He turned at his name. Well, actually, his upper body turned as he pivoted from the waistline, leaning back sorta to look at me. He was gorgeous -- blond hair, chiseled face, rock-solid body -- a complete antithesis of my ideal, who would look nothing like this circuit boy archetype. I flashed back to the first time I saw him on the street in New Orleans. He was shirtless and decked with beads. I wondered if he even owned a shirt. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to make out my face in the club lighting.

"Hey... you?re..."

"Chris, we met in New Orleans," I said, as he left his friends to face me. He nodded.

"Yeah, I know," he smiled, sounding surprised. "What are you doing down here?" He motioned to the club, but I knew he meant Houston.

"Partying. Having a good time." I smiled back. It was strange to think that I had never seen this man out of a party setting. I had no idea what he did for work. I had no idea how old he was. I knew he grew up in Nebraska, but that was the extent of it. Most of the time we spent in New Orleans was the non-speaking kind ? liplocked in what I remember as the most incredible makeout session of my life.

"Yeah, right on. You look great."

"Thanks, so do you." I placed my hand on his waist, palm on the oblique; a spot that never fails to turn me on. "From what I recall, the last time we were together, we left a certain job unfinished."

"You?re right. We certainly did." He took my hand and led me into the crowd, lights dancing across my face, bass pounding its way into my skin.

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