(© Copyright by the author, 1997)
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I'd actually known Inez in a casual way for about a year before that last afternoon. I first bumped into her - literally - at a farmers' market in Union Square on a mid-October Saturday morning. I was carrying a sizable pumpkin destined to give its all for the furtherance of merriment and atmosphere at a Halloween party. She was crouched low to examine some unusual apples from Upstate. She backed into my path and stood abruptly, nearly knocking the pumpkin out of my arms. Being not nearly as dumb as I look, I did everything I could to prolong the conversation.
After all, Inez was one helluva sexy package and a powerful argument for the colorblind miscegenation of her native Venezuela, with her ochre-highlighted hair, her glowing, swarthy complexion and her lush lips and big brown eyes. But as pretty as she was, the truth is that it was her body that aroused my instant attention and lust. Standing here on a mild autumn day in her spray-on jeans and a black bodystocking, Inez's figure was testimony to her heritage and her then-current job: personal trainer to the rich and healthy. She had strong, curvy legs, rounded hips, a shockingly tiny waist and breasts that were simply perfect. Her tits were bounteous, rounded mounds that stood high and proud on her ribcage, defiantly braless and defying gravity.
As it turned out, we did have some things in common, among them, an appreciation for fine coffee and wines. And I happened to have an invitation to a private wine tasting the following Friday.
I gave her my phone number without asking for hers - no sense in pushing it - and told her to call if she was interested.
And so it went. We would go to wine tastings together, or visit one of the coffee bars then springing up around Midtown like so many mushrooms after a cloudburst. In all, we saw each other every two or three weeks. We would chat about this and that and the other. Bit by careful bit, she let me learn about her.
I don't want to imply that she didn't talk or tell me anything. She readily told me what it was like growing up with her brothers and sisters in a middle-class suburb of Caracas. She freely talked of college (journalism, Northwestern, '88). She spoke at some length - and with great animation, in fact - of the difficulties of getting a decent job in her chosen field.
But she didn't give much away (to be generous in characterization) about her current personal life. She lived in a studio in the Village and did the personal-training bit to cover most of her expenses in between the rare freelance article, she liked to rent videos and read books and listen to music, and that was just about it.
I was making no headway with her, and my condition (acute lust) was worsening. And there was no way she didn't know the effect she had on me.
For instance, the evening we stopped into Starbuck's near the UN. With the wind chill, the temperature on the icy street felt like 10 below zero. As soon as we got inside, Inez whipped off her big down-filled parka and sat, beaming and grinning and thoroughly enjoying the fact that I could not stop glancing at her braless, glorious tits and wildly hardened nipples - which were clearly displayed through the thin white Lycra top. I asked if she wanted to borrow my sweater. Her smile broadened, displaying all of her perfectly even, white teeth. She glanced down at her nipples, than looked me right in the eye and said, "Oh, no, I'm not cold anymore," as if daring me to say anything,
And then there was that February evening after a wine tasting at the Water Club. We'd wandered up to the second floor and were looking across the East River at Brooklyn as the sun was setting. It was that delightful moment when darkness had already enfolded the ground, but the sun's rays were still turning the jets over JFK and LaGuardia into golden flecks of graceful wonder. I pointed this out to her, standing behind her. She leaned back against me, and of course I slid my arms around her. She covered my hands with hers at her waist and whispered, "Oh, this feels so nice." I can still feel the warm, taut weight of her against me, and I can still recall precisely the delicate scent she wore: something with sandalwood in it.
But that night, as on every similar occasion, the moment of contact was fleeting, if intense - and clearly terminated. We almost never touched, and any suggestions that I take her home or that she visit my apartment were politely declined. She was civil but coolly made it clear: It wasn't going beyond casual companionship.
And it wasn't as if I didn't know she had other activities. About half the times when I'd suggest going somewhere, she'd decline, pleading other commitments, usually without elaborating. On one occasion - which promised to be a truly spectacular wine tasting - she'd finally told me that she also picked up a little extra by looking in on and walking pets for neighbors who were out of town. In fact, a colleague in the Village reported having seen her on several occasions walking various dogs, ranging from a pair of perfectly coiffed toy poodles to what he called a "mastiff the size of a Volkswagen."
I found it difficult not to wonder about those "other commitments." She made it clear she lived alone and equally clear that she didn't have a steady boyfriend. I wondered if she might be lesbian - or if some awful event, like an assault, had made her wary of getting too close. To anyone.
I don't want to sound like I was pining away with unrequited lust for Inez and never had any outlets, because that simply wasn't the case. As a fairly successful account exec in my mid-30s, fit and civil and not too hard to look at, I was not exactly doomed to a monastery. Not at all. Paula stopped by twice on her way from Philadelphia to her family's place in New Hampshire. And there was Reena, the tall, lavishly upholstered designer from our art department, who decided to favor me with a weekend fling before settling down with her long-time boyfriend in his new location: Los Angeles.
And, of course, there was Julie.
Now, I am an unabashed tit man. In fact, I like to think of myself as a connoisseur of mammaries. There's an old adage that anything more than a mouthful is wasted, but it's not true for me. What I can't get into my mouth is subject to my fingers, not to mention my eyes. I can appreciate the beauty of a shapely ass, the promise of lovely legs, but... ahhh - tits!
Julie hardly had any tits. She was slim in the extreme, to the point where if she ever lost weight, she'd become waifish. Julie was Vietnamese by extraction (she'd been born and raised on the Left Coast) and about 15 years younger than me - but for some reason, the first time we looked at each other, we both knew we were going to be fucking very, very soon. Two hours after we met - in a housewares' store - we were in my apartment and stripping each other as fast as we could.
Julie was never nude with me, but she was almost always naked. Standing five-and-a-half-feet tall, I guess she weighed about a hundred pounds - and it was all lean and strong and lithe. She had very sparse, straight pubic hair, no hips and tits about the size of ping-pong balls topped by the most incredibly tiny and sensitive nipples I'd ever encountered.
Julie and I fucked liked bunnies almost every Sunday for the three months while she stayed with relatives in Manhattan and took summer courses at Columbia. She'd ring my intercom at noon, and by 12:15, we'd be naked and sweating and having the time of our lives. She could cum like very few women I'd ever known: incessantly and variously. Sometimes she came just sucking me off as I toyed with her nipples. Every now and then she would get, as she put it, "fuck crazy," and then she'd really let go, demanding that I pinch and pull her nipples, or use my teeth (carefully) on her clitoris or even ram my erection up her ass. (Which was really an amazing sensation; as tight and warm as her narrow pussy was, her ass would coat my cock like hot, newly poured rubber. And she would cum.) Sometime between seven and eight every Sunday night, Julie would clumsily stagger into the shower and, after drying off, dress herself, brush her hair, give me a daffy grin from the door of my bedroom - where I'd usually be laying inert, too spent to do more than wave - and then let herself out.
To this day, I don't know exactly what the chemistry was between us, but it was pretty powerful.
Nonetheless, the woman I craved was Inez, and I was getting nowhere fast. In fact, I didn't even know where to find the map. But that would change - unfortunately.
I was in Amsterdam - for the first time - on business, and it was a particularly grueling job this time. Concorde to Paris, then Airbus to Holland, straight into five hours of meetings and presentations, followed by negotiations over dinner, then back to the client's offices to draw up a draft agreement. I was one of the walking wounded when I finally got to my hotel at what was, by my internal clock, seven in the morning. At eleven (local time) the next morning, I was awake and restless - You know: wired and tired - and still had six hours to kill before heading back to Paris and the trip home to New York.
I figured it would be a shame to be in Amsterdam and see nothing of it. So I went for a walk. It was a gray day, but Amsterdam was still a lovely city for walking.
.... There is more of this story ...