I waited for her to come, and when she did, so did I. I asked her to lift and she lifted and let me get my hands out from under her. Here I’d been cupping that ass of hers, enjoying that fine ass of hers, and then we both came and suddenly her ass weighs a ton and all I can think about is getting my hands out from under before they get the fuck crushed.

I rolled off her.

“Was it good for you?” she asked.

“It was fine.”

There was a moment of strained silence. She wanted me to ask, so I did: “How was it for you?”

“Fine,” she said.

That taken care of, I got off the bed, slipped into my swim trunks, trudged into her kitchen, and got myself a bottle of Coke.

“Get some kleenex for me,” she called from the bedroom.

I was still in the kitchen. I said, “You want something to drink?”

“Please! Fix me a Seven and Seven, will you?”

Jesus, I thought. I put some Seagram’s and Seven-Up and ice in a glass, got her some kleenex from the bathroom, and went into the bedroom, where she took both from me, setting the glass on the night-stand, stuffing the kleenex between her legs.

There was a balcony off the bedroom, through French doors, and I went out and looked down on the swimming pool below. It was mid-evening, and cool. Florida days are warm year round, they say, but the nights are on the chilly side, particularly a March one like this.

Not that the crowd of pleasure-seekers below seemed to mind. Or notice. Lean tan young bodies, of either sex, their privates covered by a slash or two of cloth, basked in the flickering glow of the torch lamps surrounding the pool. Some of them lounged on towels and sun chairs as if the full moon, which I could see reflected in the shimmery green water of the pool, was going to add to their already berry-brown complexions. Others romped, running around the pool’s edge or in the water splashing, perpetual twelve-year-olds seeking perpetual summer.