Two

I usually have wine with dinner.

I don't consider myself a wine snob or a connoisseur or anything, I just like to drink.

However, that is not to say that I don't know my way around a wine list.

When I am in the Bay area (usually for work) I like to let my server pick the wine for me. I do this for several reasons. First, their job requires that they be at least semi knowledgeable about wine, especially the good local vintages that may not make it to my town but are abundant in that part of the world. And second, if the server is female and cute it is a lame way to start a comfortable conversation and keep it going throughout the meal.

Sam (Samantha) fit the bill. In fact she was way to cute for me. I generally do OK with women thanks to my ability to hold an intelligent conversation, but I am no Adonis.  Also, it probably doesn't hurt that I wear a suit and am not fat.

Sam on the other hand was stunning. She had one of those ageless faces that always looks like it is on the verge of breaking into a smile. For the life of me I couldn't discern whether she was 22 or 42.

No matter. She brought me a really great Cabernet from a vineyard I knew for their Merlot but nothing more. It was spectacular and I told her as much.

The rest of the meal passed much the way all meals do. Eating. Drinking. Flirting with the wait staff.

When my check came though, my night took a detour.

On my copy of the receipt Sam had scrawled her phone number and a brief note suggesting that I call her sometime.  I was a bit disappointed as I was there for work. So as I got up to leave I sought her out, thanked her, and told her I was only in town for a few days.

To my surprise she said she figured as much and asked if I wanted to get a drink the following evening. How could I say no? I left her my card and told her to call me the following day.

One

Hanna doesn't stick out in a crowd; she is not a siren calling each passerby to his doom.

She is the type of woman you interact with regularly but don't notice until it becomes embarrassing that you always forget her name.

She is petite but not small. She is in good shape but not athletic. She wears very little makeup but has nice skin.

Hanna is a nice young woman.

She favors nondescript blouses but leaves one more button than necessary unfastened. She chooses sensible shoes but likes more heel than her cube-dwelling bourgeois counterparts.  She stands close enough to you in conversation that you notice her fragrance, the curve of her breast, and the lacy outline of her bra pressing against thin fabric.

In fact she seems to know just how close to get so that your desire to pull her closer is bubbling but not boiling over.

Hanna is a merciless young woman.

It is no surprise then that over time the tension between us built to the point where I could practically feel the outline of her body under my eager hands and taste her skin on my lips.

And on an occasion when work required travel to some desolate bastion of capitalism, I dared to let the lust control me for a night. Too much red wine and too many fleeting glimpses of all the desirable places hidden around a woman's body.  It was more than this man could stand!

There is something magical about a lust that understands the need for privacy but takes full advantage of brief moments in elevators and the seconds lost around corners.  A lust that ends with a workaday suit in a pile on the floor and a fashionable skirt twisted around Hanna's tummy.

A lust that leaves you panting and yearning for more.