Love. "I don't remember her name, but I was in love with her from the moment she fumbled for her apartment keys—lost it seemed in a giant black leather handbag—while we made out in the foyer of her Tribeca building. As we walked up the stairs to her apartment, I stared at her ass, shrink wrapped in a short tight black skirt. With each flight of stairs we climbed, I imaged what I'd do to it. Inside her place, I took off every bit of her clothing in slow motion, our lips locked and sucking the entire time I unwrapped her, savoring what I knew she was about to give to me. And then she did: first, the rim of her panties on my finger tips as she allowed my hand passage, then the warmth of her micro tuft of hair, then her wetness, allowing me inside of it. The perfect curve of her breasts. Her taste. Her scent. Staring in her eyes as we both came. Unreal. No, I don't remember her name, but I was in love with her.—Lance, E. NYC
