Evan Loves Curves

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I’m Evan, a bestselling author in the hard crime fiction genre, but I wanted to tell my own story. This will be a bit more raw for me, and I have to give you, dear Lit.com reader, some background. I can certainly understand if you are only here for the dirty wordies, so if you want to skip ahead to chapter 2 where the sexy stuff starts, I’ll understand. And if you actually want to skip ahead to part two of chapter 2 for the really really sexy stuff, I totally get that too! For more of the story and shit tons of entertainment, read on:

Okay, so there’s like two of you still with me, thanks! This is the classic midwestern white man mid-life crisis. Born in ’78, I’m tall, dark and handsome with blue eyes that can almost always earn a smile from the fairer sex, doesn’t matter if she’s 1 or 101. My dad and his dad were both Navy fighter pilots, so I was born in San Diego with some swagger. I thought my old man (call sign “Ace,” and that’s a good story!) was a god. Always drove red Porsches and flew the actual TOPGUN jets; just like him, they were so loud and sexy. He retired from the service when I was 6, then went to airliners and then went to drugs and alcohol and other women.

My mom, an elementary school teacher and his second wife (12 years his junior), divorced him and moved my two older sisters and me back to her hometown in western Upstate New York. This was when I was 9. I grew up around a lot of cousins and had a special relationship with my grandfather, revolving around cars and basketball (he was from Indiana, so Bob Knight, and we were close enough to Jim Boeheim’s Syracuse Orange team to sometimes even root for them, so there ya go).

I was a high school athlete of some renown, and there are grainy VHS-dubbed Youtube clips of me as a junior leading my Assville (not the real name, obviously, but close enough!) Jaguars over our hated rivals West in the last game of the regular season. After our starting shooting guard-4 year letterman-went down with a gruesome knee injury early in the 4th quarter, I came off the bench and sparked an 11-point comeback, capped by a buzzer-beating baseline jumper for the win, 66-65, by yours truly.

Three weeks later, we lost to West in the conference tournament by 23, but not before I left the game with my own gruesome knee injury. While I recovered from ACL surgery that spring, I learned to play guitar, and as the music scene at the time was changing from Big Hair Rock to Grunge, I became a poster boy for the Seattle scene in the midwest.

Stopped cutting my hair, started wearing flannel shirts over black Alice In Chains and Smashing Pumpkins T’s, and, oh yeah, the Doc Martens. But mostly I just sat with my leg propped up and practiced the guitar.

Put it this way: I came in second for the talent show at the end of the year with my solo rendition of Bush’s “Glycerine,” beaten only by the senior dance squad (whose captain was the choir director’s daughter, just sayin’). Senior year, I skipped sports altogether but came back to the talent show with a band and won the whole thing. But then my grandfather died, and I went to college.

Life goes on.

I’d had some hot girlfriends in high school, but then I was going to a big state university and I was a musician and I just knew that college was going to be one big party. I’d seen all the movies, and everybody told me it was going to be a blast. It didn’t turn out that way for me. Instead of making it big with my band and banging tons of groupies, I partied too much and almost flunked out. The band toured, but being a regional opening act was far less glamorous than we imagined.

How’s that song go? Summer of ’99, Jimmy quit, Darius got hooked on meth. I bent my focus back to school and instead of the amazing sorority chick one-night stands I’d jacked off dreaming about for most of my teen years, I had a couple of girlfriends, relationships that stringed along for months. Then I met the coolest person, and I ended up with her.

I love curvy women, always have. Had a huge crush on my first grade teacher, who looked a lot like that English cooking star Nigella. My favorite porn was busty ladies with wide hips and big bubble booties, my celebrity date list around the time I got married in the ’00s would include Salma Hayek, Scarlet Johanson, Christina Hendricks, Beyonce, Monica Bellucci…all curvy, right? And I always figured I would find a girl like that, make her mine, have tons of babies, write the Great American Novel, live happily ever blah blah blah.

Amy was beautiful: a tall, slim, long-legged blonde with B cups and a hot ass. I fell in love with her mind, and my dick kept my eyes always wandering to any girl with big boobs and a round booty. The worst was that day at my old job, going to the training room as a supervisor and meeting my dream girl, a buxom redhead named Jenna. What did I do? I introduced her to my best friend Jimmy, and they got hitched. Torture!

Was it crazy of me fulya escort to move in with Amy in college and stay together, get hitched and have kids? Was I setting myself up for failure right from the beginning?

After eight years of marriage and being together for more than thirteen, it all came unraveled. All kinds of things led to that low point in my life, but it wasn’t cheating, and it wasn’t for lack of love. It was two people finding out that their goals were no longer aligned-if they ever were-and the strain that brings to a family. To ease the strain, we had to split. We both agreed, and though it was painful and heartbreaking, it wasn’t too terribly messy.

We had moved to Rochester after school for the job opportunities in the big city. At the time of the divorce, though, I was a stay-at-home dad taking care of a 7 year old girl and twin 5 year old sons. My ex was a public school teacher and administrator who loved her job, while I had been a supervisor at a big logistics company who hated my job (when something didn’t show up as expected, customers called to yell and scream, and when that didn’t make their stuff show up, they asked to speak to the supervisor, and that was me, so basically, my job was to get yelled at), so when we saw the price of good childcare, and also my mother’s failing health at the time, we decided that I should just quit and stay home with the kids and be there for my mom. Three years into this life of constant belt-tightening and trying to find free fun stuff to help little kids learn and blow off steam and making sure that my mom made her doctor’s visits and had her ‘scripts filled, yeah. The unraveling.

Now, back before the logistics job, I’d gotten an English degree (met my ex in class studying Kerouac) with a dream of writing for money, like so many before me. Reality sucks, or whatever, but at least my diploma got me onto that first rung of the corporate ladder, where they didn’t care if your degree was in Business Admin or Basketweaving, as long as you had one, and not only did I hold on through the recession but I worked my way up the ladder until I got a job that, although I could barely stand to step in the door most days, at least paid for a comfortable home and a fast car. Of course, when the twins came, I had to sell my beloved ’05 Subaru WRX pocket rocket and get a minivan. Why not an SUV? That’s its own story, but part of it was just, at the time the only SUV I could fit the twin’s double stroller inside wouldn’t fit in our garage. The minivan was the right tool for the job, and I was married, in my 30s, who did I have to impress?

After the divorce, I found myself in a tiny apartment close to downtown. With joint custody, I was getting my three awesome kids every other week but having to take them to my mom’s house for that time so everyone had a place to sleep. Legally. I put on the happy face and my kids genuinely made things better, but then I would drop them off at my old house and go home to my little apartment. I felt like Millhouse’s dad from the Simpsons.

Midlife crisis? I got severe depression just by walking from my crappy studio digs out to the stupid unsexy minivan in the parking lot. Well, fuck. Nowhere to go but up, right? Make the best of all opportunities. When life gives you lemons, throw those motherfuckers right back. Lemons hurt if you heave them hard enough.

I had some money saved. A little. Rent was cheap so I paid for 6 months in advance, lived on ramen and canned tuna, and started writing. My only extravagance was some weed. I liked to get stoned and write until I could barely keep my eyes open, then wake up and edit what I’d written before smoking more and continuing the story. At the end of the marriage, I’d been drinking a lot of beer, and not downing a 6-pack a night made me drop all the pounds of flab that had earned me my dad bod credentials. Some pushups and squats to get the blood flowing in the morning did the rest, but that wasn’t the point. Besides, I got a flask of Jameson here and there to provide some blur. Mostly, I listened to my favorite music, shut out the world, and the hours passed like minutes as the words poured out of me.

I also jacked my big dick off about three times a day. I should explain a little bit here. I took my wife’s virginity, and while she had her moments, sex was way higher on my priority list than hers. Probably why she loved her job and I hated mine. Anyways, not that she turned the lights off for sex and in fact she gave excellent head and made sexy faces when she came, she just didn’t need sex as much as I did. This was reflected in our everyday lives, because she had a great body but very rarely dressed to show it off. She was always eating light to stay skinny, even though I told her how much I loved it when she packed on a few pounds (I would always buy her favorite ice cream and red wine). It even came to how I dressed, as she wouldn’t let me out of the house gebze escort in sweatpants or certain shorts without an athletic supporter. Turns out, she thought all cocks were as big as mine until some girlfriends set the record straight (she measured it once, almost reluctantly, and after a whole bottle of wine,..years later she confessed one of her friends asked her to do it [and then didn’t believe her]). But she never made a big thing out of it, which I guess was a disappointment. We connected on so many levels, it’s a shame she couldn’t meet me on the same sexual plane. And then, through bad morning sickness and two pregnancies with a lengthy period of illness between (long story!) and all those sleepless nights parents of little kids so fondly remember, I found a lot of time to jack off. Sometimes I would be up wide awake at 3am with everyone else in the house asleep and I would take the tablet and a sock somewhere and go to town watching videos of bbws getting crammed full of cock and covered in jizz. Then I would fill that sock up. Because balls are glands just like boobs, and they work on supply and demand, like when a woman’s milk supply increases as her baby grows because it needs more food (yes, stay-at-home dads know all this shit). So, jacking off this much made my loads become pretty enormous. And I read stories and watched couples camming where you could just see they were so into each other, him worshipping her giant breasts and her worshipping his big cock and it just seemed so natural. I would just watch, and like anything else-a super sexy low-cut top, skin-tight jeans or revealing bikini-I’d be like, yep, I’m never going to see my wife like that. The disappointment.

But then it compounded when I got my own place. I would wake up and masturbate and do it before I went to sleep and probably two or three times in between. Addicted? Should I have been looking for real sex instead? At the time, I was too committed to getting my kids settled after the divorce and working on my story to get out there and try to play the game. And too broke. So it was an all out spankathon.

Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, writing. I would almost always jack off before I got to work, just to clear my mind, and to try to keep my story from turning into something that should be published on Literotica.com, not found in the new fiction section at Borders.

But I was working. I would keep track and write for at least 4 hours every day and sometimes many, many more (I wrote two middle chapters in a 32 hour blitz at one point). It took about two and a half months, with the final edit consuming two weeks. Most of the summer, in other words. I couldn’t believe it when I was done, I was so proud of it (and also sick of it, having pored over and considered basically every syllable and punctuation mark in its 420 pages several times), and I used my remaining funds to self-publish it as an eBook with the ability to print-on-demand. I’m not good at marketing, let alone networking, but I had enough family and friends take the plunge, buy an electronic copy (I made $4.04 a copy, which is a lot, but that was the miracle of self-publishing those days, with Fifty Shades of Grey making all the headlines and the big bucks) for their tablet or whatever, and the thing slowly staggered off the ground. My meager and secret goal was to sell 154 copies, which is the total number of social media friends I had at the time. Feedback was overwhelmingly positive, especially from my high school English teacher, who was retired but was apparently Facebook friends with almost every one of her past pupils. She reposted my book’s website with her endorsement and I sold even more. Still, after the initial surge, I was only making forty or fifty bucks a week off of the work, so I deposited a bunch of this into an account for future investment. By the time I’d sold 400 electronic copies, I had enough to pay for a run of 600 actual paperbacks. I was only able to get local bookstores to buy half of those from me preliminarily, and a friend of a friend who owed someone a favor was married to a woman who did production for NPR and got me a brief interview with an accompanying blurb on their website, so my name was out there in the Rochester metro area. Meanwhile, I had to get a real job.

An old family friend hooked me up with a gig in the leasing office of an apartment community. She worked in the regional office for the realty company, so I didn’t even have to interview. The place was only a few years old at the time, there were just a bit over 200 units-so it was pretty small-and the location was in a good part of town. In other words, it was an easy job. The staff was tiny-just the property manager, the maintenance guy and me. The owner gave me a discount on a really nice 1-bedroom. It was a lot fancier than I could have afforded otherwise, and it was still pricey for me because I didn’t make that much money, but at least I could gültepe escort just walk to work, and the included gym had me getting ripped again in no time. From dad bod to divorcee bod.

A lot of the folks with this kind of “leasing consultant” job are bubbly young females, and they honestly usually come off as pretty fake. So I think a lot of prospective residents liked to come in and find a tall, laid back dude in our office, because I can only be me, and I’m pretty real. A lot of the time, I worked by myself, and the place was so nice that I didn’t have to be any kind of snake oil salesman, which I suck at anyway. The apartments rented themselves, and we were often fully occupied. So when I wasn’t showing vacant apartments or the model-if that was all that was available to show-to prospective tenants, answering the phone or filing paperwork, I was using this copious downtime to write the sequel to my first novel.

Funny how life works. Most of our community residents enjoyed their stay and only moved out because of a job change or to buy a house, but there were some who had a bad experience. Rental rate increases usually sent people packing first, but I didn’t set the prices and the community had to stay competitive. Noisy neighbors ranked next, then running out of space or having appliances break or a building issue like the roof leak where we couldn’t figure out how the water was coming in. On the other hand, some residents had blissful experiences, maybe they had perfect neighbors or a nice view of a fountain in one of the ponds or the woods or whatever, or maybe they signed right after a rent

increase and never saw theirs go up.

Soon after I started working there, I rented a two bedroom garden apartment to a young couple, Sean and Lacey. They stopped in the office from time to time to pay rent or pick up a package and they were always smiling and raving about how they loved their apartment. When their 6-month lease was up, they came to see me and I hoped they were going to sign a renewal, since I got a commission on that, but a great job opportunity had come up and they were moving across town. When they came to turn in their keys, they told me again how much they had enjoyed their stay, and they asked if there was anything they could do for me in return. I have no idea why, but I had a copy of my novel with me, and I asked if they would buy it and read it, and if they liked it, would they please recommend it to someone else? They beamed and agreed on the condition that I signed it, so as I was scribbling my John Hancock, they were forking over the $11 I was charging.

About a month later, I got a call from Sean. It wasn’t unusual to get a call from a former resident, usually about a security deposit issue or a request for rental history or something, but this was different. First, he said that he and Lacey both loved my book and they had told lots of people they knew to buy an electronic copy. Then he told me that his new job was for a large charter jet service, and that a few days before, he had taken a famous actor-he couldn’t tell me who, it would violate the privacy agreement he had in his contract-on a flight. I couldn’t figure out why he would be telling me all this, but he seemed excited so I just let him ramble. Sean explained that the actor had forgotten his briefcase and asked for some other entertainment for the trip, and nothing else offered seemed interesting so Sean pulled my book out of his own baggage and handed it over. Of course, the actor loved it, so Sean was giving me a heads up, and he kept laughing about it, then told me congratulations.

About ten minutes after he hung up, my cell phone went thermo fucking nuclear.

The actor-a TV star, movie star, director/producer and philanthropist I’m sure you’ve heard of-had tweeted a photo of my book: “Just read this excellent debut novel in the hard crime genre. Could not put it down. I hear it is hard to find in paperback but an electronic edition is available. Go read it, you won’t be disappointed. Would make a great movie!” The dude had over 8 million followers on Twitter at the time, and afterwards, we estimated that about four percent of them bought a copy of my book over the next 24 hours.

Remember, any time someone clicked the “buy” button on my website, four Georges and four Little Lincolns found their way right into my bank account. I won’t make you do the math. Just know that it was like hitting the lottery.

Sheer unbridled insanity ensued. The first thing I did was I hire an agent, and of course the first thing she did was jack the price of the book. Wait, I lied, the first thing I did-while I was still at work in the office that day and after I verified that yes, this was indeed real money rolling in by the second-was log onto eBay to purchase a vintage 30-year old white Les Paul Custom like the one Randy Rhoads played on “Crazy Train.” Yeah, I clicked the “Buy It Now!” on that bad boy, requested overnight shipping and had no regrets. After work, I went out and bought a pair of nice jeans and some new shoes. Oh, and I left a note on the manager’s desk along with my keys. “I quit!”

Oh, and actually, the first thing my new agent did was ask when my sequel would be done.

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