Chapter 1

They say a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. But I can't claim to be a gentleman. Besides, all bets are off when the woman -

But that comes later.

And - oh, yes - this is a true story. Really happened. Only her name has been changed. Not to protect her - she does not need protection - but to keep my ass out of court.

I met June (not her real name) in a laundromat in the Village. I had seen her there a few times and couldn't help noticing. For one thing, she was female, and most of the clientele was male and gay. I had outgrown my homophobia years before, and on the rare occasions when one of the guys cruised me, I told him (truthfully) that I was flattered - and declined. Hell, how could I not be flattered? There were a lot of devastatingly good-looking guys around who were obviously gay, and someone had found me attractive enough to make a pass; I had to be flattered.

In a way, that was how June and I got to know each other. She overheard me talking with Jimmy, one of the other long-time customers. He was surprised at my equanimity when a newcomer had cruised me. Jimmy told me what a lovely way it was to decline. I told him it was simply the truth. Amazing, isn't it - that faggots should find the truth just as lovely as we unrepentant straights do? Golly, maybe they're almost human.

June was decidedly female. She was only about five feet tall, with jet black hair in a pageboy cut framing a rounded, pretty face. Her black eyes, behind her eyeglasses, were wide for an Asian, and if there was a fault to her face, it was that her lips were a bit too generous and lush. Some fault, huh?

Anyway, about five minutes after the chat with Jimmy, June asked me for help with one of the dryers. I've got a knack for mechanical things (heh!), and I was glad to have a way to get closer to her.

She was wearing a lightweight blue windbreaker, half-unzipped, over a loose white blouse and a pair of spray-on jeans. Her boots were a half-heel style that wasn't flat and wasn't high-spiked. She had a cute well-rounded ass, but the way she carried herself, for all her perkiness and cuteness, wasn't inviting; businesslike.

I jimmied the dryer and told her that I'd seen her there a few times.

"I've seen you, too," she said, forthrightly. June was, I would learn, very forthright in almost every way. "And I've had trouble with these machines before." She slapped the dryer and laughed. She had a great laugh.

I asked why she hadn't asked my help before.

"I see how well you get along with the gay boys, I thought you were gay."

"By that logic, if you see me getting along with a Puerto Rican, you should think I'm Puerto Rican."

"But how can you stand the gay boys? I hate lesbians!"

"I don't care who or what they sleep with if I'm not there. And since this is a laundromat and not a waterbed..."

She laughed again. As I said - a great laugh.

In the course of conversing, between the two of us we found some excuse for me to come back to her place for drinks. I arrived at 10 p.m., hoping - for she had a gorgeous ass.

June occupied the entire third and fourth floors of a brownstone on Greenwich Avenue, not far from Tenth Street. In the sitting room on the fourth floor, over white wine on wall-lining sectionals, listening to some soft rock, she explained that she was the New York office of a Scandinavian import-export firm. About half of the third floor was offices - she had her teletype and phones and files there - and the rest of the third floor was a formal dining/conference room, a half-bath and a kitchen. The fourth floor, in addition to the living room, had a television room, a bedroom and a full bathroom.

We got more at ease with each other. I learned she was ethnic Chinese, from Singapore, and had lived in Connecticut when she first came to the United States. Before that, she'd lived in Scandinavia for a few years, trying to improve her position with the ex-im firm she'd joined in Singapore. I learned a little bit about how tough it was to be new to America and alone, even with the advantages of a legitimate working visa and deep-pocketed financial backing.

Soon we were snuggled together under a blanket on the sectional - as with all Village apartments, the heat was inadequate; I think it's a law in New York - and then we were cuddling, and then we were kissing. Her lips were as warm and moist as I'd imagined, and her kisses were just the right combination of passion and sweetness. Soon, she was straddling my thigh as we clinched, and I could feel her moisture through her jeans and mine. I unbuttoned her blouse and mouthed her breasts through her bra. She was decidedly Chinese in that her tits were shallow and firm, with nipples that responded slowly - but when they did, they were outstanding! I raised the bra to get at her bared breasts, and she ran her hands through my hair as I licked and sucked at her tits.

"Let's go to bed," she said. "Here, since I have to send a Telex at 4:30 this morning."

Forthright and businesslike, op. cit.

I agreed - of course! - but little did I suspect what would come next: June proceeded to prepare for bed as if she'd known me for years. You probably know the routine: remove the makeup, take a shower (in her case, a shallow bath), etc.