Wayne’s New World


It’s often said that people have a ‘prime’ in life. At almost forty, newly divorced, I realized I was past mine. Once the co-captain of my high school basketball team, a second string quarterback, I got a scholarship to college, married the blonde hometown prom queen, taught Sunday School, and worked my way up to Assistant Vice President at the bank. Sounds like a modern fairytale, right? Well, one afternoon in the early 1990’s, an answering machine message turned it all to shit.

“Jewdy Dan’ls, yew stay’way from mah huzzbun, yew fuckin’ ho-wurrrr!” The angry woman’s voice blasted out of the speaker, her deep West Virginia accent resonating across my kitchen. I thought Judy, my wife of fifteen years, had been too interested in her voluntary church clerical work lately and too uninterested in sex the last few months. The pissed off caller was our minister’s wife.

I stayed calm and didn’t jump to conclusions. Wanda, the preacher’s nutty spouse, may have just been jealous or mistaken. When Judy got home, I had barely mentioned the message from the household of charismatic Reverend Tommy Foster, when my wife broke down and confessed in a sobbing pile at my feet.

About the same time the divorce was progressing nicely, my regional bank was being bought out by a bigger one, so I took a job at a large data processing center in suburban Baltimore. I left the small town scandals, gossip, and green valleys of dairy and coal country behind to start over.

At first my job was crappy, being from the acquired bank, no one, even my own team, took my title or ideas seriously. Meaningless reports and paperwork piled up on my desk, much of it delivered by the print room’s sullen employee, Saleesha. She never smiled, even when I cracked a joke. The short woman was African-American, as were over half the women in the building, which was mostly staffed with female employees. Saleesha was a big girl, and I know ‘wide as she is tall’ is a derogatory cliché, but this woman almost met that description. Maybe a height of five foot two, despite smaller hands and feet, her upper limbs were thick with flesh that nearly overhung her joints. Her torso was proportionally large, but her shape was still somewhat of an hour glass, wide hips balanced by her honeydew melon-sized breasts. The perceived flaws of her body faded when gazing at her face, which was minimally affected by her weight, stunningly pretty with big dark eyes and a bright smile. I only knew of the smile because it was seen in a portrait on her desk of her and her son. She wore wigs daily, as did a few of the other women, as her hair was wavy and reddish one day and straight and black the next, then back to reddish. Like all of us, she wore conservative business clothes every day, but upper management began a new ‘casual Friday’ policy, and a short-sleeved, scoop neck top with a bit of crowded cleavage revealed smooth, flawless skin, except for a hint of, well, cellulite on the back of her upper arms. I paid the anomaly no mind at the time. She was just another coworker at that point.

One day I passed a young woman in tears at her desk. On her dark green screen was a blinking orange cursor, that was all. I asked her what was wrong. She typed ‘logon’ and nothing happened. She feared she would get in trouble for not finishing her work. I had her try another code, which worked.

Within days I was the most popular guy on my floor. The employees had not been trained very well on the ‘other’ system, meaning the computers of my old bank, and I was darting around giving hints and shortcuts to all the women, when they weren’t stopping by my tiny office to ask questions, chat or show me pictures of their families. They even felt comfortable enough to kid me about my ‘hillbilly’ accent. My bosses were happy the work was getting done faster and put me in charge of most of the area.

The sole holdout from my new fan club was Saleesha, still unfriendly. On a rainy weekend, I began to find out why. She had been dealt a rough hand in life.

Upon taking the job transfer, I had moved to an apartment complex close to the office, and later I found out Saleesha, a single mom, lived across the parking lot. One Saturday as I arrived home, she was boosting her wheelchair-bound 10 year-old son over a parking bumper and up the curb, since the local asshole parked his big Jeep in her reserved spot with the access ramp constantly. She was also carrying plastic bags of groceries and items were falling out. The open doors of her lift-equipped van were letting the downpour in. I parked and quickly ran over and offered to help. In moments I had her son under the hallway awning and groceries corralled while she locked up the van. All of us soaked, she stoically refused any further assistance once she had opened her door, and rushed inside without even a thank you, not that I really cared. She had more important things to worry herself with.

Monday morning as I looked up from the thump of reports falling into my inbox, Saleesha actually paused.

“Good mornin’, Wayne. I never thanked Betturkey you for helpin’ me and Micah Saturday,” she said, looking at me sheepishly with those gorgeous eyes.

I played dumb. “Huh? Oh don’t worry about it.” I waved it off. “Didn’t know you lived so close.”

Her upper torso flesh quivered subtly beneath her dress, and I could practically hear her bra straps begging for mercy. I found myself fumbling for words, something that hadn’t happened in years. The conversation quickly stalled. “Let me know if ya’ll need a ride or somethin’,” I blurted out, looking at the dismal gray skies outside before starting to jot down my number on a notepad.

She scowled. “Look, just because my van isn’t brand new doesn’t mean…”

“Four wheel drive..” I interrupted “I mean, if it’s icy, you know. I got my redneck Wes’ Virginia moonshine truck, lotsa room in there for Micah’s chair an’ all.”

Spring was approaching, but the roads could still be nasty in the mornings. Judy got the Volvo in the divorce. I still had my rusty old Blazer, I hadn’t even changed to a Maryland license plate yet.

Saleesha actually smiled. “That’s your’s? You’re gonna need moonshine to get me in that junky thing!” she joked, walking away.

Later that day I made a phone call to a contact at another bank, one that made auto loans for the dealer that sold the Jeep of the seemingly jobless, selfish asshole that always parked in Saleesha’s spot. As I had guessed, he was way behind on payments, and they didn’t have his girlfriend’s address. Surprise, a few mornings later the Jeep was repossessed, the cops came when a ruckus was raised with the tow truck driver. It turned out the guy had outstanding warrants. We never saw him or the truck again, and Saleesha was able to use her space from then on.


Spring arrived and I stayed busy, and soon realized I had traded the gossip farm back home for another here at work. At 6’5″, I had gotten wind of the fact some of the women called me a ‘tall drink of water’ and the story of my divorce via my ex-wife’s infidelity, which I had only mentioned to a couple people, was common knowledge. A few women even seemed to be a little flirtatious, but I was nearly twenty years older than most, and a ‘boring old white guy’, or so I felt. While out among their desks, I did enjoy the tight skirts, pants, dark-skinned cleavage and occasional down blouse, it’s now called, views of their bras. The lingerie cradled breasts of all sizes, but sometimes not too well, as smaller, firm tits put no pressure on the cups, and the resulting gap sometimes allowed a beautiful brown nipple peek. I recalled the day’s images as I jerked off in bed at night, fantasizing about a few of the more friendly, shapely girls. Raised in a demographically white small farm town, this was a fun, new world for me, and a ‘safe’ one, in that I knew the flirtations were harmless, and none of the girls would really ‘go’ for me.

The weather warmed up, and one morning I approached the laundromat on my side of the complex. In the room and facing away from me was a heavy-set, very curvy African-American woman in flimsy red shorts, bent over, pulling clothes out of the dryer. Nearly as wide as the dryer was her inverted-heart shaped bubble butt. The backsides of her thighs were exposed and her shorts were thin and tight enough to reveal an expanse of quivering cellulite from her waist to above her knees. Instead of going inside, I stood, mesmerized, for several seconds and watched that big behind dance around. As she raised her head, I saw she had very short straight hair, brushed back simply on her head. It was Saleesha. There were washers and dryers in her building, but they must have been in use or out of order. I retreated, not wanting to embarrass her, as I was sure she didn’t want me to see her without a wig and not ‘put together’ as she was each day for work. Most men couldn’t care less how they look, with women of course things were different. My ex never even went outside without mascara and lipstick. A hurried back to my apartment to peek out the window and watch her walk back across the parking lot, but cars blocked my view.

All day the vision of Saleesha’s backside haunted me. For my entire younger life I had been conditioned to only sexually consider women with zero or minimal perceived physical flaws, and pursued my ex initially because her blonde looks were ‘approved of” by my father and male peers. While concentrating on my career, church, and being married with what was, at one time, a good sex life with a fairly horny wife, I simply hadn’t thought much about other women. I did love Judy, but she was always itching for more travel and adventure. Her sneaking around to trucker motels to screw our minister, and others, it was revealed in court, must have filled her need for escape and excitement.

The night of the seemingly innocuous laundry room encounter, I woke up in the wee hours with a rock hard dick, a frequent occurrence with no wife to screw. I grabbed it and began to fantasize about certain Betturkey Giriş women in the office, white, black, Asian, or Hispanic, when I suddenly remembered Saleesha. As I stroked I thought about how soft her flesh must feel to the touch, especially the dimpled mass of her rear end, and began to imagine my pelvis or face ensconced in it. In moments I was shooting jizz like a geyser all over my boxers and stomach. I didn’t even bother to clean up as I immediately worked on a second messy load, all while mentally replaying every encounter with her, good and indifferent, as well as various sex fantasies. It must have been the mysterious allure of the cellulite that fueled my excitement; I had seen plenty of big plump asses over the years and they never got me so horny. Most guys find the crepe cellulite surface unattractive, and I guess I really had just been following the crowd, but not any more. Even a boring guy like me can have a new fetish, even at forty. Later, I scolded myself for lusting after Saleesha, as it might cause a flirtation to creep into my conversations with her. I didn’t want to mislead her, since my motive was pure animal lust.


A week of routine days ensued, and early one morning I ran naked to the phone, sunrise boner flailing, just before getting in the shower. The battery in Saleesha’s van had died, so it was my rusty Blazer to the rescue, driving up onto the lawn and sidewalk to give her a jump. I had quickly hopped into a t-shirt, and a pair of cotton shorts with no boxers, and could feel my semi-deflated dick banging around inside them and even tenting the front a little as I hooked up the cables; I don’t know if Saleesha noticed or not. I had to remind myself that despite my newfound attraction to her, I was trying to be a friend; the last thing she needed was a middle-aged white guy from work hitting on her. The next day at the office I overheard that her battery had been dying frequently. I could tell it was an old one, and the wheelchair lift likely drained it quickly.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Saleesha, barely wrapped in a towel, with no makeup and her real hair pushed away from her face and dripping, yelled at me from the shadows of her apartment doorway the next Saturday morning. I had bought a heavy duty battery at the auto parts store and had just finished installing it in her van, with the help of co-conspirator Micah. He helped by producing the keys and holding tools. I had lifted him into the driver’s seat and on my signal, he started the van with a big grin. Later she called, perturbed, saying she wasn’t a charity case; I told her to pay me back whenever she could.

That same night about 6:30 I got a panicked call from her. She was embarrassed to ask, but she needed someone to watch her son while she went on a blind date with a man someone at her church had fixed her up with. Her mother was originally going to watch Micah, but didn’t feel well, and all her friends were busy.

I agreed and went over to her apartment, taking a couple books to read. “You look terrific!” I said when she opened the door in a red flower patterned dress. She had picked a straight-haired wig with black hair that fell to her shoulders. Giant hoop earrings swayed on either side of her beautiful face. I had to make myself avoid staring at the necklace resting in her soft brown cleavage, it was the most plunging neckline I had seen her wear yet.

“Stop your lyin’, Wayne,” she said dismissively.

“Not lyin’,” I shrugged.

“Mmm mmm,” she hummed sassily, then gave instructions to Micah about his medications and bedtime, and to listen to ‘Mister Wayne’.

A car paused in the parking lot and blew the horn, and she leaned down to kiss her son and I wished her a good time.

The evening was uneventful, aside from a trip across the parking lot to retrieve my tools to fix her constantly running toilet. Otherwise it was quiet, with Micah and I watching TV or playing Atari.

About 10 PM, Saleesha returned. Between the early hour and the expression on her face, I knew things didn’t go well.

“Where’s Micah?” she asked, relieved to be stepping out of her heels.

“Gettin’ a time out in the closet,” I replied.


“Just jokin’, he’s asleep. I laid him out on his bed a half hour ago. You’ll have to put him in his jammies. Great kid. “

“Oh no, what happened?” she asked, shedding her purse and removing the large earrings. She had spied my toolbox on the floor.

“Micah and I fixed your toilet. He’s a good helper.” Now that she was satisfied her son and plumbing were okay, she seemed to want to vent.

“So how did it go?” I asked about her big date.

She didn’t reply, but grabbed the neck of a bottle of red wine out of a high kitchen cabinet, which she reached by stepping up a footstool, her feet and calves bare inside sheer black hose. During my sneaky looks at her, I realized her body seemed to have been squeezed into a foundation garment, I think they’re called, as her torso seemed more rigid and a bit condensed. Betturkey Güncel Giriş She stepped down and took two Marvel comic book tumblers from the dish drainer. “One of the housekeepin’ staff broke all my crystal stemware,” she said sarcastically, kidding about the plastic glasses, then scowled. “That fool just wanted a waitress for tonight,” she began, angrily about her date, as we both sat down at the table. “It was a men’s ministry dinner at his church, and I spent the whole time with an apron on, servin’ them an’ washin’ dishes. Us women ate in the kitchen afterward. Damnedest first date I’ve been on,” she sighed. “Guess I’ll be single forever.” she took a gulp of her wine. “Not that I mind bein’ independent, but just to have a man pay some attention to me…once in a while.” She looked off into the distance, frowning, her shoulders slumping.

“Don’t worry, you’ll find someone right for you,” I said, trying to be supportive.

“Men just want skinny women.”

“Not all men,” I countered, trying to hide my lecherous grin.

“Was your wife thin?”

“Um, yeah, I guess, but…”

“See?” she snapped. “Did you chase any fat girls?”

“Not back then, you’re right, but I learned a lot since then, grown up, you could say.” I was trying to stay generic, platonic in my responses, and not just blurt out the fact that I wanted to fuck her. “Most men grow up eventually.”

“Mmm mmm,” she hummed skeptically. “So, now that you’re also chasin’ fat women, when you get one, you bring her around here, I wanna meet ‘er.”

She had quickly finished her wine, and advised me she needed to check on her son, which I took as my queue to leave. Saleesha then thanked me for babysitting on short notice and said I was sweet, looking into my eyes for a moment with those brown stunners of hers. she was probably smirking at my stupefied expression “Goodnight,” she said with a peculiar half smile.

Walking back to my apartment, I realized I had gotten too close. Saleesha needed a younger man, of any race, who would stick around. I didn’t want to lead her on, and I definitely wasn’t ready for any kind of commitment to any woman, after fifteen years of marriage. The next week I kept things at arm’s length at the office, pretending to be busier than I really was when she came by my desk, actually smiling a bit.


A further distraction arrived in the form of a blind date of my own. That Friday I had been fixed up with a friend of a coworker. Several of us met after work for dinner and drinks at Harbor Place on Baltimore’s waterfront. Greek-descended, expatriated New Yorker Courtney was very nice, if a bit loud. She was thirty-two, a petite, tan, cute brunette dental assistant, also divorced. The night went flirtatiously touchy and smoothly. She gave me a nice wet kiss goodbye, and we promised to call.

Late the next morning I did get a call, but not from her; it was Saleesha.

“How was your date?”

Sadly, me having an actual date was breaking news on the office gossip network.

“You get any? She carryin’ your child now?”

“No!” I said, laughing, “It was just dinner! In a crowd! Geez.”

“Well…are you busy? You need to come over here. My toilet is messed up again.”

“Okay, be there in a minute.”

I was a little worried I was becoming her personal plumber and almost felt like telling her to call the landlord, but I knew they were very slow and weren’t even around on weekends. Her apartment had two bathrooms, so it wasn’t like they had nowhere to go. But, I had nothing else to do, so over I went. I was thinking about which type of commode valve I would need from the hardware store when I tapped on her door.

“Come in Wayne! Chain the door behind you please,” she yelled from the back of the unexpectedly dark and quiet apartment as I stepped in, toolbox rattling. The noise from her son’s TV or video games was missing. “Back here.” She was summoning me to the rear bedroom, which had its own bathroom, not the one I fixed earlier. ‘Great, a new problem’, I grumbled to myself. The room was crowded with clothes racks of dresses and suits, and bookshelves of family portraits, paperbacks and about a dozen faceless white Styrofoam heads, all of which held different varieties of wigs. The bed was crisply made, but covered only in mismatched sheets.

The ceiling fan was spinning but its bulbs were off, and the window blinds were closed against the bright sun. By the humidity and shampoo smell I could tell someone had showered recently. Next I got the shock of my middle-aged life.

Saleesha appeared, smiling, her hair in a colorful towel above the natural beauty of her face, devoid of any makeup. The real surprise was that she was apparently naked beneath a thin, black, silky, short-sleeved robe. The gap in her cleavage was wider and not as deep, and her massive tits seemed somewhat deflated, lower and spread wider across her ribcage than their appearance when held captive inside a bra. The robe offered a detailed silhouette of the forward-facing, blueberry-sized nipples within. Their scattered, surrounding bumps revealed the expanse of her areolas. Her upper arm and breasts jolted and quivered wildy as she pulled the towel down from her damp hair. and tossed it over the back of the kitchen chair she used at her vanity.

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