from Boston by then, not a problem. I selected her name and glanced over her profile.

Not bad. Five photos were posted; in one of them Lynette was wearing a bikini. Her long blonde hair draped over slim shoulders and medium sized breasts accentuating her flat abs. Wow! No question as to why I had sent her a message.

Her statistics were a close match to mine: She was also forty and widowed, without kids, and had a graduate degree. More importantly, in Lynette’s ‘About Me’ section, she stated, “I’m tired of the BS. My photos are less than 3 months old. Only respond if you are serious.”

Visions of her shapely body beneath mine clouded my vision. I responded.

# #

“Not sure why your flight’s late, unless Boston is having a snow storm in July,” said David. He glanced furtively at the legs of an airhostess sitting near the terminal counter. She was hammering away at a tiny laptop; the milling crowds of Monday morning commuters going unnoticed.

“It’s tradition David. Logan International always has problems on Monday. I only hope that they get their act together by Wednesday.”

“Aha! You’ve got a date. I’m right, aren’t I? It’s about time Larry. You can’t keep on ... um ...” His words came to an embarrassing halt. He glanced at his watch with pathetic urgency. “I’d better go. My flight leaves soon.”

“See you in the office on Thursday,” I called after him.

Nice chap, as far as coworkers go. It was almost touching that he was too embarrassed to talk about Brenda’s death. I guess the topic scared many of my associates. Most of them were married and the idea of losing a husband or wife would be unimaginable.

I took an empty chair opposite the airhostess and set up my notebook. Might as well use the time productively. Now, should I revise my lecture notes or check on my Match.com account? Stupid question--I logged in, eager to see if anyone had responded to last night’s messages.

“Damn this wireless!”

I looked up in time to see the airhostess swat the side of her laptop.

“Problem?” I asked.

She glanced up, giving me a smile that I felt in my groin. She was that good looking.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. It’s only that with my schedule it’s difficult to find time to organize my life, and when the wireless goes on the fritz--”

“Flight one-two-oh-four has landed,” boomed the public address in a smooth feminine voice. “We request that all passengers waiting for--”

“Must go,” said the goddess-of-the-skies closing her laptop. “Nice meeting you.”

Now there goes someone who won’t have difficulty finding a partner, I thought. Then again, all she might have are her looks and I wanted more than an attractive accessory. I watched her black-stockinged legs carry her away and with a deep sigh returned to my pathetic attempt to find a soul mate.

Fortune smiles upon me. Lynette had responded with details for our Wednesday night date. Better yet, her choice of restaurant showed a sense of taste.

This could be it!