hot action

I'll remember this: we sit on the waterfront at 5am. She talks to me about Paris while the sky lightens into the perfect dawn of summer.

I'll remember this too: all we're doing is making out, but every time I breathe it feels like a little orgasm. I'm on my back with my arms stretched out above my head; an uncharacteristic pose. Her hand gliding a few millimetres above my chest, filling my brain with static electricity. When the charge becomes too much I snap into aggression.

I'm ready to tie her up. Take off her clothes and handcuff her and spend hours almost touching her.

But her views on relationships are rather more traditional than my own.

"So are you a little bit of a slut? Or are you this huge slut?"

I look at the ceiling and frame the perfect answer: "Ask around."

Why do people assume "slut" means "one-night-stand-never-talk-to-you-again"? If I think you're hot now, I'll still think you're hot tomorrow or next week or in 2008. You can get a boyfriend, hell you can get married and I'll still be trying to get on you.

This morning I sit on the front stoop in my bare feet and watch her get into a cab. We haven't even had sex and I'm already heartbroken. Me, the cold calculating player, looking at a gorgeous woman and wondering if I'll get to hang out with her again.

Now evening is falling. Sunrise to sunset on the first day of summer.

The warm air is a sleepy soup in which the past mingles with the present.