Part One
My name is Anthony Vernon. I was 36 years old in 1984. I wasn’t getting any younger. My prospects of finding my dream female, getting married, and raising a family—a longtime desire of mine—were diminishing by the month. I was almost resigned to a lifetime of bachelorhood when I got a telephone call from my friend, Neville Paxton, just shortly after Labor Day. It would change my life instantly. Neville and I played tennis and enjoyed watching sports and movies together. The purpose of his phone call that night was about none of the above.
“Hi, Neville,” I said when I heard his voice. “Are you wanting to schedule another tennis match? I’d love to play you again. I’ve won our last three meetings, if you recall.”
“No, Anthony,” he began, “this call has nothing to do with a tennis rematch—although we do need to do that sometime soon before the summer ends. My huge ego doesn’t permit me to accept losing so often to you. However, it is a completely different topic I’m calling about.”
“Is one of our favorite movies on TV tonight or tomorrow?” I guessed. “I haven’t checked the listings lately.”
“Wrong again, Anthony,” Neville insisted. “Stop with your guesses and just listen to me.”
“Okay, I’ll shut up and let you talk,” I agreed.
Neville stated, “We have a new employee here at the advertising agency. Her name is Bonnie Clemens. She just started a couple of days ago as a secretary and go-to person to get our miscellaneous tasks done. I think you’d like her—a lot. She’s 33, intelligent, clever and funny. In fact, she has every trait that you would find appealing in a potential wife. Here’s the best part: She told me her goal is to find a husband soon because she wants to be a mother and she’s worried that her biological clock is running out. She asked me if I had any friends who were in the market for a wife. I thought of you, Anthony my friend, because I’ve heard you bemoaning the fact that you think time is running out on you, too!”
“So why isn’t she already married?” I asked as it was the first thing that popped into my mind. “A girl like that should have been scooped up by somebody long before the age of 33.”
Neville paused for a minute and revealed a harsh fact. “I’ll be truthful, Anthony. Bonnie is not much to look at. She has an okay figure, but she’s a very Plain Jane-type. I hate to be cruel, but I’d only give her a four out of ten in the beauty department.”
“Well, I’m not exactly a Robert Redford lookalike,” I honestly replied to Neville, “so I’m hardly in a position to dismiss any potential wives on the basis of their prettiness—or lack thereof. If Bonnie truly has all the other qualities and attributes you mentioned, I’d certainly be willing to meet her.”
“She does; I guarantee it,” Neville asserted. “I could call her right now. Helen and I were going to try that new dessert place tonight. I could reserve a table for four, and instruct Bonnie to meet us there at 8 p.m. What do you say?”
I said I’d be there, too.
Part Two
I arrived in the parking lot of Desserts to Die For—what a great name for a business!—at about 7:50 p.m. As I parked my car, I saw a woman three spots away from me sitting alone in her vehicle. My instinct told me it was Bonnie. About a minute later, Neville and Helen arrived at the restaurant. The woman immediately got out of her vehicle and waved at Neville—who waved back at her from the driver’s seat. My gut feeling had been accurate.
I got out of my car, too. As I approached the Paxtons’ car, I got my first look at Bonnie. She was about 5’6” tall, which was about four inches shorter than I was. She was wearing a blue dress with white polka dots that highlighted her best feature—her legs. She had short black hair and a very plain face, just as Neville had advertised. I’d certainly seen worse-looking women in my life—and I’d even dated a couple.
Without her seeing me I said as I approached her from behind, “I think you are my blind date for tonight. I’m assuming you’re Bonnie. I’m Anthony.” Bonnie flashed me a very endearing smile that made her face look a little less plain. We shook hands. I exchanged pleasantries with the Paxtons and we all headed inside the eatery to see if their desserts were really as sensational as the rave reviews had claimed throughout the one month the establishment had been open.
I had never been so pleasingly surprised in my life--and it had nothing to do with the restaurant's excellent chocolate fudge cake. Bonnie turned out to be a sensational date! She was a great conversationalist, full of amusing anecdotes. Bonnie was clearly bright and could talk informatively on a multitude of subjects. She also seemed to have the same political convictions I had. When Bonnie offered her opinions on the MLB pennant races, I silently concluded, “Finally, at long last, this might be the woman for me!” Bonnie must have thought highly of me, too, because she instantly accepted my offer of a second, more private date. Things escalated quickly and positively. We were married in late December. Shortly thereafter, I moved out of my house and into Bonnie’s place because she had a newer and more spacious home than mine was.
For about the first two months of our marriage, everything in our lives was quite satisfactory. We both continued to work at our respective jobs, and enjoy shared hobbies. We both loved doing crossword puzzles. (Tackling them together was great entertainment for us.) Our sex life was fun and exciting at the start. Bonnie was a virgin on our wedding night. My carnal experience was almost nil, but not quite. Then I slowly began to lose interest in our bedtime activities. I began to realize why—and it had nothing directly to do with my wife. Instead, it had to do with a secret aspect of my personality that I strongly suspected as early as the age of 12. It became plainly obvious to me by my mid-twenties. Bonnie, unfortunately, just did not fit the profile of the type of female I preferred sexually. It had nothing to do with anything regarding beauty.
I felt extremely guilty about it because Bonnie adored me. She absolutely doted on me. She was a terrific cook, a great housekeeper, and a thoroughly wonderful companion in every way. She was always very affectionate toward me, too. This reality made it even more frustrating that I did not find her as appealing as I should have when we got into bed.
Eventually, Bonnie became frustrated with her inability to sufficiently arouse me. One night when I even found it difficult to get an erection while she was giving me an enthusiastic blowjob, she felt the need to say something. “Anthony, dear, what’s the problem?” she asked me. My devoted wife wasn’t angry. She was just concerned—very concerned—about me.
I decided to be totally truthful. “Bonnie, I love you very much. I have since our first date at the dessert restaurant. It’s just that as a sex partner, honey, you aren’t what I prefer.”
“Are you gay, Anthony?” she asked me.
“Nope,” I said with a laugh. “Far from it. I like girls, Bonnie. I really like girls—a lot.”
She initially gave me a bit of a blank look. Then it slowly dawned on her. I had used the word “girls” instead of “women”. I had done that deliberately.
A light came on. “Oh, now I think I understand what you are trying to tell me!” she said.
I embraced Bonnie. I motioned her to cuddle up beside me as I attempted to explain my sexual preference to her. I had never told this to anyone before, so this was going to be a new experience for me.
“When I was 12 years old,” I started, “and first took an interest in the opposite sex, there was an 11-year-old girl who went to my school whom I quite fancied. Her name was Alissa Marcotte. She was a cute blonde. She was my first girlfriend—and the first girl I ever kissed. I believe we were together for six or seven months until I was 13. Then I broke up with her because I found her sister, Ellie, more attractive. Ellie was a year or so younger than Alissa. When I was 14, my next girlfriend was a 12-year-old who lived across the street from me named Roberta Jansen. When I was 15, Roberta’s younger sister, Madeline, caught my eye. Do you see the pattern here, Bonnie?”
She did.
I continued. “All my male classmates at the time, without exception, were fixated on the buxom girls at my middle school. That’s all they seemed to talk about—girls’ tits—who had them and who didn’t. Me, I was more attracted to their younger sisters. I realized I was an absolute oddball compared to other boys, so I kept quiet about the types of girls I liked. I didn’t dare say a thing. I thought I might grow out of it someday.”
Amazingly, my sweet wife just hugged me more and more tightly as I continued with my story. She really was an understanding gem.
“Therefore, Bonnie, I seldom dated during my high school years and beyond. One day about 15 years ago, when I was in my early twenties, I was informed that a friend of a friend’s father had passed away. The deceased man had compiled a huge collection of periodicals. I liked to collect back issues of Time, National Geographic, Life, Sports Illustrated and others, so I made arrangements to visit the dead man’s home and take a look at them. I was told I was welcome to keep whichever magazines I wanted—completely free of charge. In fact, the more periodicals I took, the better it would be. His family was eager to get rid of all of them.
“I was left alone with files full of hundreds of magazines. I had only been perusing them for about a minute or so when I found a few that I suspect his family did not know he possessed. They were nudist magazines from Norway and Sweden that had been published in the 1960s. They mostly featured stunning color photographs of absolutely beautiful, young Scandinavian girls. I immediately became sexually aroused by the images. I couldn’t help myself. They were a real turn-on for me.”
“I can see that,” Bonnie said. She pointed to my rising penis. “You’re getting hard just thinking and talking about them, Anthony.” She was right! These images in my mind were making me hornier than my wife giving me a blowjob!
I continued my tale. “I lost all interest in the other magazines. That day I found 14 of those nudist publications and quickly shoved them into an empty knapsack I had brought with me. I also took a half-dozen copies of Time and Life as a ruse, just to make it look like those were the ones that interested me. I said I’d return the next day with cardboard boxes to take many more home. The dead man’s family members were pleased. I was ecstatic.
“When I got home, I opened up one Swedish magazine, dropped my pants, and I immediately masturbated to the pictures of three gorgeous blonde girls who were delightfully nude. They were at a beach somewhere. I looked at one captivating photo of a smiling doll named Anna who was merrily lying on a blue beach towel with her legs slightly spread. I came in about 30 seconds. The next day I returned to the dead man’s house and found five more nudist mags among the others. I still have those 19 magazines—and I still put them to use occasionally.”
“So you find the images in those magazines more arousing than me?” Bonnie asked quite sadly.
“Not just you,” I clarified, “I find them more appealing than any adult woman. That’s the way I’m wired, I guess. I’m sorry, Bonnie, but that’s the undeniable truth.”
Bonnie was silent for a moment, so I thought I’d elaborate on my sexual fetish. "I haven’t acted on those desires of mine with an actual girl since I was 15. That was Madeline Jansen, another desirable cutie. At that age, I already knew there was a legal and societal line that I couldn’t cross without great personal risk. In all the years since, I’ve dated just a handful of women, bedded three of them...and then I met you. Bonnie, having sex with you was fun at first and something of a novelty, and I still love you, but as Shakespeare wrote, 'To thine own self be true.'”
Bonnie was pensive but not at all angry. “This is certainly a problem, Anthony, but it’s not an unsolvable one,” she stated.
“Oh, you really think so?” I asked hopefully.
“Certainly!” Bonnie insisted. “The solution to every problem lies within the problem itself. I think I have it. Why don’t we pretend that I’m Anna? You’d get to fulfill your fantasies and I get the benefits of it all. I still want to be a mother and I still want to have your children, Anthony—and no one else’s. We do get along so well, my love. It would be a huge shame to let a small issue like this wreck our marriage. Go get five or six of those nudist magazines, from wherever you’ve hidden them, and bring them to our bed. Let’s see if my idea works.”
Part Three
I was so eager to solve my “small issue” and please my clever and resourceful wife that I practically sprinted to my office in the basement. I pulled half a dozen random magazines from their hiding place at the bottom of a filing cabinet. Within five minutes we were both gazing at the same photo essay, intently looking at the photos of the lovely young lasses frolicking in their sexy birthday suits.
“Did you notice the date on this magazine, Anthony?” Bonnie asked me. “Sadly for you, I suppose these girls would be in their early thirties now.”
“Aw, don’t say that!” I said with a chuckle. “The nice thing is that pictures never age—unless you’re Dorian Gray. If you remind of things like that, Bonnie, you’ll ruin my fantasy and I won’t be able to get my dick up for you...I mean get it up for these girls. You know what I mean!”
“Well, I certainly don’t want that to happen!” Bonnie remarked. “I need your equipment to function perfectly if we’re going to make a baby. I won’t mention the age of these magazines again. I see they’ve been well used by their two owners over the years. The covers are coming loose on some of them.”
I turned the page. “Ah! Here is Anna, my adorable sweetheart from Stockholm,” I said with delight. “Look at her, Bonnie! God, she’s so youthful and beautiful. Don’t you agree?”
“There’s no accounting for taste, Anthony, but your penis certainly thinks so!” Bonnie replied. It was fully erect. “Let’s take advantage of that and not waste this opportunity. You keep looking at the charming little Anna and I’ll mount your dick in her place!”
What a great idea this was! I held the magazine close to my face so I would be totally fixated on a nude girl who had been superbly photographed in the summer of 1963—rather than my wife who was bouncing on my dick to entice an ejaculation. I envied the photographer. I hoped he enjoyed his creative work all those years ago, because I was enjoying it for the umpteenth time.
Bonnie then began pretending she was Anna with her running commentary—and what a turn-on that was for me! “Hi, Anthony!” she said sexily. “I’m your Swedish dream girl, Anna. You’ve always wanted to fuck me—and now you’re getting the chance. Isn’t that fabulous? Right now, I’m riding your big, hard penis with my tight, bald pussy. Doesn’t that feel good, Anthony? It was made for you to fuck and come inside. My little titties are waiting for you to feel. Would you like that, Anthony? Feel me up while you fuck me and then shoot your come inside me. Do it to me, Anthony. I want you to do it!”
The mere suggestion of all those things put me over the edge quickly. Perhaps two minutes elapsed before I came—and I came hard. It was the best ejaculation I’d had with Bonnie since our wedding night. My dick was still impaled in the vagina of Bonnie-as-Anna when she tossed away the magazine and kissed me passionately.
“You most definitely came up with a great way of solving that problem, Bonnie!” I gushed with happiness and admiration when our lips separated. “You’re satisfied. I’m satisfied. I can pretend that somewhere in Sweden that 30-year-old Anna is satisfied too! Now I know why I married you, dear. That was an absolutely brilliant idea. You’re the smartest person I know.”
“So, Anthony, you did not marry me for my body?” Bonnie joked.
“No,” I laughed. “Not at all. Apparently, I married you for your brain and for Anna’s body. It seems very weird, but it works out just great in practical application!”
The next night we tried the pretending schtick again. This time I chose another magazine and found an attractive brunette cutie from Norway named Linnea to fantasize about. She was, I figured, slightly older than Anna as she was a little more developed in a significant bodily area. The result was the same in my nether regions as it had been the night before. A quick and powerful erection developed. Bonnie climbed aboard and went into her act.
“Hello, Anthony! This is Linnea from Norway,” she said with a sexy, breathy voice. “Sweetheart, I’m riding your big beautiful dick tonight. It’s so nice and thick. Please me with it, Anthony. I love sliding up and down your shaft. Did you see I have a bit of pubic hair on my tight vagina. Do you like that, Anthony? Do you want to feel me up and fondle my titties? Would that turn you on? Would that make you come? I want you to come, Anthony! Please, don’t tease me. Come inside my warm pussy!”
Seconds later I complied with faux Linnea and felt an enormous amount of jism explode from my dick. “Bonnie, I think we need to copyright what you are doing to me and for me,” I told her with great affection. “It’s just wonderful. It obviously works.”
It did work, in many positive ways. Bonnie became pregnant and gave birth a day before our first wedding anniversary. Our little bundle of joy was a girl. We named her Anna Linnea Vernon. If anyone asked, we said we chose her first and middle names after seeing them in a list of Scandinavian girls’ names.
That Christmas of 1985—our first together—Bonnie surprised me with an unexpected gift. “It’s actually a present for the two of us,” she explained before I unwrapped the heavy box. It contained two dozen issues of European nudist magazines from the 1960s. They had the same titles as my 19, but they were slightly newer, having publication dates from 1964 and 1965.
Bonnie commented, “These magazines cost me a small fortune—and they’re probably illegal to possess in this country—but they are worth every penny I spent to acquire them. We have more babies to produce while we still can.”