Re: Could you love such a girl?

What if you met a "little girl" who was almost six feet tall? Let's assume that she had stopped growing taller.

I was 48, she was just turning 20. She was (and is now) smart as a tack, can rip through calculus and advanced statistics with ease.
But she was scared to death to talk on the telephone because she was concerned with making a social mistake. She was scared of the dark for the same reason young children are: fear of the unknown. She was scared of bridges, ladders, and other heights for the same reason anyone is: fear of what is perceived as possible. Her father was missing most of her life. Her mother was more an emotional dependent than she was.

She was physically (gorgeous) 20. Intellectually, well let's just say very advanced; more so than me. Emotionally, she was about 10.
And I had 8 of the most intense, loving years of my life with her. My every sexual fantasy explored. My deep need to care for a child met by a child needing to be cared for, loved. Not quite six feet tall, but tall.

Together, we waltzed through life, the same mundane like others experiencing theirs, finances tough but well managed, the Stressfuls tackled the way most Stressfuls are, with gritted teeth, bloodied noses, but the taste of victory pleasurable enough to warrant tackling more Stressfuls.... albeit a bit later.

Crawling into bed with her, for sleep, was a treasure I hold and keep, even to this day. I could be exhausted from a day's exertions, wanting to simply flop down, close my eyes and escape to restful sleep but she would roll over, grab my arm and pull me closer to her in our favorite "spoon". Almost three thousand spoons... beyond words to describe what I miss in my life. Now that she is gone.

One memory I'd kill Alzheimer should he come for it, was while I was at work. My boss came to me wild eyed and very concerned, "[Gimwinkle], go to the phone right now! [Little Girl] is in some sort of trouble. Quickly!" I paused my work, ran to the office to see [boss's secretary] with the same frightened look, "It's [Little Girl]. I hope it's okay..."

[Little Girl] was screaming into the phone. Like in the movies, none of her words made any sense to me other than [Little Girl] was in serious trouble. I managed to get her to slow down and attempt to convey to me just what the life-threat was. After more screeching, I managed to catch a word and, by piecing together the few events thus known, I could understand just what "world's end" was happening to my beloved child. The word I recognized through the tears and desperation? "...bug..." [Little Girl] had discovered a wandering beetle that had managed to slip in through the opened window, going across the ceiling.

I told my boss that I didn't think it was serious but I needed to go home. When I got there, she still was beside herself, wanting to leave, but wanting to stay defending her home. I captured the invader and insisted it take its freedom and life elsewhere. The image of [Little Girl's] tear streaked face still sits near the throne in my memory castle.

At present, still living in the same city as I do, she has taken one of our three young children through something I'm not sure I could have. My little girl has grown into a mature, self sufficient woman, leaving her Daddy behind to view her life from afar. Darwin, our youngest "son" had been a very personable but sickly cat, a severe drain on our meager finances while we five were together. And yet alone, today, she had struggled to pay for his needs, caring for him as I had cared for her. We both cried at his passing, as one would expect. Yet, it was her sitting with Darwin suffering through his last hours in the vet's office. It was her that made the decision, without me, to permit (to pay!) the vet to do what was necessary. Rather than giving Darwin a last look and walking out of the office, [Little Girl] sat holding Darwin, staring him in the eyes, and watched our son die.

And, as I write this, I think back to the time she yelled at me for the first time. God, I can't recall what the problem was, probably forgotten the next day, anyway. Her girlish smile a million miles away, her anger at me furrowed her brows, flashed her eyes, rasped her voice. Whatever it was, the encounter was very focused but short. Several minutes later, the sparks had cooled down, the loud exchanges halted, the emotions paused mid thought. Holding to her point, she apologized. As did I. The conflict "procrastinated" away and we went for a walk, one of the hundreds we took. Later, returning home, we remarked that, yes, it was our first argument but it had been short and nobody had gotten hurt. Not recalling the issue, I'm sure we had come to a compromise, I'd given in to my error, or she had given in to hers. Not important. But we got past it. I insisted on one thing, however. It was not negotiable: "[Little Girl], you're going to have to stop throwing alarm clocks. They are expensive." We were to go through 4 or 5 more before she learned to control her temper enough to be satisfied with a yell or two.

Did my little girl add to my appeal for little girls or detract from it? She did have that innocence which we associate with childhood.
What was it like to be her lover? I feel very guilty because she satiated my cravings to the point that I was addicted to her. And she knew it. She would occasionally get her way with it.

So why did she leave? She grew up. I rarely satiated her cravings for a lover. She couldn't really physically love her Daddy for herself. Society, however it had written her programming, prevented her from craving me. Or, perhaps the nature of mature woman sex was requiring something I was not giving her. For eight years, Little Girl loved her Daddy so much that she pleased him as he wanted. Thus, her Daddy suffers from his failure and guilt. Note that I did not use brackets around her name. This is because "Little Girl" is how I call her in the company of just ourselves.