Greg busily scoured the party, looking for signs of Mike, but there was only a Sly Stallone look-alike dancing on one of the stages. I waved to Hugo. Beautiful physiques exuded testosterone from every male pore in the room. Doesnāt anyone here have boobs?
"Real or fake?" asked a sultry voice. I turned to look into a magnificent pair of green eyes. ĪJeez, did I ask that out loud???ā
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"I think you asked if anyone here had boobs. Real or fake?" She was grinning, enjoying my embarrassment. Her hair was a thick chestnut brown, and her lips were full and smiling. At me.
"Uh, real of course," I stated, bucking up to the situation.
We established her breasts were real. Happily for me. Mine were not discussed, as they are of too inconsequential a size. Unhappily it may be for her. What was I thinking? Just because we talked about her breasts didnāt mean I was going to sleep with her! ĪI am not going to sleep with her, I told myself.ā I just didnāt feel emotionally ready to fall into bed with a stranger. I was never really good at that any way.
She asked me to dance. I bought her a drink. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Greg and Andrew, hovering like a couple of old ladies. She moved like a dream, floating across the dance floor, her hips and shoulders undulating to the beat.
The hundredth time we "accidentally" bumped into Andrew or Greg, I nearly decked them.
"Donāt you guys have better things to do than to follow around a couplaā dykes??"
"I just want to make sure youāre having a good time. Sheās a sensitive girl, our Fran," Greg said to Ms. Green Eyes.
"How long have those two been together?" she asked me, amused at the parade of fraternal interludes.
"Theyāre not," I said. "They dated a few years ago but almost drove each other insane. Now, theyāre not together and drive everybody else insane."
I quickly went through the short list of things I knew about her that would remind me NOT to get involved. Sheās a Pisces -- too emotional. She was from San Francisco - definitely GU. She was alive and talking when Kennedy was shot -- too old. She was aggressive -- I like demure.
"Do you like that," she asked me, as she delicately placed feathery kisses on my face and neck. ć
"Yes," I breathed. So much for demure.
We were drinking and laughing, dancing and flirting. We were on the dance floor. And then we were alone in her hotel suite, high above the city lights, away from all the boys and their baubles. And she was kissing me, leading me to the bedroom, gently urging me on.
Iām not ready for this, Iām not ready for this. No, no, no, no.
And sheās touching me, softly, tenderly -- running her strong, slender fingers along my thankfully flat stomach, my chest. She makes contact with my inconsequentially sized breasts and I feel the heat radiate from my breasts to my head to my crotch.
Somehow weāre naked, tangled up in sheets. She rolls me on top of her, pressing me into her. I couldnāt help but laugh. Just like on the dance floor, she leads from the follow position.
We hear the fireworks go off at midnight, intertwined with each other, side by side. She looks me deep in the eyes and whispers, "Happy New Year,"
And I gasp my first breath of 1996 as she kisses my lips.
