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| CHAPTER 7 EXCERPTS |
| KENNETH (67) & GINA (68)…One-Hit Wonders No More VICTORIA (65)…Not a Scared Spectator Anymore KLAUS & HENRIETTA (both 70)…Alaskan Adventure GILBERT (35) & MARLENE (70)…May & December MAXIMILLIAN (74)…The Professor PETER & LI (both 67)…Eastern Horizons DOROTHY (71)…Perfect Ten LEROY (67) & JUANITA (69)…Different Cultures IRENE (68)…Hidden No More HERBERT (81) and IRMA (77)…Shooting Stars A Final Note: Your Own Seasoned Romance Questionnaire Plus, Your Own Seasoned Romance Questionnaire and an Invitation to Participate in this ongoing Book Series |
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All Rights Reserved. Seasoned Romance™ is a trademark of DeLeeuw Research Group, and may appear throughout
this book with or without the ™ symbol. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior written
permission from the editors of:
DOROTHY
Today, more than ever, I just don't think that sex is as special apart from marriage. So much is tied up in
trust. When you are married, especially after a long time, you get so comfortable and familiar with each
other. I know that some people say that familiarity breeds contempt, and I guess everyone needs to guard
against taking each other for granted, but I think familiarity and trust were absolutely the greatest things
about our romance.
Maybe to other people he wasn't the most handsome man in the world, at least in other peoples' eyes, but to me he was the most
wonderful, warm, sensual, hot-blooded, beautiful man I've ever known.
And if this interview succeeds in doing nothing else, even though you’ve promised to change details and names, at least I get to
tell people how wonderful that amazing man was. Hopefully other women can read this who can identify with being married to a
man that may not look like Cary Grant or whoever the latest matinee idol is, but is an exceptional person and lover. I’d like that.
I was floating on air when he asked me to go with him to the Grange dance that coming Saturday night. At the dance we probably
looked comical to others. He was a gangly guy, over six feet tall, and I was barely over five feet tall, even though I was almost 18
by then. I was just glad that he didn't want to talk much as we danced, for I would have probably sounded like a babbling fool. All I
wanted to do was to be against him, leaning my head against his chest during the slow dances, feeling that strange, wonderful
heat coming from his trousers. I just hoped he couldn't hear my heart pounding.
I was surprised that he was a good dancer, much better than I remembered when we were both younger. I felt so attracted to
everything about him.
That feeling never, ever left during all the years we were together. It grew and grew. He was stationed in California during the next
year, so we didn't see each other very much. We mostly wrote letters. He was a wonderful letter writer, often writing poetry and
drawing me goofy little cartoons. Neither of us had been this deeply in love before, so we were totally smitten with each other,
even thought it probably seemed pretty silly and sappy to others. I thought he hung the moon then, and nothing he did during the
next half-century convinced me otherwise.
I know I’m starting to sound like a science geek here! Probably measuring him wasn’t the normal thing to do, but it was just part of
the fun we had dealing with his size.
He wore floppy boxer shorts, dating back to his Navy years. These allowed everything to dangle normally. He also wore pants that
were rather loose, so nobody else would have known just how big he was. He was never able to wear blue-jeans or anything that
was too tight. It always had to be loose slacks or khakis.
I used to joke with him, patting his "hot bologna," calling him a world champion for both his size and strength. One time back in the
Seventies, in fact, after we had been watching the Winter Olympics, we had sex, and after we were through, I reached over,
grabbed a poster board I had prepared, and held it up over my head. The poster had "PERFECT 10" written on it, and I had
drawn the Olympic symbol with the five rings and a big penis going through the rings. We laughed and laughed.
Needless to say, I tore up the sign afterward and put it in a trash bag—no need to have to explain that to one of our curious
children.
One time, 15 or so years ago, I was out of town at a science teacher's convention—where nobody knew me outside of the
convention—and I went by myself to one of the X-rated places near a military base and bought a flesh-colored penis dildo that
was about the same size as "George." In was truly magnificent. In fact, it had some of the same bulging veins on it, and large
scrotum that was similar in size to his.
I brought it home, thinking I would find some way to paint it bronze and give it to Carl as an award when the time was right for me
to play a joke on him. But when I arrived back home, and after we had a "great to have you back" lovemaking session, I reached in
my suitcase for the dildo and whipped it out for him to see, though it wasn't painted like I had planned. Instead, on it I wrote
"PERFECT 10" with a black permanent marker. We laughed and laughed. I never did get the dildo bronzed or painted. Somehow I
don’t think some mail order bronzing place would have appreciated to receive that.
this book with or without the ™ symbol. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior written
permission from the editors of:
- DeLeeuw Research Group
PO Box 610231
Dallas, Texas 75261
DOROTHY
Today, more than ever, I just don't think that sex is as special apart from marriage. So much is tied up in
trust. When you are married, especially after a long time, you get so comfortable and familiar with each
other. I know that some people say that familiarity breeds contempt, and I guess everyone needs to guard
against taking each other for granted, but I think familiarity and trust were absolutely the greatest things
about our romance.
Maybe to other people he wasn't the most handsome man in the world, at least in other peoples' eyes, but to me he was the most
wonderful, warm, sensual, hot-blooded, beautiful man I've ever known.
And if this interview succeeds in doing nothing else, even though you’ve promised to change details and names, at least I get to
tell people how wonderful that amazing man was. Hopefully other women can read this who can identify with being married to a
man that may not look like Cary Grant or whoever the latest matinee idol is, but is an exceptional person and lover. I’d like that.
I was floating on air when he asked me to go with him to the Grange dance that coming Saturday night. At the dance we probably
looked comical to others. He was a gangly guy, over six feet tall, and I was barely over five feet tall, even though I was almost 18
by then. I was just glad that he didn't want to talk much as we danced, for I would have probably sounded like a babbling fool. All I
wanted to do was to be against him, leaning my head against his chest during the slow dances, feeling that strange, wonderful
heat coming from his trousers. I just hoped he couldn't hear my heart pounding.
I was surprised that he was a good dancer, much better than I remembered when we were both younger. I felt so attracted to
everything about him.
That feeling never, ever left during all the years we were together. It grew and grew. He was stationed in California during the next
year, so we didn't see each other very much. We mostly wrote letters. He was a wonderful letter writer, often writing poetry and
drawing me goofy little cartoons. Neither of us had been this deeply in love before, so we were totally smitten with each other,
even thought it probably seemed pretty silly and sappy to others. I thought he hung the moon then, and nothing he did during the
next half-century convinced me otherwise.
I know I’m starting to sound like a science geek here! Probably measuring him wasn’t the normal thing to do, but it was just part of
the fun we had dealing with his size.
He wore floppy boxer shorts, dating back to his Navy years. These allowed everything to dangle normally. He also wore pants that
were rather loose, so nobody else would have known just how big he was. He was never able to wear blue-jeans or anything that
was too tight. It always had to be loose slacks or khakis.
I used to joke with him, patting his "hot bologna," calling him a world champion for both his size and strength. One time back in the
Seventies, in fact, after we had been watching the Winter Olympics, we had sex, and after we were through, I reached over,
grabbed a poster board I had prepared, and held it up over my head. The poster had "PERFECT 10" written on it, and I had
drawn the Olympic symbol with the five rings and a big penis going through the rings. We laughed and laughed.
Needless to say, I tore up the sign afterward and put it in a trash bag—no need to have to explain that to one of our curious
children.
One time, 15 or so years ago, I was out of town at a science teacher's convention—where nobody knew me outside of the
convention—and I went by myself to one of the X-rated places near a military base and bought a flesh-colored penis dildo that
was about the same size as "George." In was truly magnificent. In fact, it had some of the same bulging veins on it, and large
scrotum that was similar in size to his.
I brought it home, thinking I would find some way to paint it bronze and give it to Carl as an award when the time was right for me
to play a joke on him. But when I arrived back home, and after we had a "great to have you back" lovemaking session, I reached in
my suitcase for the dildo and whipped it out for him to see, though it wasn't painted like I had planned. Instead, on it I wrote
"PERFECT 10" with a black permanent marker. We laughed and laughed. I never did get the dildo bronzed or painted. Somehow I
don’t think some mail order bronzing place would have appreciated to receive that.
| EXCERPTS FROM CHAPTER 7 |
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