Memory of Cristina

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Big Tits

Cristina …

It happened once. Just once. Now we’re back to saying “hi” in the hall and making polite talk at the coffeemaker. But can you blame me for replaying that evening again and again?

On the Reagan Day of Mourning, most of Washington, D.C., took a holiday. But several people showed up for work at our small, non-profit office. It didn’t feel like a normal Friday — more like a snow day, or the final day of the school year. By mid-afternoon, you were the ringleader, rounding up the young guns for early Friday drinks on the Hill. On your way out, you leaned into my cubicle and chided me for working when I could be playing. But, really, I had things to do.

When I walked into the bar an hour later, the first thing I heard was your laughter. You seemed to be the center of attention. And I was flattered when you slid over and made room for me in the booth. The stories, the drinks, the jokes continued. And two or three times, you lightly placed your hand on my leg.

It was raining steadily when our group split up. Since I was the dependable one with an umbrella, you announced that I had won the privilege of walking you to your apartment four or five blocks away. I may have been confused by your playful overtures, but I wasn’t about to refuse.

Despite my umbrella, we were both a little drippy by the time we reached your door. You shrugged your wet jacket onto the living room floor, stepped toward me with a smirk, quickly licked your bottom lip … and waited for me to respond. We kissed without any awkwardness. And as the kiss went on and on, you moved your hands to my waist and untucked my shirt. I broke off the kiss and slid my hands under your sweatshirt. You didn’t resist as I eased it over your head.

And then time seemed to slow down. I looked at your beautiful olive skin. The smooth definition of your shoulders. The small, blue-green calligraphy tattooed above the white cup of your bra. With two fingers, I shyly traced it. And I heard my own voice: “What are we doing here?”

“That’s not for you to decide,” you said with mock seriousness, a little bossy, a little bratty, completely sexy. Grabbing one of my beltloops, you pulled me to the sofa and pushed me down. You knelt between my knees and before you opened my pants you unhooked the front clasp of your bra and tossed it over your shoulder. You took a deep breath and closed you eyes as I rubbed your small, tightened nipples. “I’m the one in charge here,” you reminded me. And you, literally, took things into your own hands. And then into your mouth.

I could not take my eyes off your thick black hair, your baby soft eyelids, your moist, pink lips kissing me, sucking me, licking me. You had an amused expression when you stopped and looked up at me. I thought you were about to giggle. Instead, you said, “You’re not going anywhere until you’re done. C’mon now.” And you began sucking me again, a little rougher, a little faster.

When I came, you swallowed. And you fondled me as I grew soft. Then you carefully zippered me up and climbed onto the sofa beside me. You gave me a bare-breasted hug and told me, sadly, sweetly, that it was probably time for me to leave.

“But ….”

“No,” you insisted.

“Are you OK? Are we OK?”

“You bet.”

And you walked me to the door.

The rain had stopped, but the darkening streets were damp as I made my way to the Capitol South station.

June 11, 2004. That’s the way I remember it. And remember it. And remember it.

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