A young white soldier has his first sexual encounter. The racial kettle of the southern US in 1979 is at a constant simmer. And just how good can a hooker be, when it’s just another day’s work? Or is there no substitute for professionalism?
Instantly, I was captivated, and a little intimidated by both her age, almost thirty, and her luscious beauty. The woman—and she was a real woman, not a kid—had a pleasant round face with high cheek bones that gave it depth. She was tall, but still several inches shorter than my six feet, but I was struck by her very dark, coffee brown complexion, which seemed at odds with her flowing, shiny curls of gorgeous shoulder-length hair. My palms were sweaty at the thought of getting them on her beautiful, perfectly proportioned breasts. Those breasts seemed to call to me, with each sway and bounce. Her soft white cotton dress fit her form sensationally, hugging her upper body alluringly, accentuating the breadth of her torso before tapering down to her narrow waist, then loosely flowing over the graceful, but sweeping curve of her hips. My arms wanted to encircle that narrow waist, to lay my hand atop that scrumptious, perfectly developed ass, and then just pull her body to mine. To press our chests and hips together, to meld into a single being; to feel her softness pressed against my hardness. To feel the slope and curve of her back as those glorious breasts pressed against my chest. She was perhaps the most beautiful black woman I had ever met. All of these thoughts vanished quickly with my growing anxiety at my impending moment.