By Patrick Alcatraz
HOUSTON - The come-on came at the end of a day covering some international business conference at The Woodlands north of here, when Diane let-out that she felt wasted after the previous night's wine-drinking. The words coming out of her mouth seemed sexy enough. I said let's get some dinner and she said she'd love that. Elsewhere on the star-crossed planet, reporters in the field walked toward their cars to head on back to the newsroom, to write the day's news. I'd filed mine via a Radio Shack portable computer, as had Diane, a business writer for The Houston Post, our employer. Of course, I'd known her for a few months, although we'd never lasered eyes at each other. Still, she was friendly.
We ended up at a place called The Jockey Club, which was a popular bar with the Houston press. A newfangled electronic dartboard drew players like flies. We sat along the far wall, watching it all, taking in the laughter and the competition and the rowdy mood. Diane had a reputation for being a very good writer, although when we went out she would call me The Post's "Star" reporter, perhaps because I was forever being dispatched to this and that disaster. Such lingo spurred me onward. We drank and then we walked out about midnight, where I said, "I'll follow you," and she said, "I hope so..."
At her house, I ran into her pooch, Hawthorne, who barked up a storm as I made my way to Diane's bedroom. She excused herself and walked-off toward the kitchen and then returned with two glasses of red wine, my second addiction. I climbed onto her bed in my jeans and socks; she drifted off to the bathroom. Shortly, Diane ambled in wearing an untied nightrobe, her visible high-thighs one ahead of the other as she moved, a radiant thick, goldish pubic patch ready for its due.
I'd always thought she was Jewish, because that's what my colleague Steve Olafson had said about her. When I mentioned it, and I don't even know why I did that, she laughed and said, "No, I'm Lutheran..." She could throw her hair backwards nicely, like a javeline-thrower, when laughing. I liked that, as much as I loved seeing her ass as she angled up toward the headboard. My itinerary in the sack always begins with cowboying-up for a blowjob. Diane was okay with that. She went at it as if an expert, running her tongue up and down my shaft, licking, and then taking my cock full into her mouth. It takes me about a half-hour to want to do anything else, yet fucking her dog-style had been the initial attraction. She took that nicely, moving with me as I rode the Sweetheart of the Rodeo, her ass coming and going dramatically before my alcoholed eyes.
We would see each other often, with me sometimes arriving unannounced and finding her ready for sex. She lived alone, in one of those Leave it To Beaver houses in nearby Bellaire. I don't think either of us saw it as love, or anything near it; it was just two people looking for warmth. Later, when I'd taken a job with The Boston Globe, I came back to Houston to work on a story and I called Diane from a bar in Montrose. She drove over and we retreated to my hotel after a long chat and a string of drinks. Our relationship was like a Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton thing, always a happy time complete with plenty of smiles and thrusting. She left before dawn and I left for San Antonio the next day. Diane would move to Colorado.
I called her once when I was up that way, but we couldn't get together on a time to see each other. I think it was better that way. Our entanglement, brief as it was, carried a distinct Houston flavor. I was okay with that...
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