I met Nell when I met Alice, the woman who was destined to be a significant other, at a free concert in Central Park (Zubin Mehta and the New York Philharmonic). They were unlikely roommates, a true mutt-and-jeff pairing. To tell the truth, while Nell was the taller - by quite a bit - of the two, no one was ever going to call Alice a "mutt." Or Nell, for that matter.

Alice and I hit it off pretty quickly. We exchanged phone numbers, and the first time I picked up the phone to call her, she was already on the line. She'd just dialed my number.

Ten months later, she was spending three or four nights a week in my place. She even kept her hair-dryer in my bathroom.

While Nell and Alice remained good friends, they didn't have the constant companionship they'd shared as roomies. Still, especially in the first year or so of our relationship, we frequently had dinner with Nell and her beau-of-the-month. Nell had an attractive face that was almost pretty - her lips were wide and thin, and she had a charming bit of an underbite - but never had a problem attracting guys. There was something about her that exuded "available" without making the usual "slut" connection. But, in truth, she had a body made for sex. Curvy legs, rounded hips, a ripe ass, virtually no waist and beautiful, firm, generous breasts that were almost - but not quite - too large to be attractive on her. And, best of all, she had a wicked fast mind and an astonishing wit.

What puzzled me was why she kept changing partners. Oh, sure, sometimes it was obvious - like with Paul, the jackass who kept spouting Limbaughisms - and then the question would be why she even got involved in the first place. (Paul, Alice informed me, was a hunk - then categorized him with a word that was new to me: "himbo.")

But sometimes it made no sense - as in the case of Phil, the handsome, soft-spoken, intelligent Polish-born civil engineer. After five weeks, their relationship was history.

"But I don't get it," I told Alice again as we walked back to my apartment. "Phil was smart, well-spoken, thoughtful, good-looking... Why in hell would she split with him? And take up with this jerkball?" We'd just had dinner and drinks with Nell and Charles, an Irish asshole with pretensions of being a playwright. I had a (typically) tiny one-bedroom apartment in the Village, on West 10th, a 15-minute walk from Japan on Hudson, which served decent sushi and played reggae on the stereo. Welcome to New York.

Alice clutched my forearm in both her hands and leaned against my side, shaking back her shiny black hair to give me a mischievous half-smile. "What makes you so sure she did the splitting?"

"Don't give me that. I saw the way Phil looked at her. You and I talked about it."

"Maybe you and I were wrong." She purposefully let her thigh brush my leg for a few steps. It was a pleasant late-May evening, and Alice had taken advantage of it, wearing a black leather miniskirt to emphasize her shapely legs and a loose black cotton blouse to deemphasize what she considered her underprivileged chest. We entered the lobby, exchanged greetings with Raul, the doorman, and took the elevator to my (our) apartment.

Inside, as soon as we had gotten comfortable in some slouch clothes, I slipped up behind her while she bent over the aquarium (which she had decided I needed in my apartment) and fed my (her) fish. I slid my hands up over her nearly nonexistent hips, then down again to give her waist a squeeze. How could I find myself perpetually turned on by a woman with no hips, a microscopic butt and tits that would do a teenybopper proud? Just lucky, I guess.

She capped her fish flakes and straightened, then leaned back against me. Her head barely reached my sternum. She twisted her head slowly from side to side and hunched her shoulders, putting her hands on mine and pulling my arms around her. I inhaled deeply, savoring her favorite fragrance - lilac - and brought my hands up to cover her breasts. Her nipples were hardening. I knew that was the end of conversation for a while, and I did not mind one little bit.

About six months later, though, Nell hooked up with Owen, and they became An Item. I actually liked Owen, for a couple of reasons. For one thing, he had a terrific, deadpan sense of humor that frequently rivaled - no small accomplishment - and usually complemented Nell's. For another, even though he was the shortest guy with whom Nell had ever been involved - he barely matched her 5-foot-7 - he seemed completely at ease around me despite a nearly eight-inch difference in our heights and what had to be an 80-pound difference in our weights. And, to his eternal credit - in my book, at least - he never asked Alice if she made dim sum. (Alice is an American - born in Brooklyn, U.S.A - whose grandparents had emigrated from China.)

In fact, Owen and I even got to be kind of pals, occasionally meeting after work in Midtown (he was an associate newscast producer for a Massive Entertainment & Media Conglomerate; I was an ad copywriter) for a few brews. I was even the first guy to whom he revealed his intentions, about five months after their first date.

"I'm going to pop the question on Nell," he said, having just gulped a shot of Chivas. "Do you think she'll accept?"

"If you're not sure, maybe you shouldn't ask yet."

He stared into his empty glass for a moment, took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah, you're right. Maybe I should wait. If it's going to work, it'll work in a couple of months as well as it would now."

I gave him a playful pat on the shoulder. "I think it will - when the time is right. I hope you guys will be positively delirious."

And he shot me a big grin, which was something else I liked about him: When this fella smiled, his whole face got into the act; totally unreserved.

They got married in September in the Unitarian Church (a compromise: she was a nominal Methodist, and he was a nominal Jew) on East 35th Street at a mercifully brief ceremony; had an absolutely delightful outdoor reception at the Unicorn Cafe in Fort Tryon Park, adjacent to the Cloisters; honeymooned in the Bahamas (of course), and set up housekeeping on the Upper West Side (of course). We had dinner a few times over the next year, but the intervals steadily grew between those get-togethers. Alice and Nell continued having lunch or tea together almost weekly, however.

It was on a Saturday evening during the following September, just two weeks after the wedding anniversary. Alice had seemed a bit preoccupied since coming to my place from her lunch with Nell at Bloomingdale's, and I knew she was cogitating, so I wasn't totally unprepared for an odd question.

Alice, however, decided to ask me the damnedest question at the damnedest time.

"Michael - oh! - Michael, I've been thinking about something and - Oh! - I want to know what you th-th-th-think ohyesyesyessss..."

I was licking her.

" - abou-about it - OH!"

Let me explain something right here and now: I consider Alice's pussy a nutritionally complete meal. Oh, sure, it might lack protein or carbo or some damn nitpicking thing or other, but I was and am fully convinced that it would be quite possible to survive on nothing but a diet of Alice Juice for several weeks - and I was willing to try. She had fine, jet-black hairs, sparse and only slightly curled, and, at that moment, completely soaked. She had delectable little labia majora, upon which I enjoyed lightly pulling and nibbling with my lips until her inner lips engorged to the point that her cunt was just like a flower, budding. Her clitoris would swell surprisingly, making it an excellent target for tongue runs that would trace outside s-l-o-w-l-y until she was moaning and groaning and the liquid would just well up and drool out of her scrumptious little pussy, ready for lapping up, yum-yum-yum. One of my top-five favorite things in the entire world was exactly what I was doing at that moment: laying face down between her thighs, one of her sweet butt cheeks in each paw, feeding her precious pubis to my hungry mouth like - excuse me - a savory Cantonese soup.

And this was the moment she chose to elicit my opinion, just as I was beginning to push my tongue occasionally into her delectable little vagina.

"Puh-leeze, Michael, I n-n-n-need to ask - OHHHH!"

I raised my head from between her thighs, still holding her butt off the bed. "If this is about Iraq, I swear - "

"Michael, I was thinking about getting breast implants."

I blinked at her. So help me, that's all I could do: blink.

"Well? What do you think?"

I blinked again, drawing a deep breath - and inhaling her ripe, sweet fragrance - and said, "You're kidding, right?"

She shook her head.

"But why? Your breasts are perfect. They're the best tits in the world."

"C'mere?"

I sighed, lowered her perfectly shaped butt to the bed, and crawled up beside her. "This better be good. You know how I love licking you and making you cum." And, in fact, I kept one hand between her legs, covering and very softly massaging her pussy, just to keep it warm and so I wouldn't lose my place. My free hand, that is, because I had wormed my other arm under her back and was holding her close to me - close enough that my stiffy was brushing her right thigh.

She nodded, with her lips softly parted and a light sheen of perspiration on her flushed face.

"Wouldn't you like me to have bigger boobs?"

I shook my head, then bent my head and quickly administered a brief touch of damp tongue to the swollen nipples capping each lovely breast. "Nope. They're perfect."

"But you were always a... tit man."

I shook my head again. "I was a big-tit man until I grew up and learned to appreciate real beauty: you. What brings this up right now. I mean - right... damn... now?"

She cast her gaze briefly downward, then looked me in the eyes again, softly chewing her lower lip. And I was struck again by just how truthful my statement was. Alice was true beauty. With her hair disheveled, no makeup at all, sweat all over her face - she was still so startlingly beautiful that I was amazed she was with me, a big clumsy mutt of a galoot. Her oval-shaped face, her full, soft lips, her glorious cheekbones, her marvelous ears, her liquid eyes...

"Nell and I were talking about something today." She closed her eyes for a moment, then reopened them. "If you were such a tit man, why didn't you try to get Nell's number instead of mine when we met?"

Huh? It took me a moment to recover from the non sequitor, but I knew the chain of association was clear in Alice's mind; she just hadn't bothered to pass it on to me... yet.

"Your laugh," I told her truthfully. "I heard your laugh before I saw either of you." Her laughter had enchanted me. It was like the merry tingling of tiny, perfect bells, more song than laughter. I'd homed (not "honed'; look it up) in on the laughter through the maze of blankets clustered on the Great Lawn of Central Park, where they awaited the fall of night and the start of the free concert. And, with equal truth, when I first spotted Nell kneeling up in a Lurex tube top, I'd almost prayed she'd been the one laughing. But Alice's laugh rang out again, and those luscious tits became suddenly meaningless if generous mounds of fatty tissue with a few glands and erogenous zones thrown in, because I had seen Alice.

"Sometimes Owen calls Nell at work, and wants her to take a cab home for a nooner. We never do that."

"Owen and Nell live within 12 blocks of their offices. I work on East 53rd, and you work near the Seaport," I noted. I saw where this was going.

"Even so, you never seem compelled to just - well, grope me. Nell says Owen can't keep his hands off her, especially her boobs. And she has very sensitive boobs. Sometimes, just having them rubbed and licked she can - " She clamped her lips shut.

"She can what?"

"It's a... a girl secret."

She can cum, I concluded. Yes, Nell could get off just having her tits played with, maybe even getting titty-fucked. That would definitely make Nell a tit man's dream come true.

"So what you figure is that I don't give you enough attention, that I don't find you sexy enough to make me want to grope you, and that if you had big, ultrasensitive titties like Nell, I'd be after you more?"

Her eyes glinted wetly as she nodded.

I took my hand off her pussy and led her fingers to my cock. "Who do you think caused this? Nell and her great big, bouncy titties?" I shook my head. "Un-uh. Because right now, I'm in bed with you and your perfect titties. The very same titties that I was caressing through your blouse in the living room until you told me we'd give the damn fish bad ideas."

She ducked her head slightly and chuckled,

"The very same titties I love to cover with my hands when you're riding me and making those lovely noises. Especially when I play with your nice, hard nipples. These nipples." I bent and gave each one a thoroughly appreciative suck. "Not Nell's big boobs; your perfect boobs." I sighed for effect and leaned away. "I'd hate to see you change them at all, but they are your breasts, so if you really want to deform them..." I tried to shrug (no easy feat in our position), "Hey, babe, it's up to you. Of course, maybe I should get a penile implant or something, to make my dick nice and big for you, to match your tits..."

"You are so sweet," she whispered. She ducked her head forward and plastered a prolonged, sloppy smooch right on my kisser, favoring me with lots of nimble tongue tip and tiny nips of her teeth on my lower lip, which for some reason always drives me nuts.

When we came up for air, I asked, "Now, if it's alright with you, I'd like to get back to one of my top-five favorite things in the world."

She pushed me back flat on the bed, rolling atop me and pinning me with her massive 89-pound physique. "No, you don't, buster - because I want to do one of your top-four favorite things in the world." And she began kissing her way down over my chest and stomach, being sure I got to feel every lithe, squirming inch of her on my flesh as her mouth zeroed in on my cock. And I swear, I did not think of Nell and her bounteous boobs.

Well - not more than once, anyhow.

Over the next couple of months, as we approached the Christian and Jewish holidays, we met Owen and Nell a bit more frequently for socializing, capped by a delightful New Year's Eve get-together. I will readily admit that Nell seemed increasingly tense when Owen touched her in what I considered his endearing way - a soft caress on her shoulder as he helped her on with her coat, sweetly taking her hand in his as they walked, brushing her hair gently from her face when a thoughtless breeze sent some wavy blonde tresses across her eyes.

Nor will I pretend that I didn't find myself noting the full swell of her abundant tits a bit more than I had. But I can plead provocation. I mean, Nell in a tight, white cashmere sweater - with a deep V-cut - was a sight to behold. Then she damn near fell out of the dress she was wearing New Year's Eve. And when she gave me a hug and a kiss before heading back with Owen to his place, I definitely felt her nipples, hard and stiff against my chest - even through the bulky fisherman-knit sweater I wore - and the wonderfully firm, large, liquid press of her tits.

Of course, by then I had already decided that I was going to pop that Infamous Question to Alice. It seemed that our relationship just got better and better, and she was definitely letting her hair down more with me. Literally.

That had been something of an indicator to me. When we'd met, Alice's hair had been cut in a somewhat punk fashion (which on anyone else I found repulsive) and tinted with red highlights, I kid you not. I'd never griped about it, though, and the subject wouldn't have arisen if Alice hadn't caught me staring at a woman with straight black hair down to her butt. That was when she told me she'd had hair like that until college but quickly cut and tinted it when, as she put it, she became the "target of every sinophile at Fordham University." Anyhow, she'd let her tint grow out, and, since that September evening, she hadn't cut her hair - only had it trimmed.

By the end of January, her hair reached her shoulders when she didn't have it pinned up... and one of the first things she did when she came to my apartment was to let her hair down.

And there was another major indicator that the time for The Question was ripening.

I was in the shower. It was January and a Monday morning. It was only the second or third weekend she'd not gone back to the shared apartment (because it was such a pain to keep her work clothes - she was a group manager (whatever that is) for a major insurance company - neat and crisp during the trip via Mass Transit to my place). She was blow-drying her hair in the living room, in front of the big plate-glass mirror over the fireplace. She was wearing only her panties. Alice usually did this routine while I was in the shower because the sight of her lithe and naked except for her perfect wee ass in bikini panties usually resulted in a Mike Attack (her nickname for me carrying her off to bed), for which she definitely did not have time on a work day.

Anyhow, I turned off the shower and began toweling myself off. The roar of her thermonuclear hair dryer (which I believed was responsible for at least two brownouts during the summer) ceased.

"Mike?"

"Yeah?"

She came to the bathroom door and watched me patting myself dry. She had slipped into a powder-blue jumpsuit that I always teased made her look like a cadet at Space Camp. "I got a wedding invitation Thursday." Which was the evening she'd come over. This had been a four-night stand, which tied the record. But she hadn't mentioned the invite till now. I knew I was in for the Alice treatment.