By Tom Love © 2004
It was about 15 years ago when I met her, one of the most stylish women I have ever known. We were in love for about a year. I weighed a trim 175 lbs, she was a petite 5'2" (in heels). Just absolutely, jaw droppingly beautiful... with a personality to match.
She owned no clothing of color, nor anything white. Her walk-in closet was a complete unbroken row of black. Black blouses, black slacks, several 'little black dresses.' Same with lingerie, all black. Her room was painted a Ralph Lauren designer color, Charcoal. Black silk sheets and black comforter were on her bed. Black blinds kept the room in perpetual darkness.
I was invited into her room on Thursdays, and didn’t leave till Sunday. Monday through Wednesday I was not allowed to speak to her, and she actually wished not to be seen by me. But on Thursday afternoon, coming from work, I'd find her in a black camisole and black panties sitting on a bar stool at the counter in her kitchen. "Come here, Darling." she would say in a gravely voice. Then she would hook her leg around the back of my knee, latch on to my tie, pull me to her and kiss me. Thus would start our weekend.
We hid from the world up there. She would scamper downstairs and bring us sandwiches and beer, but for the most part we just lay around in bed had sex non stop. She loved for me to rub her nipples with Vaseline, begged me to do it, then would actually orgasm from breast stimulation. After that she would be ready for me. Her orgasms were as powerful and as pronounced as a man’s, approaching in waves, then crashing, leaving her spent. She would push me off her, turn over and be asleep in minutes. I was left with no one to cuddle!
Every so often we would go dancing. We would get very dressed up, I would actually wear a tux. She, of course, in a black Claiborne knit dress, size 4, sometimes a sleeveless mini, sometimes a DKNY to the floor, but always black. Her skin tone was pale, she never, ever allowed the sun to touch her skin, her face as clear, creamy and white as a Dove commercial. She'd get made up, eyes and lips just so, and we would leave the condo at about 10:00. Sometimes we would go to a very upscale restaurant, where all the waiters knew her. We would be seated, order something like wine and toasted Focaccia Bread. That's all. We would eat, talk, smile, and leave a $20 tip.
At a dance club, mostly she danced like Madonna in 'Vogue,' posing this way and that. That was her scene when we were out. Men would approach her to dance, give her some lame line, she would say something like, "Oh, do you have a lot of money?" I was her body guard on these excursions. I would stand or sit close by, occasionally coming over to ask if everything was ok. I would drink coffee. And I would drive home. We always left together at the end of the night, and once home, we would climb the stairs to her room, have sex and fall asleep.
We were in love for about a year, I lived with her for two. The second year was not as fun as the first. She tired of me, was less tender and romantic about our love making and the Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday routine became unbearable. I made the decision to move out and I did. She was tearful and for a time bitter, but she too had already moved on.
I saw her one Christmas, a couple of years later, it was awkward. She apologized for not being 'dressed' I apologized for gaining weight. That was 10 years ago. I haven't seen her since.
Tom Love is a writer from Atlanta, GA.