BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

When making love with J one afternoon I was drawn to her nose. Slightly freckled, her white delicate skin, the narrow bridge just right for my lips to snuggle while I held her tightly some fifty years ago, still bright in my memory, my eyes open almost against her closed eyes, her breath now quieted of passion, her breasts slowly heaving against my chest, a low murmur of a moan of pleasure remembered as she pressed up against me. It was the first time we made love, and I wondered whether her sex would be covered with the same red hair on her head.