…And Then, I Met Her Sister

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This is a Valentine’s Day contest story. Please vote.


A Valentine’s Day surprise, a man meets a woman online but falls for her sister.

I’m an older man and new to the technological age of the Internet dating scene. After my wife died, my son, Anthony, and daughter, Emily, pressured me to find a girlfriend. My kids didn’t push me right away, of course, but it had been five years, since the sudden and untimely death of their mother. They became concerned when they started seeing some negative changes in me and in my mood because I was saddened, alone, and lonely.

“I’m too old for a girlfriend,” I protested. “What woman would want me? Look at me,” I said looking in the mirror. “I’m old. I have bags under my eyes, jowls, and half the hair I used to have. I’m half the man I used to be.”

“Dad,” said my daughter Emily. “You haven’t been the same, since Mom died. You don’t go out and have fun anymore. You just sit at home watching TV and tinkering in your workshop. The house is a mess and every time I come to visit, I feel compelled to clean and do your laundry. Besides, you don’t eat right and you’re losing weight. You don’t have a decent meal, unless you come to my house or Anthony’s house and we cook for you.”

“I have breakfast every morning?”

“What do you have for breakfast, Dad,” said Emily persevering.

“Toast and coffee.”

“What about protein, Dad?”

“I make stuff in the microwave,” I said defending my poor diet.

“Stuff? What stuff? Soup out of a can and TV dinners don’t appear anywhere on the nutritional pyramid, Daddy.”

Every time she calls me Daddy, she brings back memories of her as a little girl and how happy she was to see me, when I came home from work.


Where did the years go? From working too many long hours, I feel as though I lost twenty important years of my life, those years watching my children grow. And now look at them. They’re not kids anymore. Now that my wife is not here to spend the rest of my life with me, what was it all for, when I’m home alone and feeling so lonely? No one should be alone but I was growing accustomed to having my little routine without having someone there to nag me to do stuff that I don’t want to do.

Maybe I should get a dog. I like dogs. I haven’t had a dog in years. Dogs are good companionship. We can go for walks in the dog park and maybe I’ll meet someone there, I thought to myself, knowing that I’d never get a dog to meet anyone at the dog park.

“I was married to your mother for almost 30 years,” I said suddenly thinking of Margaret, hearing her voice, and almost seeing her. “She did all the cooking. Now, if Ronald McDonald, the Colonel, Angelo’s Pizza, or Mr. Wong doesn’t cook my food, whatever I can make in a microwave, the toaster, or eat raw is what I eat. Besides, along with everything else, I don’t have much of an appetite for food these days. I’m depressed. No one would want me.”

Margaret was never the same after her hip replacement surgery. After she recovered, she said it hurt to walk, so she didn’t and then sometime during the night, she had a blood clot that went to her heart. She died peacefully in her sleep, I like to believe. I knew right away, when I woke up to her so cold, so blue, and so stiff that she was gone.

I should have sued the hospital for allowing her to come home too soon. I should have sued the doctor for killing her, but I was too out of my mind with grief to want to go through with any of those legal entanglements and civil aggravation. Besides, they insisted, since she died a month after the surgery, that the blood clot wasn’t from the surgery, my ass, but from her medication that she stopped taking because of the headaches it gave her.

“Dad, you should see the guys out there, bald, toothless, and overweight. Compared to them, you’re the six million dollar man. Trust me. You look good. If I was your age and not your daughter, I’d date you,” she said with a laugh.

“Kinky,” said Anthony.

“Shut up,” said Emily.

Some things never change, even though Anthony just turned twenty-eight and Emily is twenty-six, they both still bicker in the way they used to do as children. Anthony thought he was funny. He enjoys sitting down at the piano and playing background music to all our conversations, in the way they used to do with the silent movies of old. Sometimes it’s really funny, but most times, it’s just annoying. Still, sometimes, with us laughing over the songs he picks, he breaks the tension enough with his comedic piano playing to assuage an argument.

“Thanks, Em, but no one can replace your mother. I’m too old to start a relationship with a woman now.”

“Of course, no one can replace Mom,” chimed in Anthony, while playing music set to all that we were saying, first something light, and then as my perceived and imagined romantic romance blossomed to sex with my potential new girlfriend, he changed his music to something haughtily heavy. “Start off with friendship, someone to go out for lunch, bahis firmaları bowling, or to see a movie. You never know what may happen next. You may even get lucky,” he said with a laugh, while playing striptease music.

“Eww, Anthony. Gross. What’s wrong with you? Dad’s not interested in sex,” she said giving her brother a dirty look and lightly slapping him across the back of his head. “He’s all done with sex. He’s too old for all that nonsense. He’s just looking for companionship. Right Daddy?”

When Emily looked back at me, she almost caught me winking and giving the high five sign to my son. Instead she saw me sorrowfully shaking my head and agreeing with her that I wasn’t interested in sex, that I was too old for sex, and that I was done with all of that nonsense. Gees, I’m a widower. I’m not dead.

Unless I’m infirmed and drooling all over myself, I’ll never be too old for sex. If an attractive woman my age offered me some naked, under the cover hanky panky, I’d be crazy to say no. That’s the companionship that I need and want. Matter of fact, still able to drive at night and get an erection, I’ll be a big hit with the ladies in the nursing home in fifteen years.

Not much of a computer geek, my children spent the rest of their visit signing me up for one of those online dating sites. They helped me to write a profile and took my photo to download that on my page. They even gave me a separate e-mail account.

Just like that, no more bars, no more blind dates, no more friends having me over to dinner to meet their widowed cousin or an old maid friend, while making polite, albeit uncomfortable conversation. Now, a man with the times, I was surfing the net. I was out there, really out there looking for love, romance, companionship, and sex on the worldwide web. Holy mackerel.

“Oh, my God. Sorry Margaret,” I said under my breath, before saying a prayer for her departed soul to make it to Heaven.

As soon as my profile posted, it read ‘new’ in the headline for all the available women to see that I was fresh meat and to come and get me, and to come to get me they did. Where did all these available woman come from? I had no idea. There were dozens of them looking at and reading my profile because every time someone looked at me, their picture and profile posted in my box, under the heading of those who viewed me.

Within the first hour, I had dozens of views and several replies. After the first day, I had more than a two hundred views and two dozen replies. After that first week, I received nearly one hundred e-mails, solicitations, and offers to meet. Wow.

This Internet dating is so immediate. This Internet dating is alright. I still have it. Only, now, I was faced with wading through too many available women to find the right one. Only, how do I know which is the right one for me?

It was easier when I was a teenager. Typically a girl I liked in class, I’d take her to the drive-in Saturday night and make out with her, while trying to reach first base. Now, having not played the game in so long, I had no idea what the rules were.

After the smoke cleared and I had time to sit down and read all that was sent to me, there was one woman, who caught my interest. She was wicked pretty. Her name was Trudy, short for Gertrude, I imagined. I liked the name Trudy, but not so much the name Gertrude. She was a 5’6″, pretty blonde with a few extra pounds, which is how she described herself.

Margaret was always heavy and I was never the type looking for a Barbie doll, although I’d never turn one down, if Kim Basinger was suddenly in my e-mail box looking for love and romance, now that she dumped her husband, Alex Baldwin. Or if Christie Brinkley contacted me, now that she divorced her 4th husband, after he was caught paying a teenaged lover to have sex with him, I wouldn’t mind having her as a hot girlfriend. Always attracted to Diane Sawyer, I imagined Trudy being my Kim Basinger, Christie Brinkley, and Diane Sawyer all rolled into one.

Only, for sure, I was setting myself up for failure, as no woman could ever fulfill my fantasy of being with any of those women, never mind all three of them. Moreover, no woman could ever take the place of Margaret. Still, a guy can dream, can’t he?

After exhaustingly exchanging e-mail information about ourselves and talking on the phone a few times, Trudy agreed to meet me on Sunday. Appropriately and symbolically for both of us looking for love, romance, and companionship, our first meeting was the day before Valentine’s Day. She asked me to her house for coffee and homemade cake.

I was so nervous. I didn’t even know what to wear. Should I wear a jacket and tie or something more casual? I decided to go with a nice pair of corduroy slacks, a button down shirt, and a wool sweater with a light jacket, along with my matching Polo cap.

Not much of a beer drinker and not possessing the beer belly that all my friends have, after getting a good night’s sleep the night before, with the bags under my eyes kaçak iddaa nearly gone, I looked pretty good for a middle-aged man. To enhance my image and the sudden playboy that I had imagined I had become, I only wished I had a sports car, a convertible, a Mazda Miata or a Ford Mustang, to drive there to impress her with, instead of my ten-year-old Buick sedan. Maybe it’s time I made some real changes in my life. Maybe it’s time for a new car, a brand new Buick.

Since Valentine’s Day was the very next day, Monday, I bought Trudy a rose and a Valentine’s Day card. The Valentine’s Day card was more of a friendship card and a funnier card than it was a romantic one. It had the picture of a dog on the front and since I knew she had a dog, I figured the card would help to break the ice. If nothing else, if our first meeting didn’t go well, maybe the dog would like the card and pee on it, after I left.

I wanted to buy her a dozen roses, but I felt that may be overkill and be setting myself up to look like the big spender that I wasn’t. Besides, what if we didn’t connect? What if we got along over the net, but we didn’t connect in person? What if she didn’t like me because, I dunno, I had a habit of tapping my foot, when nervous, and what if I didn’t like her because, I dunno, she snorted every time she laughed, or because of some other annoying idiosyncrasy one had that the other hated?

Then, I thought about Margaret and started comparing Trudy to her, which was wrong to do. What if she was nothing like Margaret? Chances are she’d be nothing like Margaret. What if she just wanted me for sex? Well, assuredly so, that last part would be okay with me, at least, in the beginning, as it’s been a long while since I had sex last. Yet, there would have to be more of a connection for our relationship to last than just sex. At this stage in my life, I’m looking more for companionship than sex.

With Margaret needing a new hip and never recovering from the operation, it’s been years, since I’ve had intimate relations with a woman. Even before her hip replacement, she was never very sexual. We rarely had sex, once we aged past our late forties. Now that I think about it, I haven’t so much as kissed another woman, other than Margaret in more than 30 years. Never sexually used or physically abused, I’ve never been one just to be wanted just for sex. I’m no George Clooney, Mel Gibson, or Bruce Willis. I’m just me, Mr. Average.

It was a different time back then, when I was single, footloose, and fancy free. Now, after the scare of AIDs diminished, sex is everywhere, even more than it was during the sexual revolution of the sixties. With cable TV and pay-for-view, they have more sexual orientated television shows than they had in the movies during my day. Everything today is sex.

Still, it would be quite a refreshing change at my age, if some woman wanted to use and abuse my body, just for the sake of having hot sex. I’d have something to tell my friends about at the local bar, which I wouldn’t do anyway. I’d never kiss and tell. Still, it would be fun to feel that I was wanted and lusted over again, while spending time with a woman.

Trudy lived nearly an hour away from me at the most southern part of Connecticut. It was a pleasant drive, since I had never been that far down Connecticut before. Her house was right on the coastline. With Connecticut being the richest state in the country, the most southern tip is where all the really rich people live. As soon as I turned off the highway, I started seeing houses that were much better than my house and when more closely following my GPS is when I started seeing hints of mansions.

She lived so close to the ocean that I could see Manhattan across the way. New York was just a few minutes ferry ride. Wow. It was such an idyllic community. Everything was so clean and new. It reminded me of Disney World.

The mansions were hidden by shrubbery and trees and, because the large houses were on such large lots, set back from the road, they were concealed from view from the road by mature trees. Still, I knew they were there. I was impressed and I couldn’t help but wonder if she was a rich widow. This looked like quite the exclusive community, even more exclusive that those homes that surround the golf course, a mile from where I live. These homes make those homes look like slums, which means that these homes made my small house look even worse than a slum.

Having lived in a racially mixed community all my life, I couldn’t help but notice that I didn’t see a person of color. It was just all white people, mostly middle-aged white people my age. I never saw so many BMW’s, Mercedes, and Porsches in my life. Then, as I drove closer to the ocean, I started seeing the really expensive cars, Ferrari, Lamborghini, Bentley, Rolls Royce, and Aston Martin. I was getting a rubberneck from quickly turning to look at an exclusive car that sped past me. High priced luxury and sports cars were as plentiful here as Honda Civics and Toyota Camry’s were where I live.

She kaçak bahis mentioned that her late husband was a General Electric scientist, but I never knew scientists made this kind of money to afford to live down here. Maybe he invented something. Then, I remembered that GE owns NBC. With a hop, skip, and a ferry ride from Connecticut to New York, I figured celebrities lived down here to be close to the NBC set and New York, too. I wondered if she knew any celebrities. Then, when driving through the center of their small town, I started seeing some. Isn’t that Jose Feliciano, walking with that woman? Gees, that looks like Carrie Fisher. And isn’t that Joanne Woodward? Isn’t that what’s his name, one of the Rolling Stones? No way!

I pulled up to her house. It wasn’t a mansion but, with a manicured lawn out front, it was a big house, bigger and much more expensive looking than my four bedroom ranch, for sure. She had a dog, an Irish Setter, and the dog was first to greet me at the door. I like dogs and he was really friendly.

“Down Redford,” she said, when opening her door and seeing me squatting down to pat the dog and the dog jumping on me and licking my face. “I thought you’d be taller,” she said with a laugh.

“I am,” I said standing and we both laughed over her wit.

“How are you, Trudy? It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said handing her the rose and the Valentine’s Day card, while taking the liberty to give her a hug and a kiss her on the cheek.

“Oh, thank you for the rose and the card. Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too,” she said. “Come in,” she said ushering me into the living room. “Please, have a seat.”

“Redford? Why Redford? I realize that he’s an Irish Setter but–“

“Robert Redford used to live a few streets behind me, next door to Paul Newman and down the street from Jose Feliciano. An animal lover, Robert Redford was always rescuing dogs and Redford is the puppy of the mother that I got from him, so long ago.”

“Wow. I think I saw, at least I thought I saw Jose Feliciano and Joanne Woodward in town, along with Carrie Fisher, and one of the Rolling Stones, not the drummer, but the one they never mention.”

“You may have. They are always out and about. When Paul Newman was alive, he’d ice skate on the pond behind my house. That was his pond, of course but, with all the leaves off the trees, I could see him from my back porch. He was very friendly and personable, always signing autographs and posing for photos.”

Well, my first impression of her was that she had posted an older photo of herself. She was older, for sure, than her posted age and even looked a few years older than me, instead of the few years younger that she stated she was. Moreover, still a bit slimmer than Margaret, she was more than a few pounds overweight. Imagining her looking more like her photo, I was disappointed at first, but she was still the Trudy, who I had hit it off with online. I decided to ignore the age and weight differences and give her a chance. Moreover, I’m not the shallow type of guy to discount the person, just by the outside package, that is, until her sister walked in the room.

Oh, my God, love at first sight. This was what I imagined Trudy to be and, instead, it was her sister who stole my heart. Here she was in person, all the woman that I could ever want, Kim Basinger, Christie Brinkley, and Diane Sawyer all rolled into one, my beloved Susan. Only, how can I romance her, instead of her sister? What the Hell am I going to do now? Sorry, Trudy, but I don’t want you. If you don’t mind, if it’s okay with you and with your sister, I want your sister. I’m sure that will go over big with the both of them.

Desperately trying to think how to weasel out of this, for sure, Trudy falsely advertized herself. First of all, she was older than the age she posted. The picture she sent me, along with the photo she posted online, had to be close to ten years old. The ten years in age that she thought she could conceal with makeup, she couldn’t. Nor could she hide the more than a few pounds that she said she was by wearing a black top and black pants. She was at least, thirty pounds heavier than I imagined she’d be. Not that her age and weight should be a deal breaker, but when I compared her to her sister, it was. Without doubt, her sister, Susan, was the woman of my dreams and the woman that I wanted.

“Hello,” I said standing and smiling, while making eye contact.

“Oh, this is my sister, Susan,” said Trudy.

“Susan, this is Rick. The man that I told about that I met online.”

“Hi,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

I even liked her voice. Where Trudy had a smoker’s voice, even though she lied in her profile and wrote that she didn’t smoke, when there was an ashtray, cigarettes, and a lighter on the coffee table in front of her, Susan had a young sounding voice. Susan had a voice that I imagined her talking dirty to me in bed, while giving me hot pillow talk, after we made love, and before she gave me a blowjob.

Susan was a carbon copy of her sister, only younger, prettier, slimmer, and with bigger breasts. Her tits were huge. Without doubt, where Trudy had an obvious B cup, Susan had D cup breasts. A definite breast man, be still my heart.

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