When I had the chance to present in NYC, I called Jenny. She was glad to host me, although, she warned, her apartment was the size of a closet. In graduate school, when Jenny and I dated, we were used to small, starving-student studio apartments. Nothing had prepared me for what New Yorkers called a "small" apartment. She had a bed and a dresser, a window that looked out at bricks and other windows, and a door.
So many years had passed, but giddy with seeing each other, Jenny took me out to see the sights of Manhatton. We returned late, slightly intoxicated, and exhausted. We stripped, by habit, to our underwear and slipped into her small bed. We were too exhausted to make love that night, but the next morning we were as comfortable as if we had.
Jenny stood in only her panties; semi -transparent, they revealed the thick of dark curls. She always let her hair grow uncut, and her panties would matte her curls, so that when I touched her, my finger would slip into her panties, wiggling into her briar of curls, to find soft, wet, flesh. She would get so wet. She also had nice breasts. They had lost a little of their firmness from our college years, but were still lovely in shape. Her nipples were always thick and responded to hard touching, and especially pinching. The harder the better. She stood, looking at me with a smirk as I picked up my camera. I wanted to record her and hold the image forever, but even then I knew I didn't need to--I knew every bend and fold for her. The years had not changed how we responded to each other's body's, what we liked, how we touched, and how we wanted to be touched.Only inches from her, I knew she was already wet. I knew how it would feel to push into her panties, comb her curls and plunge my finger into her eager wetness. I was hard with this thought. She knew that, and knew how I tasted, and my textures. No doubt that is why she stood in the morning light, and smiled as I took her photo. We knew each other, and we knew what was next.
