Her whole body was one aching longing for something she knew was wrong, perverted, dirty, but she wanted it, whatever it was, just as every night she wanted to feel the comfort of her fingers probing her fanny even though she could not escape the guilt and the remorse that inevitably followed her solitary masturbation. Sofia was nearly crazy with lust as she contemplated the lovely virgin flesh which now seemed to be within her grasp. She longed to corrupt Suchitra into the wonderful depravities of lesbianism. She knew that her itchy fingers were mere inches away from Suchitra’s cunt, and that the girl would go wild with delight when she felt her fanny being invaded by the fingers of another woman. But, for the moment, she hesitated to strike, anxious not to frighten off her prey before she had even started. Still, the fact that Suchitra was here, now, sitting next to her, all demure in her pretty pink dress, was a sign that the girl was happy to be with another woman, even in so. Details of our first meeting on a drizzly fall day are etched in memory: my first glimpse on Broadway of a woman who looked exactly as she described herself, a lingering lunch at Bombay Masala in Manhattan, wandering the aisles at Eichler’s Judaica. To paraphrase Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, not an easy day to forget, Shoshana wore red. Shoshana later said I had a huge smile on my face the moment I saw her. She was right, her Mediterranean-Semitic appearance and sunny personality instantly connected with a reptilian boy-girl attraction node deep in my brain. Whenever we spoke, I secretly thrilled to her voice, laced with that true rarity, a sexy New York accent. Tendrils of Shoshana curled into private places, as I added her cell and office numbers to my cell phone and made ‘Shoshana2004′ the password on my office computer, so I could type her name repeatedly during the day, the adult version of grade schoolers’ doodling the names of crushes in notebooks. I saved a long message on.
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