I [m] got her [f] screaming on the balcony

In a way, this was a classic big-city story. We’d been dating for a bit but were still in the can’t-stop-touching-each-other phase of the relationship. She was tall and slender with blond hair down to her mid back, brown eyes, long lashes. I’m Mediterranean, a little shorter, with dark brown wavy hair, green eyes, and a short tidy beard.

She was living in one of those over-crowded apartments you get near the center of the city, where her room was basically just part of the living room with a partition slapped up. The only reason she took that part of the apartment (instead of the proper rooms) was that it had sole access to a little balcony with a view of downtown. When I would stay over at her place, there wasn’t a lot of privacy, and we tried to keep on her roommate’s good side by behaving ourselves.

It was hard, though, for the aforementioned can’t-stop-touching reasons.

One summer night, we were still up at three in the morning because we were too wound up. Our first mistake was spooning in nothing but our underwear, because the body heat and the feel of skin on skin was not encouraging us to be good.