So anyway, like I was sayin....

We've kissed before.

We've touched, squeezed, and rubbed, and nibbled. But there always seemed to be something keeping us from letting it get too far.

It always seemed to be inopportune for Jenny and me; it always seemed that there was too much risk of getting caught, or that we would just do it next time. Part of me thinks that it wasn't so much the circumstances as it was her inhibition. HERS, not mine, because I certainly had none.

Jenny is intelligent. She shouts out answers while watching Jeopardy!. She is bright enough to be a physician's assistant, a step below a doctor, and assertive enough to give medical advice to pushy parents of sick kids. She is a person of substance, someone who any guy would be proud to be with.

Sure, I find all that attractive. But that's not why I think about Jenn so much. The real reason is that we are related, that we are not supposed to be doing this, that bedding her would be pushing the envelope just a bit further, taking another risk, another gamble, knowing that the consequences could be huge and not only not caring, but wanting to do it, if only for the knowledge that I can get away with it.

Today is going to be different. Today, we are alone, at my house. For once, the mood is right. The recessed lights in my drop ceiling are dimmed silghtly; the TV is off; it's a beautiful night, with just a hint of a breeze blowing in through a slightly-opened window.

Finally, I think, and I can't help but feel the way Wile E. Coyote might after catching the Road Runner at long last. But Jenn certainly is no victim. I ain't the studliest guy in the world, but I know a booty call when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.

My hand whispers up her black silk blouse and finds the top button. It slips effortlessly through the buttonhole, exposing a shadowy patch of flesh.

Another button. Another. She moves her shoulder just a bit to the side so I can reach the ones at the bottom, and that little movement, that voluntary flexing of a muscle, lets me know for sure that I am going to have sex tonight.

Her blouse shimmies down her shoulders, exposing a black satin bra to match her blouse. Our mouths crash together as the rest of our clothes tumble off and I feel the warm press of her naked breasts against me for the very first time.

Her sultry, dark eyes open as I enter her, my pulse pounding in my ears, my hands almost too weak to hold her. My eyes pore over her body, drinking in every curve and contour as if admiring a priceless statue.

She crooks one leg, then the other, around mine and pulls me more tightly against her.

I want to remember this, all of it; her soft smell, the way her thick black curls pool on the sofa cushion behind her head, the almost musical rising and falling of our bodies, the whisper of her breath against my neck and the desperate urgency with which we pull ourselves ever closer together.

We have been flirting since I was 12 years old. Twenty-three years. Twenty-three years of sly smiles, and hugs that lasted a little too long. We wanted this, both of us, and we have for a while. And ever since mom's party, I've thought about it even more often. To be honest, I never thought it would happen, and I still don't quite understand the circumstances. It didn't seem like THAT big of a fight. Anyway, I don't care.

We lay there, basking in the post-sex warmth, her legs still grapevined around mine, her hands linked behind my shoulder blades, her hot skin pressed pliantly against mine, her eyes closed firmly, as if to open them would be to release the moment like a puff of smoke.

As I study her face, and feel her body tight against mine, I know that I can't be all that bad, because someone truly loves me.

But not to worry: It's only a minute before I realize that I am probably full of shit.