The Zaftig Chronicles

Last night I went to a wonderful party thrown by my friend Viviane. I love going to Viv's parties, because there are two things I know for certain will be in abundance: Men and good wine. Last night was no exception. I had sex ... technically (I think I better confirm with Clinton ). Anyway, the point is I did orgasm last night at approximately 11:34 p.m, sitting on the edge of Viv's pool, my crotch thrust in the face of a man whose name I didn't bother to learn. And thanks to his game of Let's-See-How-Fast-I-Can-Make-You-Come, I knew that it took him less than five minutes to complete the job. That was that. No numbers exchanged; no small talk; no promise of getting together next week for lunch. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Just a girl and her orgasm. This encounter is so strange, and now that I reflect on it without the delicious pinot noir imbuing my brain, I realize that we didn't kiss or even rub parts. I don't even remember how I ended up being orally pleasured by th...

He stands over my desk, smiling, as he shows me early runs for a campaign he's passionate about. His hair is a bit floppy today, but the thick mass of healthy black follicles still frames his face in the most flattering of ways. I try my hardest not to think of the close encounter in his office months ago. We don't speak of it. He takes his leave when my Greek salad arrives. He offers to buy me a Snapple before he departs. I decline. I'm having an Evian. As I unpack my salad of feta, olives, red onions and romaine lettuce, I smell his cologne. He's long gone, but his scent -- unmistakably male and crisp -- still lingers at my desk, making my nose climax repeatedly. He did this on purpose.