An Encounter in London

This story involves at one point a straight man in sexual situation with a trans woman. He even touches a penis that doesn't belong to him. Since some readers seem to freak out about that I'm putting a warning here up front. Also there are unfavorable comments about Stephen Sondheim. That may freak out a different demographic - you are forewarned.

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Bodies press close, anticipation heightens, the lights go out...

... at a play in the West End.

It had become my habit over the previous couple of years to see plays and musicals in London when I visited for work, which was roughly every three months. Coming from America, that means my carbon footprint had me shopping in the Shaquille O'Neil aisle, but that's the way it was. An all-expenses paid trip to Hell awaits me.

I'm a late convert to theater-going. I'd developed a pathological hatred of musicals that I attribute to straight-up trauma. My wife's best friend was in an amateur troupe and had just enough leverage over our consciences to make us feel like we had to go to her shows. I have never, ever, experienced a longer nine hours than watching Into the Woods, and it's only three hours long. I mistook intermission for the end, and thinking the suffering was over, I went outside to suck in the clean air of freedom. Being called back for the second half was like one of those horror movies where the monster drags the bloody body back into the closet, or pit, or wherever they're lurking, to finish off the victim.

Plays were something different; I had seen a couple that were okay, but I couldn't get over how they were ACTing - projecting their voices into the cheap seats and sweeping their hands around in unnatural gestures. And the people who put them on seemed bored with tradition, so they keep messing around with everything. Shakespeare in tights? Old hat. Let's re-envision Othello as a post-industrial pan-sexual sound and light show. No clue what's going on. So, I tended to avoid them.

It was my wife and son who pulled me out of this way of seeing things. They joined me in London to make a family trip out of one of my visits, and were excited to see Mamma Mia, the central node of the ABBA-industrial complex. News flash - those folks over at ABBA really know how to write a tune. Of course I'd heard them all before, but never live, belted out by people with incredible voices, who, in between things, are acting, dancing and whatever else they could think of. It was very impressive. I left the theater humming the melodies and rethinking my position on matters. I settled on a genre heresy - as long as I can stay a million miles from Sondheim and Andrew Lloyd-Webber, there's hope.

Figuring I'd give plays another go as well I saw a handful that were excellent and I began to develop a different view of them too. It isn't TV, it isn't film. They have to project to the back, and oh by the way, they're doing this live, on a high wire without a net, night after night. And there was a definite talent gradient. When I saw Tamsin Greig, she made everyone else on stage look as wooden as the boards they trod. David Tennant - wow. Andrew Scott? Yes, please.

As much as anything it was the night out alone that I came to enjoy. Queuing to get in amidst the chatting patrons, finding the right section through the rabbit warren of ancient theaters, buying a drink at the interval. I was treating myself, and didn't mind the solitude because there was so much to do.

And so I found myself settling into my seat that Wednesday evening in October, one of those dreary fall days that announces the impending onset of winter far earlier than nature has any right to, but in London barely matters - if you don't like it, for as long as your wallet holds out you can always while away the hours in a pub, a museum, or the theater. It was going to be a long play - three and a half hours with two breaks, and all about the rise and fall of the financial services firm Lehman brothers. I was skeptical and bought a drink in advance just to lubricate my mood; the British are civilized - scratch that, inveterate drinkers - and let you bring it to your seat. But good friends had raved about the production so I went along and prepared to be either wowed, or bored but mildly intoxicated.

I felt her before I saw her. My head was turned and I felt a jostling at my knee. The older couple to my right had stood up and leaned back to let a figure pass.

"Sorry, sorry, I know I'm late. Can I just scoot by you?"

"No problem, go ahead," I said, not paying much attention.

The only way to manage it is to stand, so I did, barely looking. But in a moment all my senses were overtaken. I glanced up and saw a mass of tumbling blonde hair, and a white blouse that hung loosely down to a tight fitting black skirt. A shapely form pressed lightly against me as she passed and there was a scent of perfume that was clean, a hint of spice, just the right amount. She pivoted to sit next to me. "Thank you, sorry about that." Her accent was American, but her voice had some indefinable quality that spoke of refinement but earthiness at the same time. Maybe something in the timbre? Possibly it reminded me of someone I used to admire? The effect on me was immediate. I had to keep her talking.

"You're American too? Or Canadian?" I asked.

"American, from New York. You?"

"Chicago. You're just visiting?"

"Not really, I'm here for a few months - work thing. You?"

"I'm here pretty often for work, but only a week or two at a time."

A group of 20-somethings settled into the row behind us, chattering in American accents, and just in front of us three women were talking about their trip from Dallas.

"Is it only Americans who go to the theater here? It's almost weird."

"Big tourist thing I guess, and pretty expensive. Maybe a lot of Brits go wherever they're from. Lots of shows start somewhere else before coming to London and cost about half as much."

She could have been talking about the upholstery on our seats for all I cared - just hearing her voice was exciting enough. She leaned her head slightly as she looked at me, making her hair flow down one side of her face so that it framed her profile - high cheekbones, flawless skin, a few wrinkles forming around her eyes and her neck. She had a pert nose, soft cheeks and full lips, or what passed for full before people started inflating them like balloons for some reason. She was a knockout, and my mouth dried up. I took a gulp of wine to steady myself.

"Damn, I got here too late to go to the bar. My favorite part of all this if I'm being honest," she said, smiling, and in so doing revealing a little dimple on her right cheek - but not her left - making my heart skip a beat.

"Two intervals to this thing, so there's still time," I said, thinking it would be a bit odd to offer my glass to a total stranger for a sip, but it did cross my mind. The image of her lips parting over the rim of the glass flitted through my head and my heart did its thing again.

At that, the theater darkened and music started; the play was about to begin. We settled back in our seats.

The story, it turned out, was pretty interesting, and the acting was amazing. The first act passed before I knew it.

"These guys are so good, right?" she said to me after the applause died down. It was as if we were continuing our conversation and it was perfectly natural that two strangers should somehow have connected enough in the 90 seconds before the show started to pick the thread right back up. Americans, I figured - immediate conversation partners, especially abroad. If it had been one of the women from Dallas in front of us I suppose I might have minded. But now I felt privileged.

"Totally. I didn't know how they'd keep us interested for such a long play, but now I get it."

"Doesn't mean I don't still need a drink, though," she said, and gestured with her chin toward the aisle. My focus on her face made me blind to the row of seats emptying next to me.

"Oh right, of course. I'm heading to the bar too..." I didn't want to assume we'd go together, but it would have been awkward to go separately, together. In the end it wasn't an issue - we just chatted as we did the little inches-at-a-time shuffle you do in a crowd, and ended up at the bar.

"I never figured I'd sit through a play about an investment bank," I said. "Who would even come up with the idea? Although I didn't know the history would be so interesting."

"Me either. Though it's a bit of a busman's holiday for me," she said, and I had to reach back into my brain to remember the expression.

"You work in financial services?"

"For my sins."

"That explains London I suppose?"

"It does. My firm brought me out to set up a new unit, so I'm temporarily local."

We reached the bar, uncharacteristically modern, all glass and lights. The line was reasonable, and we didn't have long to wait.

"And you? What brings you here?"

"I'm a project director at a company that designs industrial buildings, basically. Europe operations are here in London and they figured rather than hire my equivalent here they'd just put me on a plane every few weeks. Who cares about jet lag? If you need a electrical substation, a new metro stop, a water treatment facility... we're your guys."

We moved forward against the bar. "Funny thing, I was just thinking about how I needed a water treatment facility."

"Who doesn't? So many people overlook that vital piece of infrastructure in their daily lives." It felt nice to be silly with a complete stranger.

I ordered a beer and she got a white wine. "I'll get it," she said, faster on the uptake then me, in a way that seemed like the reflex of a person used to paying for things, and for whom drinks at a 100% markup over London's already high prices didn't register at all.

"Really, you don't have to."

"No bother. Besides, there's another interval. You can spend some of that hard earned water treatment money on me."

It was when she reached for her drink on the counter that I Sherlocked she was left handed. And that the fourth finger of that hand was weighed down by a gold band and a ring with a diamond so large it probably gave her one bigger bicep. It's the sort of thing that registers with a person whether or not they intend anything. Married. And successfully it would seem, at least in the money department. I shouldn't wonder, with her looks, and her fancy job. Suddenly I felt self conscious. Not that I don't make good money, and look alright. But I had her down as ten years my junior, and for all I knew she was sick of men coming on to her, only feeling compelled to be polite since we still had two more hours sitting next to each other.

But as we found a spot to stand and continued talking, it didn't seem like it was against her will. The conversation flowed. I'm not entirely inept in the banter department, and I suppose it could be true what my wife said - that although in my early 50s, with every passing year that men my age got fatter and balder while I stayed fit and (finally an advantage) couldn't get any balder than I'd been since I was 30, I seemed to get younger and better looking in comparison. I could pass for early 40s in the right light, and if it was very dim indeed I might remind you of Stanley Tucci. Or perhaps his second cousin once removed.

We talked about favorite activities in London, restaurants we'd been to, other shows we'd seen; at one point we realized we'd missed each other by a day at another play. Before I knew it our glasses were drained and the chime sounded, herding us back to our seats.

The second act was as interesting as the first and by the next interval I felt deeply invested in the story. As the lights came up we fell to talking directly, and without discussion our feet took us back towards the bar. I ordered and paid and we retired to the same corner as though it was a longstanding habit.

"Two months in London - you're becoming a local," I said. "I suppose you already talk about how you put the spanner in the boot of your car, and pull your trousers over your knickers." The words came out of my mouth spontaneously, but the thought of her in her knickers suddenly made my neck feel warm.

"No, and if I ever put on one of those mid-Atlantic accents my husband says I shouldn't even bother coming back home. As well he should, it's ridiculous. But c'mon, 'knickers'? It's such a fun word to say. Knickers. Try it again."

"Knickers," I said

"Knickers."

"Knickers."

I saw what she meant. We both laughed. For some reason I wasn't feeling myself with this woman, I was feeling better, freer, looser. It was hard to explain. It didn't feel like flirtation exactly, or maybe I just assumed she couldn't possibly be interested, so I didn't feel any pressure. It was nice. And besides, I reminded myself, it's not like was a free agent out on the prowl. I was happily married and had never once strayed. And she had invoked her husband - a warning? - so the ground rules felt set, though unspoken.

It didn't mean a piece of my heart hadn't nearly imploded when she said she was going to the loo (she got away with that one) and walked away from me across the room. It was the first time I'd seen her at this distance, and her ass was sublime, curvy but taut, her legs shapely. Her mid-thigh skirt and sheer black tights hugged her perfectly. She had the body of an athlete who'd matured, still firm but filled out, the edges softened. I say it was my heart that reacted, but let's be honest, my nether region had opinions too.

We had a few more minutes to talk before the final act began. Emma, a name I only thought to ask for in the second interval, suggested we grab another drink, seeing as we could bring them inside. "Just don't let it put you to sleep in there, David," she said. "No chance of that," I said. "I still have jet lag; I'll be fresh as a daisy until the small hours then suffer tomorrow."

Being slightly buzzed by this point, I found that the final third went down easy. Maybe my focus suffered slightly, but when my mind wandered, it didn't have to go far. Emma and I leaned toward each other to make quiet comments now and again. Feeling her arm against mine, her hair brushing against the side of my face, was electric. At the end of the play, the audience showed our appreciation and stood to stretch out the cramps and pains from a long evening.

The prospect of leaving it there, of parting with a simple goodbye and getting on with my night, seemed bleak. "Maybe another drink at the bar?" I suggested. "Do a little post-game commentary?"

She paused, just long enough for me to wonder if I'd been out of line, but she said "Sure."

When we got to the bar we saw that post-show drinks definitely wasn't a thing there. There was no one behind the counter, no one else drinking, only a steady file of humanity making its way to the exits. I saw the bleakness of the evening beckoning once again.

"Too bad. Unless, we just have a quick drink nearby?" I managed.

"I suppose there must be a place," she said, and my mood lifted immeasurably.

"Definitely. If you throw a rock in this city you hit three pubs. It's like a law of physics."

We stepped out into the night and, as I had expected, there was a pub at either corner of the street. They were swarming with theatergoers though, so we walked one block further and found another, where we gathered drinks at the bar and sat at a booth amidst the mahogany and stained glass.

"So you're married too," she said, going there. Her gin and tonic and my pint of best bitter stood between us, next to the bag of of salt and vinegar cris... no, not crisps, potato chips... that I had torn open to share.

"Yep, yep. Twenty years now. And you?"

"Ten. Kids?"

"A son, 12 years old. You?"

"A daughter, 8."

Our light conversation suddenly felt a bit heavier, as if we both realized that being together outside the theater, where we had been thrown together by circumstance and just went with it, was a different thing altogether.

"It feels like..." she started, then faltered.

"What?" I asked.

"It's funny, this feels like a first date. But usually you don't talk about your spouses and kids on a first date."

Mention of a date was like reading my mind. This connection had taken on a different dimension and I wasn't sure what the size of it was. But there was something to this that was different, its own kind of special, and I was just beginning to sense what it might be.

"Look at it this way. When's the last time you sat alone with a man, not a friend you already had, not for work, no expectations, just having a nice time? Like a date, but we know it can't go anywhere. There's no pressure, it's a safe space. And it's sort of nice to talk to someone new, right?"

"You haven't heard all of my stories yet," she said, warming up.

"We can retell our best ofs... the ones you pull out at every dinner party to the point where if your husband hears it again he'll jump out a window." Maybe this was my life I was talking about, but she understood directly.

"Right! So, hit me. Give me a best of." She sat back in the booth and took a long pull from her glass.

"Damn, now there's pressure, I can't think of anything... okay, it's not a long story, but get this: once I was driving in Los Angeles and stopped at a light next to a guy in a convertible, and he was picking his nose like his brain itched. He put his hand down and... it was George Clooney."

"No!"

"I kid you not! And take it from me, no amount of chiseled jawline saves you from looking like a toddler when you're elbow deep in your nostril!"

She laughed hard but with a mouth full of gin and tonic and spat an arc of it across the table, splashing me in the face.

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry!" She reached over and handed me a napkin, but I was laughing too hard to care.

"It's okay, it's okay!" I said, catching my breath. She looked somewhere between deeply amused and apoplectic.

"Your turn," I said. "Give me and oldie but goodie."

"Hmmm. I dunno..."

"Not that easy is it? On demand?"

She composed herself and reflected for just a moment. "Oh, okay. This one I've told a hundred times. Just tickles me to death. So, years ago, on our honeymoon in fact, Ben and I were in Paris..."

"Classic honeymoon..."

"Right, hold on... so we're in Paris, and naturally you go to the Eiffel Tower, and we thought we'd go right to the top, which you have to do in two goes. We're waiting in line for the second elevator and there's a guy in front of us wearing a Yankees cap. Ben is a huge fan, so he starts chatting; turns out the guy's Spanish and only bought the cap as a souvenir on a trip. But he's nice, we talk with him in the elevator to the top and he vanishes in the crowd."

She took another swig of her drink, managing to keep it inside her body this time.

Three days later we're in Florence..."

"Still classic..." I interjected again.

"Stop it! It's my story!" she smiled and the perfection of her face silenced me.

"We go to the Duomo - yes, we're on the greatest hits tour of Europe - where we decided to book one of those guided groups where you can skip the lines, get some good history, all that. We show up at the meeting point, and who's waiting there to join the tour?"

"Mr. Spanish Yankee guy?"

"Mr. Spanish Yankee guy! We couldn't believe it."

"That's amazing." I could have stopped there but I couldn't help myself. "But of course those are two of the major sites on the continent; people doing a little tour might run into each other...."

She just sat and smiled. This bit of defusing logic didn't seem to bother her in the least.

"But my story isn't done. Our trip was more than Europe. We kept heading south. Way south. A week later, we're in Tanzania climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro..."

"No way..."

"It's a much tougher hike than most of the folks in our group expect; a bunch of people stop, but we press on as it gets colder and colder...."

"... don't tell me..."

"... we finally get to the top, and who's already there?"

"Spanish fucking Yankee guy!"

"Spanish fucking Yankee guy! In the flesh! Wearing the cap and everything!"

"Daaaamn. That IS a good story." I laughed and shook my head in appreciation of a tale well told, despite my interjections, and she smiled and laughed as well, in a way that I imagine would have been harder if Ben were there rolling his eyes - "Not this again."

"You're right," she said. "We're story virgins. And we're not 19 any more so we have plenty to fall back on." She lifted her glass for a toast. "Here's to first dates."

"May all your stories be funny and may spinach never be stuck in your teeth." We clinked and drank to it.

I told her my story about hiking at sunset in the Grand Canyon and the one about my best friend smashing through the sliding glass door while sleepwalking. She talked about the whale that breached right by her sailboat, nearly swamping them miles off the coast, and the time her little daughter asked her what "blowjob" meant at a dinner party with friends.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd had fun sitting with such a beautiful, smart and engaging woman. No, I could remember. Never. It's not to say that my wife wasn't pretty enough and we hadn't had those initial years of infatuation, or if not infatuation, then sufficient attraction. It's just that those years had been long ago and the bond had been of the moment, a relationship that worked, that evolved from one thing to the next. If you sat around waiting for the perfect person to cross your path you might wait... well, I was 52 that October evening, and so there you go. I'd have missed decades of married life, having my son... I didn't regret anything at all, but still there was the sense that maybe there was something more intense that some people got to experience. That there were people who actually did get to wake up every day next to the Emmas of the world...

Or at least share an evening in their company. Which as my thoughts ran away with me I had to remember was worth being thankful for, even if that's all it was. I drank in her voice and hung on every word. She seemed so relaxed, so happy. But she brought things to a close.

"Sorry, I've got an early start. And I'm long over my jet lag, so should get home."

I deflated. I didn't want it to end. "Of course, sorry, I wouldn't even know the time of day." We stood to go. "It's been really nice... no sorry, that's not the right word... It's been..."

The significance of the moment wasn't lost on her. She also seemed slightly at a loss for words as a way to end our evening. It had been platonic, so a kiss goodbye or an invitation to bed wasn't what either of us expected. But there was more to it, something even deeper perhaps than a quick hookup might have been. It had ever so briefly felt ever so... real.

We stood out in front of the pub and she held out her hand. I held it in mine, then pressed my other hand to it while we looked in each other's eyes. "Good night," she said quietly, then turned and walked away. I stood for a moment, then headed toward the subway, facing the cold London evening alone.

A moment later I heard her voice and I nearly jumped with excitement. I turned to see her walking back my way.

"David - if you want to... tomorrow night there's a thing someone at the office has invited people along to - a gallery opening, a friend of theirs. If you find yourself with nothing else to do..."

"When? Where?"

She gave me the address of a place in Fitzrovia. "We'll get there around 8."

"I'll see you there," I said, and as we parted again it felt like there had been a stay of execution; rather than facing a night cursing what ifs and merciless fate, I'd see the sun rise on another day worth looking forward to.

That night in bed, as I had expected, sleep eluded me. But it wasn't just jet lag, it was her. Images of the evening projected behind my eyes over and over. The curls of her tumbling hair, the soft curve of her breasts just visible against the fabric of her white blouse, the light blossom of her cheeks when she laughed. At last I reached down under the covers and felt my dick growing, eager for attention. I slipped my hand beneath the waistband of my underwear and stroked, then massaged the head with my fingers. My cock surged to full erection and I felt hot underneath the duvet. I flung it to one side and played my left hand over my bare chest. I tugged my underwear down and kicked them off, lying naked in the coolness of the room, my own heat keeping me warm. I kept stroking and conjured up an image of an hour before.

** I walk toward the subway, entering the cold night alone, when I hear a voice behind me.

"David"

I turn and see that she has come back toward me.

"I don't want to - I can't - let our night end like this."

She comes closer, right up to me, then presses her body to mine. "Take me home." She lifts her chin and kisses me with those soft, full lips. I return the kiss eagerly and we stand there entangled for a full minute.

I hail a passing cab and we get in. As soon as we set off for my hotel we wrap our arms around each other and our kisses become passionate. Her hands roam around my body and mine explore hers, along her thighs, on her arms, under the blouse concealing her warm curves. I feel the outline of her full breasts encased in lace. We're heedless of the cabbie, of passersby, only intent on each other.

We stumble up the steps to my room hand in hand and she holds me from behind as I unlock the door. As soon as we're inside we stand pressed against the wall of the foyer, unable to release each other long enough to go any farther. Her tongue is supple but demanding, sparring with mine as our lips press into each other. She reaches down and runs her fingers along the outline of my cock, constrained by the oppressive cloth of my pants. I trace my hand down her thigh and find the hem of her skirt; I lift it enough to find my way underneath. She parts her legs slightly, inviting me in to her secret spot. Her panties feel hot and moist, and I snake a finger past them and along her dewy slit. She leans her head back, focusing, willing my fingers further. I put one of them slowly into her damp hole and then out, then back in again. She lets out a low moan. I move my finger higher, bringing the wetness up to her clit, prominent and needy. I circle around it, then over it, softly at first, then with more pressure, then with a second finger. She drops her head to my shoulder and I can feel her hips pushing back, enhancing my pressure, dictating the rhythm.

"Down," she says, and puts a hand on each of my shoulders, pushing. I get down on my knees, prepared to worship at the altar of her glorious cunt. She pulls her skirt up to her waist and pulls down her panties. Her pussy is smooth except for a neat triangle of pubic hair trimmed close. I put my face up to her and inhale the heady scent of womanhood and desire. I plunge my tongue inside and swirl it in her hole, then up and around her clit. I explore every corner of her, lingering on the points that make her breath catch. My hands reach around and grasp her ass, pulling her closer, my tongue plunging deeper and harder.

"I need you to fuck me," she says in a ragged, deep voice, and she tugs up on my arm. I stand and she pulls me over to the bed. "Lie back." I recline, a long horizontal with a prominent vertical, my cock straining upward, the anticipation of sex surging like electricity through my balls. She climbs on the bed and straddles me, then slowly lowers herself onto my waiting pole. Her hole is soaking but tight; I slide in but feel pressure on all sides that sends a shiver down to the base of my cock, tingling in my ass. She begins to lift, then lower, and up again, then picks up the pace. Her eyes are locked on mine as she rides me, her face is partially covered by the sensuous flowing curls of her tumbling hair. She tosses it back and I see her lips are parted, her mouth held open. She closes her eyes and her breath speeds up, shallower. Emma bends over toward me and whispers in my ear - "take me from behind." She climbs off me and gets on her hands and knees...**

I reached over and found two of the far too many plump pillows crowding the bed and stacked one on top of the other. I sat on my knees, spread my legs, leaned over onto the pillows and thrust my cock between them, the pressure from my arms creating a tight passage for me to pump into.

**... I crawl around her and position myself behind her glorious ass, then put the tip of my cock at the opening to her dripping pussy. "Don't wait David, I need you now, hard and fast. Give it to me!" I thrust in to the hilt and she gasps. I retreat and push in hard again. "Yessss," she says, her eyes pinched shut. I pull out and push in hard, my hips slapping against her ass. I do it again, and again, harder, faster. My hands are clutching her hips, holding on tight as I pound her as deep as I can go. She cries out - "Yes, David, Yes! That's it, yes!" I feel the surge welling up from deep, the roiling cauldron of my hot spunk desperate for release. "Yes! Yes!" She is almost yelling it now, and my body tenses and jerks. The surges of cum shoot out over and over as my whole body shudders and shakes. I fall forward and her knees buckle; I'm lying on top of her as we finish, gasping for air to calm our lungs and slow our pounding hearts. **

The next day my work started and ended late as I adjusted to London time. I had just enough time for a bite of dinner, and to get home to shower and dress for the evening. Figuring it would be awkward to show up to the gallery first, I played it safe and timed it for half past 8. I arrived at the address to find a throng of people spilling out across the sidewalk, none older than 25, and each of them, even to my limited understanding, dressed in clothing that would require most people to take out a second mortgage. Loud music pumped out of an anonymous doorway, blocked almost entirely by an intimidating form with his hands clasped in front of his bulk. I'd never seen an art gallery with a bouncer before and wondered what I was letting myself in for. IF I could get in, that is. I hadn't given Emma my full name - if there was a list, I wouldn't be on it. Just then, a flash of blonde appeared in the dim light of the corridor behind the bouncer.

"David!" Emma raised her hand, and I waved back. "Hang on, I'm coming out." She had to raise her voice to be heard. The massive form pivoted to one side to let her out, then pivoted back.

"Whew." She exhaled, and wiped sweat from her brow. She wore pale wide-legged pants and a silky black top, and had a long camel-color coat slung over her right arm.

"What the heck is going on here? I thought this was an art gallery?" I said.

"I thought it would be too. There's some sort of art week going on and they've turned this hotel..." I scanned the blank front of the building wondering what kind of hotel took pains to hide itself entirely..."into an temporary gallery, nightclub, a 'happening' or whatever... It's not Saatchi, that's for sure."

"I'm glad you came out, I realized I wasn't sure I could even get in..."

"Exactly what I realized - I'm so sorry, I waltzed past this guy in my group then it hit me a minute ago you might be out here."

"I just arrived - fashionably late, so right on time"

"Genius at work."

"Are we going back in?" I said, but was pretty sure that being hemmed in by people half my age, oppressed by high-decibel dance music, wasn't my scene.

"I'm so sorry to have dragged you over here - I really didn't know, and to be perfectly honest, it's sort of my idea of hell in there. People half my age, loud music so everyone is shouting at each other... I'm really sorry, but I don't really feel like it."

"Thank God. I mean, no offense to whatever these kids are into, but I'd rather eat rocks."

She laughed.

"What about your work colleagues?"

"I said colleagues - I meant interns. The British elite - super rich, Oxford, Cambridge, pursuing finance careers in the City; they know every one of these high-class bimbos I'm sure." She gestured at the crowd, who looked like a fabric store delivery van had crashed into a nightclub, splashing some with tartan and tweed, and others with just enough cloth to prevent the police taking them in for indecent exposure. "They hardly noticed me leave."

While I was relieved to be free of the obligation to enter the hotel, it did eliminate our reason for seeing each other again and I was unsure how to proceed. A random first non-date is one thing. A second date starts to feel less random, and less non-. Emma seemed to realize the same thing and looked at a loss for words. I decided not to be coy.

"Emma, the thing about last night was that it was so freeing - I loved talking to you, and I knew it was only because we both recognized our situations that we could do it. If you trust me when I say I have no ulterior motive, then why don't we go out again? Another drink?"

A smile worked its way across her face and she let out a little sniff of a laugh. "A man with no ulterior motive." It seemed like it was a concept a beauty like her would have to take time wrapping her head around. Then she looked at me, holding my gaze. "I do trust you. I don't know why. Or I guess I do - I see myself in you. Let's be honest, cards on the table." She took a deep breath then exhaled slowly. "If this were eleven years ago... if things were different... it would be a date." I nodded, though for me it would have had to be significantly longer ago. "But now it isn't, it can't be, and in fact I don't want it to be. I'm faithful, always have been, always will be. Just so we're clear..."

"We are on the same page, really. I know this it may be hard to believe, but even though I find you incredibly beautiful..." She smirked and seemed to blush, which made her all the more gorgeous, "and alluring and all of those things, it doesn't mean I have to have more than this. Maybe not every meeting has to lead somewhere. It's not because we don't have a future that we can't have a couple hours outside our normal lives, in good company."

"I'm glad we got that sorted," she said. "Now let's get away from this awful place - what are we still doing here?"

"Absolutely. Where to?" She didn't reply directly. "Throw a rock, see how many pubs we hit?"

"What I'd really like..." she hesitated, "is to get out of these damn shoes."

I looked down and saw she was wearing pointy black heels with an open back and a strap.

"And I have drinks at my flat...'

"Apartment," I corrected.

"Right. That place. So if you're serious about just wanting to hang out, then I'd love to just relax at home. It's already been a long week and it's still not done."

Her trust in me left me feeling both grateful and responsible. Her apartment was just four walls, not an invitation. I was only too happy to bundle into a cab for the short ride to her place.

The building was a metal and glass tower just north of the City, and her apartment announced that the kind of work she did involved money: near the top of the building, floor to ceiling windows, the financial district laid out before her, the lights of the empty office blocks bright against the dark autumn night. Her living room flowed up to the kitchen, which looked untouched by human hands. The whole place was as immaculate as if it had just been built.

"Welcome to corporate living," she said, sweeping her hand to encompass the open plan, the designer furniture, the imposing view.

"Could be worse, it's amazing."

"Yes, impressive as hell. But in a cold sort of way, and it took me a full ten minutes to figure out how to work the shower. What's wrong with a tap you turn left and right? What's with all the buttons and levers? I still don't really know what's going on; I just poke at stuff and hope for the best."

She invited me to sit in one of the plush armchairs and asked me if white wine was okay. She went into the kitchen and brought out a bottle and two glasses. "You can pour, I'm going to change. You look nice by the way."

The sudden complement caught me off guard and I stammered a bit, "Uh thanks, yeah, I uh..."

"That blue suits you. Complements your eyes." She went through a door to the hallway and out of sight. That she had noticed my eyes and my shirt at all was a bit of a thrill. I'm a terrible judge of my aesthetic. I've just learned by rote - doing what my wife tells me to the point that I've ended up in a place she finds acceptable. The shirt Emma liked was a gift from Caroline.

I opened the bottle and poured out two glasses, taking in the luxury of the surroundings, but noticing what she meant. There were no telltale extras that spoke of real life - no quirky side table bought at the Portobello Road flea market, no souvenir magnets on the fridge from trips abroad, no clutter whatsoever. The chair and the couch, though, were cozy and deep; you could sink into them like a cocoon.

Emma reemerged a changed woman. Barefoot, for one thing, and wearing grey sweatpants and a loose short-sleeved sweatshirt. "I went for maximum comfort. This is my 'I'm not planning to impress anyone' look." She had failed entirely, because she was just as stunning. But she certainly looked much happier, and settled into the couch facing me, tucking her legs up to her side. Her toenails were painted bright pink, like bubblegum. She saw my glance. "No one ever sees those around the office," she laughed. "I went a little nuts."

"So what do people talk about on a second non-date?" she asked, and lifted her wine to drink.

"I was just sitting here looking out at the view and thinking," I said, reflectively, "what if we were never to see each other again, what would we talk about? What if there were no consequences, no reason to worry? We don't even know each others' last names... there must be thousands of Emmas in New York and thousands of Davids in Chicago..."

"Sounds like you want a confessional. 'Forgive me father for I have sinned. Over and over again with my neighbor's donkey.' That kind of thing?"

"Donkey? Where did you come up with that?" I laughed.

"Who the hell knows! When I relax shit just starts coming out of my mouth. And I get sweary, sorry. Must be growing up with big brothers."

"A beautiful woman swearing at me. I just need a whip to complete the mental picture."

"Oooh, you're one of those guys, huh. Want to get tied down and humiliated?"

"Not that I'm aware of... I don't know why I said that. When I relax shit just starts coming out of my mouth I guess..." We both laughed.

"So what does float your boat if it's not that?"

I wasn't sure what to make of the question, other than to sense that she must really be at ease. "You mean, in the bedroom, that kind of thing?"

"'In the bedroom' he says. You're so proper. It doesn't have to be in the bedroom you know."

I began to feel at bit too warm.

"You're the one who talked about us being in a safe space yesterday," she said, and gestured at the room. "So here we are again, a safe space. I promise I won't tell anyone. Who could I talk to anyway? Just tell me one thing you wouldn't say to anyone else."

Hellfire, I thought. If this is the way we're going to do this thing, I won't hold back.

"I masturbate a lot. My wife doesn't know." I looked at her, waiting for her to recoil, to throw me out, to tell me I'd crossed the line, that this wasn't our agreement. She didn't.

"'Oh my. You keep secrets from your spouse, you must be the only one."

"You do too?"

"Keep secrets? Or masturbate a lot? The answers are yes and... maybe not a lot. But sometimes."

This seemed to clear the air, to put us on an equal footing. We were just talking - two adults who know what adults get up to. Only you usually never discuss it out loud.

"So why do you? I mean, masturbate a lot. You and your wife, you don't...."

"We do. But not enough for me, or not regularly enough. When we do, it's good, and we both like it. But she doesn't seem to need it the way I do. If I get to three or four days... it's like a timer goes off. I get uncomfortable. So I take care of business."

"Jesus, it's like taking out the trash. Men are so... mechanical."

"Maybe. But putting the garbage on the curb doesn't feel nearly as nice. It's still fun, regardless." My glass was already empty so she sat up refill it, and topped off her own.

"And I suppose when you're... taking care of business... it's not your wife you're thinking of."

"Does the songbird dream about his cage? Or about flying free in the summer air from tree to tree?"

"Okay, Lord Byron, take it down a notch. That's just literary enough not to be crass."

"You're right, my marriage isn't a prison. I like it. But once you're in it... the horizons retreat. One person. And that person has preferences; not always the same as yours."

"So what is it you're missing - what aren't you getting that you'd like to?"

It felt odd to talk about my desires with a perfect stranger, telling her things I'd only ever hinted at with my own wife. But it also felt almost natural. Emma was easy to talk to, about anything it seemed. But it was still a bit embarrassing.

"I guess I'd like to... well, more realistically I guess, you know, we could do some butt stuff. But she flat out refused years ago and it was case closed. Never to be opened again."

"Oh yes, of course. You want to get into her ass, typical."

"So you've never..." Now the shoe was on the other foot. I realized I had done all of the confessing.

"I have, yes. It's not like a regular thing, but it's in the repertoire so to speak. If I can be so high-falutin' about it."

"But you're saying I'm the one being typical."

"I'm not saying you shouldn't want to do it - it can be good, under the right circumstances. But it's just... typical is all. If the internet is to be believed, anal is about as common as breathing." She stood up. "You want a snack? I'll grab something from the kitchen." She walked the few paces to the refrigerator, and her retreating ass made it clear why men thought along similar lines.

"Surely there's other stuff running around in that head of yours, while you're putting yourself out of your three-day misery." She pulled a round of soft cheese from the fridge and put it on a plate with some crackers from the cabinet.

We'd gone this far. I let my hair - metaphorically of course - down.

"I'd like to be with more than one woman at once. Feeling things all over... you get the picture."

"Okay, also pretty typical, but now at least in the territory of the unlikely."

"Of the impossible. So it's a total fantasy of course. And those women are younger than me, though old enough not to talk about the 2000s like it was prehistory. But firm, willing... Sorry, my act is getting a little blue."

"No, I like it. It's interesting to hear a man confess. So you have this crowd of young women exploring all your parts and vice versa. That's it?"

"You want a catalogue? No, that's enough for now, it's your turn. Tell me a fantasy, a proper one."

She pondered for a minute, a cracker crunching in her mouth, followed by a sip of wine. "For me, it's not so much the options of the sex itself, like I want anal or two men or whatever, as much as the situation - how I'm feeling, how the sex fits in, what it means to me, and of course whether it gets me off."

She settled into the couch then rested her head back and looked up at the ceiling, thinking. "There's a fantasy I've had since I was younger, or some version of it. At a music festival...."

** I'm in the festival tent, a DJ is on the podium playing music I love. It's loud, it's pumping, I'm there amidst the crowd, all dancing in unison, up and down, our hands in the air. I'm loose, I'm free, just feeling the energy coursing through me. I'm wearing a short skirt, a tank top and a loose floral blouse over it, the fabric light as air. I have my hair tied up, out of my way, keeping my neck cool in the hot crowd. My body is the way it used to be - muscles strong, tight. I feel fully in the moment, right where I want to be. The beat surges and the crowd presses forward, we're body to body now, moving as one mass. There's a firm masculine presence behind me, I can sense him without turning somehow. He's solid, powerful. I can feel him pressed against me and I get excited. I feel a hand on my arm, pulling me back even closer, then another hand reaches under my skirt and pulls down my panties. We're still dancing in the crowd, no one can see what's happening, not even me. I feel him enter me from behind and we're moving together in the rhythm. The sensation is so strong, the pleasure inside me is intense. I orgasm and scream out but the yell just is just added to the noise of the crowd. When I finish I sense that the presence is gone, but we're all still there, dancing together. **

"Whoa. That... paints a picture." I said.

"You need to take a cold shower?" she said, smiling.

"I'll see what a cold glass of wine does for me," trying to sound casual, but needing it. I poured more for each of us. "I thought you didn't like loud music - when we left the gallery? All that pounding?"

"It's precisely because I like music that I didn't enjoy it. Using it like wallpaper, nobody really paying attention, just noise, out of place. But wait, that's what you get from my fantasy? Whether or not I like loud music?" She shrugged. "You're an odd one."

"I'm just... distracting myself maybe." The fact was that I was so stimulated by this gorgeous woman speaking so openly that I felt confused in a way that made me feel like a teenager again. "Do you tell your husband your fantasies?"

"Pffff. No. I don't think it would work. He'd just wonder why he wasn't enough for me, and would tell me about the dangers of unprotected sex with a stranger, like I don't know. He'd miss the point in other words. What about you? You tell your wife?"

"God, no. She'd freak. I mean, she's a bit on the conservative side. And she'd assume I just wanted someone else, something else."

"All those young nubile girls taking it up the ass..." Her nasty talk jolted my crotch.

"Yeah. And... you know, whatever."

"No 'whatever,' spill it. Don't leave a girl hanging..."

"It could just be someone I know who turns me on, or situations that I daydream about. She'd think I really meant them."

"Such as... c'mon. I told you about my stranger."

"Something like... the mom of this one boy in my son's class. I see her sometimes and she's really fit and good looking, and I guess single. So there's this little element of possibility there. It gives it a kind of edge to think about her."

"And by 'think' you mean... while choking your weasel."

"Where did you pull that one out from? But you get the idea."

"So describe her to me, what does she look like?"

"She's sort of half-Asian, looks really young for her age. Has this jet black hair she wears in a pony tail mostly. When she walks it bobs side to side with a little bounce... kind of perky. And she wears tight yoga pants and tops a lot, like she's just on her way to the gym, which maybe she is because she looks really firm."

"I get it, the hot mom. Anyone else?"

"There's this barista at the coffee shop, a college student I think. Sort of a 'don't fuck with me' vibe, short hair, nose ring, but super cute. And she doesn't tend to wear a bra."

"The MILF and the the half-naked girl. Paint a picture, c'mon. Lay it out for me."

"Okay... if you really want me to..."

** It's late afternoon and the coffee shop will close soon, but it's still packed. I was hoping to sit for a while so I look around and see that Amanda... **

"That's the name of the mom," I said, but Emma looked like she had figured that out on her own.

**... that Amanda has a table by herself in the back. She sees me and smiles, then beckons to a free seat, so I walk over.

"You can sit here," she says, and after a year of quick chats with kids coming and going, she gives off a far warmer and even more attractive vibe. She also seems happy to see me. Maybe our chats were more flirtatious than I had admitted to myself.

She's dressed in her typical outfit, the skin-tight clothing showing off her petite body. It's immediately clear that there's chemistry, heat, desire, on both sides. We're interrupted by another person approaching the table. It's the barista. She approaches Amanda and gives her a full kiss on the mouth, then smiles at me and sits at our table. They hold hands.

"Sage just finished her shift, you should come back to my place with us. We could work out together."

I follow them to a house nearby and they take me right to the bedroom. We kiss all together then tumble into bed. I sit watching as the they make out with each other; they're petite but shapely, beautiful. Sage takes Amanda's clothes off piece by piece, her tongue working its way over all of her. Then Amanda does the same, and when she takes off Sage's underwear I see that Sage has a surprise - a big cock.

Amanda lies back on the bed and Sage gets inside her. I move to sit at Amanda's head and put my dick in her mouth while making out with Sage. She's beautiful, feminine, with a totally hairless body. Then Amanda gets up and pushes Sage back on the bed and straddles her dick, riding her. She bends over and beckons me with her finger saying she has another hole she wants filled. I get behind her and put my cock in her ass... **

"So I guess lube isn't a thing in your fantasies? Poor woman."

"Shut up. Maybe my fantasy cock has a non-stick coating. Anyway..."

** I thrust into her over and over, my balls riding over Sage's big cock and balls, stimulating me. I cum hard in Amanda's ass, and she cries out as she orgasms. Sage moves to lie back on the bed, and Amanda lowers her head to work on Sage's big cock with her mouth. I can't resist and reach out to stroke Sage in time with Amanda's head bobbing up and down. It stiffens and swells and I hear Sage grunt and start to come, spurting her seed all over Amanda's face. **

I had gotten a bit carried away and thought I might have managed to shock Emma after all. But after a moment's silence, she seemed composed.

"Oh my. That was a twist I didn't see coming. So to speak. I suppose that's one you definitely won't be telling your wife..."

"No shit. In fact you're the first person I've ever... not that it's a real thing with me. Just fantasy, but..."

"Yeah, I understand. I've done some stuff with girls in my head that would just turn me off in real life. Not my thing."

"So you've never..."

"Not really. I mean, there was a girl in high school, we kissed a couple of times at parties. She was actually gay, and her pursuing me was hot, validating. She was pretty, I could appreciate that, and the kissing was fine. But it just left me flat. And it wasn't the same for her, so it wasn't really fair to string her along. I guess after that I didn't really see the point."

"Makes sense," I said, trying to banish the image of Emma kissing a pretty girl.

"But straight guys... it seems like the stakes for your self image are higher - you're less willing to explore."

"Guys are fucking gross. Sorry, but never once have I seen a guy, no matter how handsome, and thought any more than 'that guy's handsome, good for him.' But still, a dick... there's an attraction somehow. I'm pretty familiar with one of them, after all."

"A chick with a dick. I think I can guess your Pornhub history. I wonder what that's all about?"

"Hell if I know. Seriously, I don't. But if I were to guess, maybe it's egotism. If I could fuck myself I would. I mean, I do, with all that weasel choking..." Emma laughed. "... but it's limited. If I could blow myself I'm not sure I'd ever leave the bedroom. My god..." I got lost in the idea for a moment. "So another cock in the picture... one attached to a person I find attractive, i. e., not male... And in my mind's eye the dick is long and thick and straight, perfectly formed, big balls - it's a sort of wish fulfillment for me I guess, if that were a mirror image of myself."

"So if you could fuck a better version of yourself and a beautiful younger woman at the same time..."

"No doubt an analyst would have a field day with me."

"Or not. That seems almost too obvious to be worth analyzing."

"It's not like your fantasy takes much imagination either - your festival sex is just amplifying what you were feeling in the moment, a peak experience lifted even higher with an orgasm."

"Yeah, sure. But there's something about that strong anonymous presence, yielding to something forbidden, the lack of consequences... It's basically the opposite of my real life."

"How do you mean?"

"When do I ever get to relax? It's a miracle I've seen you on two free nights in a row. And I'm in a male-dominated field. If I look too soft, they'll say I'm acting like a girl. If I'm too hard, I'm a bitch. And whether or not they respect me for my work, the guys are still all looking at my ass. Just to let go would be nice once in a while."

"So, anonymous inconsequential festival fuck."

"Among other things, yeah."

"Other things? Now you can't leave me hanging..."

"I think that means another bottle," she said, and got up to root around in the refrigerator, which had a stainless steel door that even sounded expensive, a little whoosh when it opened. "How much do you know about wine? Pouilly-Fumé or Sancerre?"

It would have been hard not to out myself so I avoided a straight answer. "Which one is more expensive?"

"The Sancerre. Label says 50 quid so it's probably not toilet water."

She brought it back to the table and handed me the corkscrew, letting me do the honors.

"So... other things..." I prompted as I took a sip.

"Remember those obnoxious interns - all money and no sense? They're not all bad. There's one, Felix, who's a nice guy, really smart, and because there's no justice in the world, also both rich and very handsome. He would be nauseating if he weren't doing such a good job on my team."

"I'm guessing there's another job you'd like to give him..."

She threw a little pillow off the couch at me, causing me to spill five bucks worth of wine as I dodged it.

"Crass again. But I do sometimes imagine..."

** It's near the end of a long workday. I'm in my corner office standing at the window thinking about whether I'll be able to knock off for some dinner before more work. I'm feeling a bit ragged. There's a knock at my door. It's Felix. Despite the hour he's still perfectly composed, his suit is cut just right, hugging his muscles; his shirt still looks freshly pressed and the collar frames his impossibly symmetrical features.

"I know you've been reviewing the restructuring proposal and still have the board prep for tonight so I went ahead in ordered in some food. Chinese okay?"

It's like a fairy godmother has waived a wand.

"God, yes. You're an angel."

He smiles and I feel a warm glow in my chest. His charisma is radioactive. He closes the door and comes further into the room. I think maybe he'll wait for the food... or assumes we'll eat together...

"You're here all the time. You should take a break sometime," he says, coming close enough that I could touch him.

But he gets there first. He reaches out to my hand and pulls it up, then kisses my fingers lightly. I'm not sure what to think, other than I hope there's more to it; despite myself that's all I want. He pulls me in firmly and embraces me then kisses me hard. I'm enveloped in his strong arms and can sense the heat of his body, smell his cologne, feel his lips and tongue exploring mine. He guides me over to the couch then tells me to sit down. I face him and he removes his jacket, then his shirt. He kneels in front of me and takes off my shoes and sets them aside. Then he reaches up and loosens the clasp on my skirt and pulls it off down my legs, then finally pulls the waistband of my panties and my stockings and pulls them down.

"Lean back," he tells me, and pulls my hips toward the edge of the couch, then lowers his head between my legs. He works his tongue into me, soft and warm and flexible, by turns slow and fast, languid and insistent. He finds my clit and energy courses through me as he hits just the right rhythm and pressure. I can't handle it, I explode and cry out, office or no office, I just don't care. When I regain my senses I see the outline of his cock in his pants. My hand reaches for it, I want to feel it. It's firm, he's longing for me. I open his belt and pants and pull them and his boxers down. I hold his balls and take his cock in my mouth and feel it stretch to its full, hard length.

After a minute he pulls me up. We stand face to face and he puts his mouth to my ear. "I'm going to fuck you," he says. "Turn around and bend over." I do as he says and rest my head on the arm of the couch. He grasps my hips and pulls me back and he thrusts into me. It's my favorite position, from behind, and I can feel him going deep and the pressure inside hitting me just right. I want him to take me hard, fast, and he does just that. He doesn't hold back. He pushes and pushes and I'm wild and cum again, harder than before. I stand up and he spins me around and I feel his soft lips on mine again.

There's a knock at the door. I'm a little panicked and stand behind the cabinet, but Felix is calm. He pulls up his pants and puts on his shirt, then answers the door. It's the food. He takes it from the delivery guy and puts it on my desk. "Dinner?" he says. **

"That," I said with understatement, "was hot."

"And, like yours, it's pure fantasy. I'm neither an HR violation in waiting nor in the habit of eating Chinese takeaway at my desk. But I can't claim not to enjoy Felix's company a bit more than I ought to. Not that he notices. He spends way too much time looking at his phone to see me, really."

"Bullshit. Felix is having the same daydream as you, I guarantee it."

"No way. I'm twice his age and he's surrounded by all these glamorous tarts. He must be up to his eyeballs in women."

"But not his sexy, powerful boss - there's not a 21-year old intern in the world who wouldn't give his left nut to have it off with his hot boss. With you."

Emma smiled and sighed. "Well, it's a fantasy, we can each have our own. Although I'm guessing now that his probably involves getting his massive wang into my backside with nothing but a bit of spit to help it along. No thank you."

"Let the boy dream, Emma, let him dream," I laughed and thought about her backside again, and his massive wang, and grabbed the little pillow from the floor and put it on my lap, preserving my modesty.

Outside the panoramic windows, the darkness of the night had deepened as lights in the buildings were extinguished, floor by floor, the employees gone, the cleaning crews finishing their rounds. We sat for a few minutes just sipping and being quiet together, looking out at the city.

"I'm not sure if I should bring up the obvious," I said. "I don't want to break the spell, or whatever this is."

"What do you mean?"

"If we're being entirely honest, this, right here, is the sexiest thing that's ever happened to me. How can it not fuel my imagination? How can you not? You're already so hot to begin with, but hearing you talk, and then what I've said to you, and you listening to it..."

I was worried that breaking the spell was exactly what I had done when she didn't react. Maybe I'd stepped on the bond of trust we'd developed so quickly, and I had revealed myself to be just another guy perving for her.

"It's okay if you want to," she said at last, quietly. I thought I'd misheard, misunderstood. My nerves jangled. Was she propositioning me? Suddenly I felt uncomfortable.

"Want to what?" I asked, a little tremor in my voice.

"Think about this, about me, about... all of it. This might be a non-date, but what's going on inside your head? That, I think, is fair game."

As invitations to sex go, it was both the most chaste and the most erotic I'd ever heard.

"And in your head? Anything at all up there? Sorry, that came out wrong, I..."

"Yes. Lots. So maybe it's time we call it a night. And if I have any more of this wine I can write off tomorrow morning. I wouldn't want to ruin little Felix's image of me..."

I stood up and stretched. I didn't want to leave, but that's how it had to be; it was no less painful for being obvious. Emma got up out of the couch, a vision of soft, warm comfort. I turned toward the door and she followed me.

We stood in the foyer. "I think it's best," I said, "if we say goodbye. And that's it. I don't know..."

"I know. This is lightning in a bottle. We can't expect it to strike twice," she said, and I let out a burst of laughter at her tortured metaphors.

She drew in close and gave me a hug. At last I felt that body against mine and it was delicious, but even more painful when she withdrew, as I knew she had to.

"Keep your pecker up, as they say around here," she said, winking.

"No chance that won't happen," I said.

I never went out of my way to look for Emma after that, though I couldn't help but expect to run into her around every corner in London, or New York, in an audience, or at a pub. But I never did see her again. She lived on in my imagination, but not as I might have expected. I didn't use her body for my pleasure, exploring all of her holes, shooting my load as she moaned in ecstasy. When I fantasized about her, I pictured her sitting across from me, wearing comfortable clothes, ensconced in a deeply cushioned couch, sharing intimacies. Her smile, her voice, her trust - they kept me warm on many a cold night.