We meet for lunch at Buddha's Belly around 1 p.m.  As I approach him at our window-side booth, he smiles at me, shaking his head. What is it with L.A. guys and the way I dress? You'd swear they've never seen a girl in a suit and tie.

Whatev...

I sit across from him with a citrus iced tea waiting for me. How considerate. We exchange pleasantries: He tells me about married life. How his newborn baby boy--Solomon Charles--is the best thing that's ever happened to him, minus all the poopy diapers. He tells me about his rescue dog--a Jack Russell terrier. He bores me with details of the family vaycay to Maine and how the missus discovered her latent allergy to shellfish. She can choke on a lobster for all I fucking care. He asks me questions about this musician I'm so interested in lately. Coy. Gotta play that one close to my chest.

I'm a treasure trove of excellent stories about nothing at all. I talk shit about all the friends I'm no longer friends with. I show off my boots. I brag about my new weekly writer's stipend. I attack him with a sarcastic rendition of "All I Could Do Was Cry" Etta James (he responds by hitting me on the cheek with a spit-ball). I kiss hellos with the hostess who is the baby sister of one of the friends I'm no longer friends with. I turn off my cell phone when it rings, feeling relieved to suddenly have something to do with my hands other than nervously rubbing the sweat from them under the table.

This is going well.

Of course, two years ago, I could be found at this young man's former Mt. Washington bungalow. This is before the wife--a girl who snidely refers to me as his "Sally Hemings moment." This is before the Passat and the haircut. Before the starched Dockers, Penguin shirts and unfortunate switch to Fred Perry canvas lace-ups.

I doubt that he remembers, but it was on this day in 2007 that he walked through the door--me, just steps behind him. My eyes fixed to the back pockets of his his jeans. His Jordans splashing color over the parquet panels with each step. His deep V-neck clinging to his back with a touch of sweat. Sensing that things were about to get...interesting...I quickly rid myself of my panties. I slipped out of my stilettos (these have since been replaced by a massive collection of kitten heels and flats. How quickly times change). I followed him into the bathroom. He closed the door behind us. I felt no fear or apprehension as he guided me by the shoulders over to the edge of the tub and with firm, suggesting hands, pushed me down into a prim sitting position.

My mouth watered as he slyly unzipped his pair of American Apparel skinnies, daring me with round green eyes to protest.

I did not.

With my hands rested in my lap like a good little girl, I allowed him the pleasure of drawing me to his cock; I parted my lips just enough to take him in. I remembered to breathe through my nose and not let his girth overwhelm me. I gurgled. And slurped. But more importantly, I complied with amazing grace as he removed his dick from my mouth nearly ten minutes later, gently took my chin in hand and poured a wicked load of creamy and sweet cum into my mouth like it was a dumpster.

I was also a willing participant when, he removed my dress and bent me over the sink. Then proceeded to fuck me for the next half-hour as the anthems of neighboring hipsters, ranging from "Dreams" by TV on the Radio to "Starman," covered by Seu Jorge played in the background.

Nope. I don't think he remembers that moment one bit.

That is until we prepare to part ways. After goodbye chit-chat, he kisses me on the cheek then takes my chin in his hand. I anxiously grip his arm like someone suspended from a cliff. He stares down at me, smiling.

"Damn, you always did have the prettiest mouth," he says.

He gives me what I am certain will be our last kiss ever then disappears into 3rd St. Promenade. © 2009.