Allison and I met on the dance floor at Sway. The sign on the wall indicated “NO DANCING” but defiance was in the air that night, and what’s wrong with a little good time anyway? I felt like partying, was out to meet somebody, and always loosen up when dancing.

I was wearing my Mariachi-inspired studded black jeans, which I picked up in LA long before the trend took hold. LA is completely devoid of style. Style in LA is a “good nose job” and a “nice car.” Last December, on a typical 70-degree LA winter day, while combing (the once painfully hip) Melrose Avenue, I stumbled upon these smokin’ hot jeans and bought them on the spot.

Anyway, so there I am, back at Sway, starting to get a little buzz on drinking Cuba Libres, which, incidentally, in Cuba they call “Mentirosas” (liars) because Cuba is indeed not free. The DJ was a London-import, from deep down in Brixton, spinning a clever 80s mix that was 100% authenticity and zero percent predictability. He dug up sounds that only the true Ton Sur Ton shoulder-pad-jacket-wearing, formerly bi-level haircut-sportin’ folks would recognize and appreciate. Okay, so he busted out with “Hungry Like the Wolf,” but that’s what sent me flying down 7-minutes-in-heaven hot-saliva-on-my-lips-at-6th-grade-party memory lane. It was satin jackets, rollerskates and Gloria Vanderbilt velvet knickers all over again.

There I was, dancing with myself, eyes closed, howling along with Simon LeBon when I suddenly felt the spoon-like fit of a woman behind me. I was pleasantly surprised and for some reason, not at all taken aback. My only concern was about what my ultra-straight publishing-industry friend would be thinking at the sight of two femmes gyrating. Fuck it, it was Saturday night and I knew I was straight.

Our first dance became two, then three, then four. We reveled in fending off the sleazy horny men that wanted to sandwich us, and laughed in their faces at how meager their chances were.

Allison and I danced like two lovers on a cruise ship to the Panama Canal–my nose nuzzled her neck (she, engagingly taller than I); and the pulse of her ecstatic smile emblazoning the side of my perfectly coiffed head; loose clothes whipping with the gentle breeze of the night (ok, club air conditioning).

We danced somemore, then indulged in the exchange of names (although I didn’t really care what her name was), and then took a break for a beer at the bar.

This is the first time I actually see her clearly, her long Charlie’s Angel-like feathered and layered hair now swept to the side of her makeup-free face. She is definitely sexy, no bra, light eyes, slim yet healthy build. I already know I want to fuck her. We chat some meaningless chat, she tells me how she had recently been away on a 3-month Buddhist retreat (I remember finding this hard to believe, but then again, guessed she was just ‘breaking out’.) I tell her, I write. Not that I’m a writer because that takes far too much courage to admit, but simply, that I write.

She seems intrigued, asks me what I like to ‘pen’. I give her some bullshitty we’re-in-a-bar-like answer. She’s still down, totally mine.

“So, I guess you’re not into giving women your telephone number.” She says.

“Well, yeah,” I respond, more eagerly than even I can believe. “Why the hell not?”

On a napkin that I had earlier blotted my scarlet-red lipsticked lips upon, I jot down my digits. I have to include my 212 prefix because I remember she mentioned she lives in the unfashionably distant ‘201’.

A few days later, we meet for drinks, our first date. She is sexy as all hell. Tall, cute, eyes shaped like chesnuts, kind of a skulking, heavy walk, has a mite spattering of gray hair atop her thick brown tresses, and her complexion is kind of ruinous–not angelic, like I usually marvel at; but I don’t care, her rough face makes her all the more appealing to me. We get acquainted at a dark Village pub where we imbibe Strongbow cider and discuss our jobs. She works with the mentally challenged and physically abused.

Eyes are twinkling, a lot of smiles are transpiring, I touch her leg under the table. My cell phone rings and its the maitre ‘d at “Frank” on Second Avenue telling me our table is ready. I have impressed her.

Lingering over succulent meat dishes and hot tangy foccacia bread, I am mercilessly flirting with our waiter, and she seems to be getting off on it.

The vintage Montepulciano wine is deep, full-bodied, rushing over, resting and settling on my every taste bud. Allison even opts to order dessert.

(What an indulgent little cookie you are, I think to myself.) We pay, we scram, and then meander on over to my place, which just so happens to be conveniently located around the corner.

I am immediately comfortable with having her in my apartment. In fact, I had “prepared” it, anticipating her visit. Within minutes, I have taken off my strappy high heels, as I always do upon entering my front door, sit in my big leather “European kitchen” chair and massage my feet.

She still has her leather jacket on, zipped up, and claims to be cold. I make the bitch some tea, and we continue on with late-night small talk even though all I really want to do is get her naked, bury my face between her legs and get lost there.

With time, she warms up and I lure her to my bedroom where suddenly, I, the heretofore hetero one, have taken complete control. I am stroking her soft hair, and telling her, “It’ll be alright, honey. Don’t feel uncomfortable. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” She, horny and interested, heeds my soothing words, becomes like putty in my hands and allows me to undress her.

She is tall. I am extremely attracted to her, and am excited to find she has firm legs, a taut little waist, and a pierced nipple which just about makes me want to bite her fucking tit off, it’s so excruciatingly hot. It doesn’t take long to get her on my bed in a compromising position. By now she has already shed her black ankle boots. Her socks are still on, which I like, it makes everything seem that much more tender. I unzip her pants, and she is smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. I had pre-sorted my 6-CD changer so the music was set: a dash of riot grrrl, a few smooth love-song jams, some techno: aggression, passion, anxious curiosity, not necessarily in that order. I am thrilled to be in control. I had never before been on a date and had it lead so effortlessly into ectasy. Allison has totally relented. I am breathing in her sweet effulivia, and know that her fate is undeniably in my hands. It’s 3am.

I caress her thighs with authority. She is muscular. I kiss her neck; I sweetly suck and nibble on her faintly perfume-scented earlobe. We kiss face to face for the first time. It’s so unlike kissing a man—less urgency, less tongue-fire, much sweeter, softer and slower. I appreciate her. I kiss my way down her throat, across her chest. She is moaning. I am getting hot. She says she likes the sound effect of her nipple-ring clanking on my teeth. I indulge her with a stainless-steel rhapsody.

We make love into the wee small hours of the morning. Each time she moans louder. I repose in great satisfaction, endlessly sinking into the clouds of my Queen-size bed. In the dense air of my bedroom’s sexual funk I feel a warm sensation of compassion and longing.

I almost want to tell her that I love her, but hold back even though I’m convinced that’s the way I really feel at that moment. I am luxuriating and hiding in the fleeting time we still have together before day breaks, before I’ll simply want her to be gone.