Nyc: in the Window

I showered.

I dressed carefully.

I took my time.

I had two and a half interminable hours until noon.

It never occurred to me I might not like her.

I already knew she had to be very much like me.

Since I liked myself, I had little doubt I would like her.

I wondered about her. A lot. Who she was. Where she was from. Where she went to school. What she did for a living. Was she married? Divorced? Bi-sexual? I assumed she was, given our mutual show, but I knew nothing about her. Absolutely nothing.

I ordered another pot of coffee. I drank it.

Finally, at 10 minutes before 12, I left the room. Made my way to the elevator.

It was 5 minutes to noon as I made my way toward the front door. I didn't even know where the front of her building might be, but as I came through the doors, I realized I had no need for concern.

I recognized her immediately.

And she, me.

She introduced herself first, in a delightful Parisian accent.

She said her name was Larissa.

I already was in a state of lust.

Close up, she wasn't merely pretty. She was beautiful. Her body was exquisite. As was her taste in clothing.

I suggested lunch. A glass of wine. Conversation.

She took me by the arm, and I felt the power of her touch in the depths of my being, or, at least, in the depths beneath my panties.

Her eyes sparkled. I knew mine were, too. I could feel it.

She knew a little Italian restaurant. As she described it, "A little hole in the wall, with the most exquisite food ..."

How could I resist?

We were arm in arm moving down the street. I could see we were catching attention, even in New York City. I was certain we looked very, very good.

And I already was turned on. Every touch, every bump, merely heightened the sensation.

And I knew I wasn't alone. I could feel her heat. I could see it in her eyes, each time we looked at each other.

It was so strange: We hardly knew each other, were trying to catch up on the highlights of our lives, but the electricity, the erotic tension, was palpable. We hardly knew each other, yet we already knew each other intimately.

We talked of our lives, her of NYU, where she had attended school and discovered a passion for women, me of Wellesley, where I brought my already finely tuned taste for women.

We both talked of our exhibitionism, its earliest roots, the pleasure we took in it. So similar it shocked both of us.

Half way through lunch, I succumbed to an urge that swept over me like a tidal wave. It was impossible to resist its power. I leaned forward, looking into her eyes, and kissed her. On the lips.

She moved her arm behind my head, pressing me closer to her lips. I felt her tongue wet my lips. Her tongue entered my mouth. My hand dropped to her thigh, intimately high. In an instant, we were both breathless.

I have little doubt we could have had sex in the booth in the restaurant. Passionate sex. It was clear we would. But it also was clear we wanted to prolong the pleasure.

We said as much, suggesting almost simultaneously that we do some shopping after lunch.

And we did. Heading directly for Saks Fifth Avenue, at Larissa's suggestion.

We looked at shoes, flashing each other as we tried them on, giggling like schoolgirls the whole time.

We had our first taste of each other's nipples in the dressing room, as we ostensibly tried on blouses. We kissed. We touched. We nibbled under each other's bra. We kissed some more. Hands were everywhere. And we returned the blouses without ever trying on a single one of them.

Now, it was too hot. We both needed release. Soon. But not in a changing room.

I suggested the hotel.

We grabbed a cab. We could see the cabbie watching us, as we kissed. We didn't care.

I had a hand under her skirt, where I already could feel her wetness. Through her pantyhose. I was the same. Wet. On fire.

I don't remember entering the hotel. I don't remember passing through the lobby. I don't remember the elevator ride.

But I know that as soon as we reached the room, we were ripping each other's clothes off. Kissing. Ripping more clothes off. Kissing.

We were naked by the time we trumbled onto the bed.

Kissing. Entwined. Lips. Hands. Fingers. Legs. Everywhere. Exploring. Touching. Sucking. Kneading. Pinching. Pulling. Fingering. We couldn't wait. Patience was gone. Lust was in command.

I don't think I have ever found myself in a 69-position with another woman so quickly. It just seemed so natural to be so hungrily seeking immediate satisfaction.

This was no quiet exploration, no attempt to explore erogenous zones.

This was explosive, uncontrollable sex. We both needed, were demanding, immediate satisfaction, the best possible climax in the shortest possible time.

Guys act like they are the only ones ever in need of a "quick fuck." If only they knew.

The fire, the fever was never more obvious than it was right now, as our mouths closed over each other's clit. Now, it was about release. Nothing more. Nothing less. Release.

There would be time later to learn about each other's passions and sensitivities, desires and quirks. There definitely would be a "later".

We came almost simultaneously, our oral skills bringing on an earthshaking climax that left us pushing away, shaking uncontrollably on opposite ends of the bed, before quickly uniting in a tight, tight embrace.

Our lips locked.

Our tongues explored each other's mouths, just as they had explored each other's pussy.

We were momentarily sated _ but only momentarily.

Just looking at each other, we knew there would be more, soon.

We talked then.

I ordered a bottle of wine. Two glasses.

We talked still more.

Our backgrounds were quite different, but we were not. We had come from different places, but now found ourselves in the same time and place. With similar interests. With identical passions. With powerful needs to explore the depths of our sexuality.

We shared, in the next hours, the deepest and most revealing of our secrets, our fantasies, our need to live out as many of them as possible.

We both were bi-sexual, and both agreed any men had to be much younger _ or much older, to be of any interest. I was 32. She was 31.

Our passion for women was more indiscriminant. Neither of us knew why.

When I made the confesssion that so often ended relationships in their infancy, I knew this was different.

I told Larissa I was incapable of monogamy. Always would be. I just couldn't imagine being limited to one lover. I wanted to be free, so when a situation like last night, like today, presented itself, I was free to pursue it passionately, without guilt.

She shocked me when she admitted she had never been able to maintain a relationship for much the same reason.

We both agreed men, and women, somehow became more boring in an erotic and in a sexual sense the longer you knew them. Neither of us knew why, but we both believed it had to do with familiarity _ and, as everyone knows, familiarity breeds contempt.

We laughed, but we understood relationships, those we had been in, those we knew about among our friends, tended to be stifling, over time, far less fulfilling than the variety we pursued.

We were in love with the erotic.

At times, often, we both agreed our sexuality overwhelmed us, but we had no desire to learn to control it. It brought us far too much pleasure. And would bring much more in the future.

Now, we kissed. We hugged. We touched. We explored each other, in intimate detail.

No rushing now.

No uncontrollable passion.

We knew we both were real. We knew we would not suddenly disappear. We knew this was a beginning, not an ending.

So, slowly, we made love.

Our lips. mouths, tongues were everywhere. We took turns. We took time. No rush. Just a slow, building passion ...

I brought Larissa to the peak first. And watched her face as she crashed over the top. This time, I didn't stop. I immediately renewed my efforts, my mouth glued to her pussy. Almost immediately, I could feel yet another climax beginning to build. I slowed my pace. No rush. Not now. I gently nursed her back up the mountain, and again watched as the waves of pleasure shook her body.

She repaid the favor. Twice. Slowly.

As we showered, together, we planned dinner. And the rest of the evening.

Over dinner, we talked of other lovers, mostly women, and the possibilities that loomed. I admitted threesomes or foursomes were a favorite of mine. She had never been involved in a foursome, just twice in twosomes, once with two men, once with a man and another woman. But she made it clear she was open to the possibility, in fact, that she welcomed it.

We walked the streets holding hands.

We kissed in the cab.

We kissed in the restaurant.

In New York City, no one cared.

I fondled her ass as we walked. She smiled. Even as she glanced at the man behind us who nearly walked into a street light because he was staring at my hand instead of where he was going.

By the time we had returned to the hotel, we were in love, the passionate kind of love, not the love of poets and romantics.

It was an erotic love.

It was a sexual love.

For now, it was what we wanted, needed.

And we already were making plans for a winter vacation in the islands. A vacation we planned to spend in very tiny bikinis _ or nude.