NOT THAT LONG AGO

It's funny. I was thinking of her the other day, and for some reason I couldn't remember her name. Se was not a girlfriend, not even a close friend, but we were romantic. Maybe that's putting it too politely: we had sex. A sexual relationship. It was like a "fling," but that usually implies that one of us was escaping a serious relationship to have such a fling. It wasn't an "affair" because that usually means someone is cheating. It wasn't a one night stand or a "hook up" because we did hang out as friends, and it went on for a few months.

She first emailed me on Myspace, I believe, said we'd gone to the same university. We didn't know each other then, but that my profile looked interesting and she just wanted to say hi. And I wrote back, because she seemed cool. Similar taste in music, especially. We eventually met in person and hit it off right away, like we actually had gone to school together. We went to backyard bbqs and coffeeshops and movies, and dive bars. She was fun to be around. The kind of girl who always put a few dollars in the juke box, the kind of girl who would call a cab and say you should come home with her to be safe and that she'd fix coffee. Next thing you know, you're in her bed, and it's innocent enough, but hands can't stay off each other. Hands reach for skin, arms wrap and you are drunk and she is drunk and you both know it and know that sloppy wild drunk sex is a great way to end the night.

She was from a small town on the coast originally, and her dad was into computers in the early 80s, before they hit. I can remember those stories. She had become a computer expert in her own right and had accepted a job in Seattle for Microsoft. Something about international security and the internet. It was high paying, highly classified stuff, and before she moved, she had a large advance. She bought all the drinks, and got me drunk, and got the cab, and took me home to her place. Each night more stuff was packed in boxes. It was a clear visual that our time was coming to an end. Perhaps for this reason we got even more wild and more urgent.

She was not a BBW exactly, or maybe she was. She was my height, and probably weighed 50 pounds more than me. She was a big girl, but proportioned. She had large, full breasts. To that point, I'd mostly been with smaller girls with perky B-cups. When she rode me, her breasts flopped down in my face. They practically smothered me. I loved it. She could roll around with me, and it was equal. There was nothing delicate about it. When we discovered anal together, that's practically all we did. I fit into her backside easily and she loved it. She loved rolling on her side and having me mount her, my cock popping into her butt. As I fucked her, I could watch her huge tits flop. I could fuck her as hard as I possibly could in the ass, and she could take it. Again and again, she always wanted more.

Each night we repeated. Drinks, a cab, and fucking. Her neatly arranged room became scattered as she packed, and then the boxes, and then, just a mattress and us, flesh and flesh slapping together in the bare room. And then she left.

I can remember the size and shape of her large purple nipples, and how coarse her pubic hair was, trimmed with scissors. I can recall that her dad paid for tennis camp for her even before they'd struck it rich in the dot-com boom. But I can't, now, for the life of me, recall her name. I went back to MySpace, but the old emails had long since been deleted.