First Time Many Years Ago

True. First time with a wonderful young lady.

The apartment is embarrassingly bare, even for a summer sublet, furnished only with boxes of books and two college cast-off sofas. Is it clean at least? Clutter and dirt really show in a place this empty. Fill some of it with sound, there's a radio on the floor and a good FM rock station from New York.

I still owe her a drink, and I can't afford to take her out again. Oh, and she's still under the legal drinking age for a few more months, so there aren't many places she can go. Good excuse. What is there to drink here? Whiskey sour mix left over from last football season, cheap bourbon. Aluminum glasses, for God's sake. Lemon flavored drinks in aluminum, great, I hope it's not actually dangerous.

She followed me the ten miles back to the apartment from work, to sit on the floor and drink cheap booze. She doesn't notice the aluminum, is thankful for the glass. At least it's cool. Late afternoon sun pours even through the closed blinds behind her. We need the air conditioner to cut the heat of the sunny side of the apartment. Drafty, with no furniture to break up the air flow around the room. My legs are cold in cutoffs, facing her across the corner of the room, both of us leaning against the wall. She has stockings, pantyhose, doesn't mind.

I really do owe her this drink. I asked her to type that ad -- twice, because I made a mistake on the layout the first time, being too clever, scaling the proportions with a slide rule, very impressive, but I got the wrong answer. She was horrified at the task of typing justified text in the first place, so I offered her the drink as a bribe. Worked. Then I had to come back and admit my stupid mistake and ask her to do it all over again. Why would she have more confidence in my arithmetic the second time? Because I offered another drink? No, because I was so embarrassed by making the error, smart ass college kid, that I triple checked it and drew pictures and showed her the method as proof. Worked again.

The first drink didn't work out. We had limited time, went to the one bar that wouldn't card her. We were the only people in the place, and I was worried sick about every penny it cost. So I suggested the second one be at my place, just to save money. I am appalled at how empty this place is. The radio and the air conditioning absorb the echoes. I use them all the time, too, and I never talk to myself here because it's so lonely.

The near sunset in the window makes the plain white, white walls blend into the common gold carpet. I have a white shirt gone yellow, tan cutoffs gone yellow, legs gone yellow, silver glass gone gold, I blend into the wall and floor. She stands out a little, red glass, black dress, tan legs shiny, covered only a little by that dress. She holds the glass out to me. A refill? Sure.

What are we talking about? How much we love/hate the office? Where she lives? I'm staring at her legs, where they go, where they stop. The dress is not as modest as it once was. There's the sacred white triangle delimited by shiny thighs and black hem. Skirts are getting shorter, and I love it, and this one is just not doing its job. There's the delicate curve of pubic triangle clearly visible in light color. White underwear is always sexier because you can see the shape of the body underneath, that wondrous outline of the female crotch, shallow V with flat bottom that fits the palm of the male hand and aligns my fingers naturally with the folds of soft wet flesh beneath the panties. What that would feel like!

I must be staring. I certainly haven't been listening. Is there something wrong? Do I mind the way she's sitting? No, I like what I see. Don't change for me. She drinks, leans back, the view improves if that's possible. How wonderful for her to be so unconcerned! I continue to gawk shamelessly at her thighs, her hips, her sex. The subject is out in the open now, she knows where I'm looking and does nothing to prevent it. Can she encourage it? She seems to enjoy the attention.

I don't even wonder if this is having a visible effect on me that she might be staring at, so oblivious am I to the possibilities of the situation. There is no event here, there is only a show that I can watch. I'm staring and listening and talking and staring. But not acting. Just watching. Lean back, relax, drink.

Do I have a robe or something she can wear, so the dress doesn't get wrinkled sitting here on the floor? Another refill while I look. I don't own a robe. All I can find is a light jacket, not quite long enough. When she comes out of the bathroom, the jacket is only a little below her hips, leaving a foot of black slip below it. Lace trim. Nice.

She stands and waits at my shoulder, so that when I turn to her my eyes are at lace-height.

"Do you think I'm sexy?"

All I can see is lace, thighs and knees in shiny nylon.

Stockings feel so cool to the touch. The flesh inside gives them form, the tension of the weave gives substance, rounds off all corners, the leg is resilient to the touch, and cool. The scrape of slip across stocking, smooth against tight, makes the hair stand up on the back of my hand.

Even I am embarrassed to stare so close. "Do you think I'm sexy?"

Automatically . . . I hardly know her. We work together but . . . Well, I'm engaged, and I'm just not . . . My eyes betray my interest. Automatically, I look up. "Sure, why not."

She lets herself down into my lap, arm around my neck. No hesitation. "Prove it."

We kiss, lightly. Try not to act surprised, but what's going on here? She kisses well, with fervent interest but not urgent, crushing passion. What is this warm body doing in my arms? The curves of her back and her arm, yes, they're just like the shape of a woman. The jacket is rough, but underneath is slippery. Slip down below her waist to the flare of her hip, her buttock. Kiss her cheek, her neck, down to the collar. At her hip the jacket ends and there is only the slip, but no objection. Caress, and feel the satiny nylon rub along the knit underneath.

I bring my hand and my attention around to her side, to her arm. We kiss again, more urgently now, and I move along her ribs to her breast. An intake of breath, but not sharp, not surprised, accepting of my touch. I am the one surprised. Jesus, this is really going to happen.

I feel her hip again, and further along the curve of her buttock to her thigh, that electric sensation of cool, silky fabric sliding along stockinged leg. I linger and savor the static and tingling. At the bottom there is only thigh, and I feel it, going under the slip, high up under the slip to her hip and back to her buttock and thigh again, but this time closer to the flesh and thus more intimate. There is no question now that we will continue until we've had our fill tonight. Now we can just proceed.

Our tongues are probing, circling. I taste her soft lips. Her hands rub my neck and shoulders. The jacket is somehow unbuttoned and gone. I bend down to kiss her breast through the layers of nylon, and I blow warm breath thru the fabric. Her nipple is awake to greet me. And I touch her thigh again, now down to the other thigh. She opens them slightly, but enough, and I caress almost to the top, inside her leg, the skirt now unnoticed.

We separate and look at each other now, but a little shy, eyes lowered. I see the cones of her breasts, and I don't want to be shy. Crawl over toward the sofa a few feet and lie back using a folded blanket as a cushion. Kissing her neck, I lower the top of the slip, and her bra, and kiss each inch of skin as it is revealed. Her breasts are firm, her nipples wonderfully hard, and cool in the draft.

It's getting dark. The radio is still on, murmuring, across the floor of the living room. We're not fluid at this, but we're not fumbling. She helps me remove things as we want to get past them, after much fondling to understand the shape and the surface, to feel the shape, stockings and panties go.

I try to memorize the senses of every piece of her we expose, touch, taste, and smell. Down her chest, past her waist, to her belly. Around over thighs, finally to her sex. Downy, and warm, and slick with her heat. Through her panties, its shape is female but not individual, fits my hand as I expected, I can find her lips and her wetness. Under the pants, she is small, lips long and thin. As my fingers fit into that wondrous shape, she is tight, and smooth. Slick, slurping, easy to slide into. And deep, and the depth hollows out with her excitement making room for me, billowing out with hot tension, room for us to play, and finally we join.

When we waken, it is dark. Only the street lights draw blue and sharp lines on the wall. It's cold. We change the makeshift cushion back into a blanket and lie together. I can barely hear the torchy Blood, Sweat & Tears across the room, over the air conditioner still humming away.

We never had dinner, you know, and we're starving. I can see her in the fridge light, and I divide my attention between listing the meager inventory and looking at her body for the first time. Slim, supple, curvy. Not very modest, that's good. She can't wait for anything that needs to be prepared, takes a quick sandwich. So we have a naked dinner -- dinner, ha! the same tuna sandwich and milk a child might take to school -- in the almost-dark, and continue our conversation about the office as though we were still dressed. As though we were sitting in the office.

She lives with her grandparents, has to leave when it's not too late. What did we really talk about? She is so casual, at the front door, I have to ask awkwardly if we are going to see each other again. Is this a one night stand?

Her answer isn't yes, but it isn't no, either. Depends on me, she says, kisses me lightly and turns to leave.