I watched, mesmerized as usual, as the girl from the record store locked the front door of the shop and, turning around, started walking toward my car. She was so beautiful--her hair long and black, sunglasses perched on top, Jackie O. style. Her breasts and hips were a little round for current fashion and a small strip of soft belly peaked out from between the fabric of her jeans and the bottom of the tight, black t-shirt with the picture of Debbie Harry and the word BLONDIE in gold; but she carried herself with such surety and grace that, as usual, it made it hard for me to breathe when I looked at her.

As she got closer to where my car was parked I could begin to see her face--huge, dark brown eyes and sensuous lips, the only makeup some bright red lipstick. She was Pakistani; well, her parents were. She was born in exotic Montvale, New Jersey but the foreignness of her features only added to her sophistication. Smiling as she got closer to the car, she waved and quickened her pace. As she reached my open driver's window, she leaned in and, wordlessly, kissed me--open-mouthed and sensous. She is 23 and her name is Sarita Bannerjee. I'm 33, married. . . and one of her lovers.

Now, I know what you're thinking: he's probably an asshole, she's probably a gold-digger. He's probably vain and self-centered and she makes him feel young and powerful and in return, he buys her things and takes her out. Well, believe it or not, some human relationships are more complicated than that. Sometimes people don't fit into the box. (Oh and by the way, shame on you for being so sanctimonious.)

Look, here's the story, judge for yourself: She sold me the copy of Sade's LOVER'S ROCK that she was saving for herself, and as she was wrapping it, she told me she would call me and make me come over and play it for her. I assumed she was just flirting, but, sure enough, a couple of days later she called me at work and told me she just had to hear it. I went over to her apartment that evening and I let her seduce me (she says I was reluctant but that's not the way I remember it). I've never bought anything for her unless you count the time I put an alternator belt on her Celica and she says I'm the most physically beautiful man she's ever seen (though she may be engaging in a little hyperbole there). Oh, and she's engaged to be married and I'm not her only little plaything. We see each other once or twice a month and we're friends and lovers and that's it. See, it doesn't exactly fit the profile, does it?

After she kissed me she said, "How've you been?"

"Okay," I replied, and only at that moment realized that it looked as though she'd been crying. I didn't say anything; just asked, "Am I driving you home?"

She nodded and went around to the passenger side. I was a little non-plussed, she had sounded okay on the phone earlier and she wasn't prone to moods. Our relationship was only really sexually intimate and I was a little unsure as to how to proceed. As she got in and I started driving I took a deep breath and took the plunge. "Are you okay?" I asked gently.

"Marc and I broke up." She said, a little raggedly. I reached over for her hand and she squeezed it, but let it go after a moment.

"I'm sorry," I said, a note of query in my voice. I was in uncharted territory here--comforting my girlfriend because she had dumped (or been dumped by) her fiance.

"I'm not." She said, as if deciding it at that moment.

As we drove, we avoided the subject, talking and joking a little as though nothing had happened but it was obvious that something had. She was now single, I was still married. Our dynamic was markedly different.

When we got to her apartment I asked her if she wanted me to come up (something I had never done before). She looked hard at me said, "Why did you think I called you, don't be a jerk." A little stung, I followed her up the stairs.

She put on music (Bryan Ferry covering Sinatra), gave me a glass of wine, and went in to the other room to "take of these fucking tight pants." I was left sitting on the couch wondering what was next. I needn't have wondered. . .

She came back in still wearing the T-shirt but now only in her panties. She looked me straight in the eye, took my wine and set it down on the sidetable, and straddled my lap. I was now face to face with Debbie Harry circa 1977, a position I had always wanted to be in. With infinite slowness and grace, she pulled off the shirt (it was the last I was to see of Ms. Harry for the evening) revealing her heavy, perfect tits. Her brown nipples were already tight and wrinkled--she was already turned-on. She reached over and putting two fingers into my wine glass she first put them in my mouth. I eagerly sucked the liquor off her fingers and she dipped again, this time anointing first one then the other of her nipples with it. She gasped and shuddered a little as she did, which had the effect of grinding her silk-covered pussy into the (by now) sizeable bulge in my jeans. I took the wine to be a signal that she wanted my mouth on her, and looking into her eyes licked the wine off her nipples with small, quick laps. She pushed my head against her tits and I sucked a hard nipple into my mouth, flicking it with my tongue. She liked them to be sucked hard and she moaned her approval, grinding herself against me. I ran my hands lightly up and down her sides, raising a flush of goosebumps on her olive skin.

At last she pulled herself away and stood up. Again saying nothing--as if she didn't trust herself to speak--she grabbed a handful of my shirt and pulled me to my feet. I followed her into the bedroom and watched as she pulled off her soaking panties. She turned to me and kissed me--naked and vulnerable. She kissed me ferociously, as if trying to express emotion that we couldn't approach. I held her so tightly to me I was afraid I would hurt her.

To be continued soon. . . @