I can’t say what came over me that day or how much we had had to drink. All I knew was we set out with a purpose: to bring home some dripping wet fun to play with that night if it killed us. He knew about my urges. In fact, he had known about them for years and had always done the best he could in his own meager way of making up for his shortcomings when it came to sexual equipment. While it was his body I needed, it was the curves and folds of the fairer sex that I wanted and desired. And, between the two of us, we did our fair share of keeping me well-fed of those desires.

This night was no different than the other except that I am willing to share it. Some of the other things we discovered together in ways like this will remain forever tucked away in the folds of my heart and shall not be revealed to anyone, ever.

The club was swank. In the damp downtown L.A August heat, everyone was a little damp. That’s where I saw her. She glistened under the night sky. I remember it clearly. Her dress was short, strapless, fitting and sexy. Her hair flowed down her back and under one shoulder in small ringlets. I imagined she had similar ringlets on the mound of skin where her thighs closed and parted. I imagined she had a small black pussy, one that had never yielded to the touch of another woman—at least one she would admit to.

I could see damp kinks poking from beneath her otherwise carefully countered head and envisioned them moving with every breath laid on the bottom of her neck. Salty beads of sweat made their way to the surface of her skin and she brushed them away with the coy dab of a napkin. With that thought, she was ours.

He approached. He flirted. I approached. I flirted. I did it the way I knew they would like. I touched her hand, leaned in to listen to her talk, let my breast brush gracefully against her wrist as I reached across her to ash my cigarette in an ash tray just beyond my reach.
“Do You Smoke?” I ask.
She declines.
One more Cosmo. I kiss her neck.
One more Sex on the Beach. Her hand is in mine.
One more beer. He’s rubbing her shoulder.
A margarita later. Her lips are against mine.
Another margarita later. Her lips are against his.

An hour later, she’s in our bed. Bellies rubbing. Cock in pussy. Dripping pussy on dripping pussy. Cock in mouth. Slamming and waxing, bumping and grinding, moaning and groaning. Juice everywhere. She was spent that night when we put her in a taxi cab with a kiss goodbye and no phone number. Some might call her another good girl gone bad. I just call her the right girl at the right time.

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