“I’m a bitch!” Audrey often said, “But I’m a caring, loving bitch! Ha ha ha ha!”

I thought of her as a crazy bitch, but a lovable one.

I met her at a party. She wasn’t my type so I didn’t pay much attention to her. I probably had my eye on someone else. Because Audrey and I were the only smokers in the crowd, I ran into her a few times outside the back door. We exchanged the sort of chit-chat that people who aren’t really interested in one another do just to be polite: What do you do? Etcetera. She told me that she recently bought her first house, a townhouse in the suburbs. She was a technician at a company that installed and maintained computer equipment. I mentioned that I worked at the newspaper. That’s how she knew how to get in touch. She called me the following week.

“I’m having a painting party at my new house and I want you to come,” she said. Audrey was a loud talker.

“Sounds like fun,” I replied, thinking it would definitely be not.

“I’ll have pizza and beer and other stuff,” she said. Then in a soft voice, almost a murmur, she said, “I’d really like to see you again.” My warped male brain took that as a coy reference to “other stuff,” and I promised to go. The good news was next Saturday I had a date; the bad news was that the only latex involved would be Egg Shell white.

Two other people showed for Audrey’s paint party. Her friend Jenny, a pudgy travel agent who wanted to show us photos from her latest trip, and Ed, a cab driver who parked his taxi in front of the house for twenty minutes while he gobbled two slices of pepperoni pizza and rushed off to work, saying he’d be back in an hour. He wasn’t. In time I would learn that Audrey didn’t have many friends, certainly none who cared to help her paint. On the other hand, I’m the kind of guy who shows up in old clothes ready to paint. I’ve always said the hardest thing about painting is trying to stay awake. I volunteered to paint the guest room and finished it in two hours flat. When I came back downstairs I discovered that between the travel pictures and the beer, the women had finished one wall of the living room.

Jenny left at 11:30. I was about to leave when Audrey put her arms around me and asked me to stay. “I’m so horny,” she said. I was horny too, but I suspected it was just alcohol talking. She had a pretty good buzz on.

“I really should go,” I said. “Maybe next time.” Next time I’ll bang your brains out.

“Oh no, don’t go. I’m sooo horny. Come to bed with me.”

I’m proud to say I was reluctant to take advantage of someone under the influence, especially on a first date, but no girl ever had to twist my arm to get me in her bed.

I agree there’s no such thing as bad sex. There is, however, not so good sex that’s not bad. The first time with Audrey was not so good. Alcohol made her hyperactive. Once we were naked and in bed, she moved constantly, changing position, and chattered continually.

“I’m glad you stayed. I’m so horny! I want you to really fuck me!” And so on. Imagine a woman who begs to be fucked, gets naked, jumps into bed, then resists. She had to get up and go to check that she locked the doors. Next she had to pee. I don’t know what inner conflict she struggled with, but she was definitely a handful. I would soon understand that it was her way to maintain control. Afraid of losing it, she needed alcohol to let go. I eventually got her to hold still long enough to aim my cock at her cunt. I was tired, she was wet, and I wanted to get it done. “Wait, do you have a condom?”

“No. Why would I bring condoms? I just met you. I didn’t know—“

“You don’t carry condoms?” she said. “You should always carry condoms. You never know when you’ll need them.”

“Well, you didn’t tell me I would need them,” I said. Next time I’ll bring a fucking dozen. I admit, I was relieved. I climbed off her and got up.

She eyed my cock. “You don’t need a rubber if you fuck my ass,” Audrey said, rather sweetly I thought. Did I hear her right? I guess I did, because she was already in doggie position. She wiggled her ass and clenched, winking her hole.

Audrey wasn’t the first girl who offered me her back alley. She was actually the third, if I remember correctly. So I had ample experience with the rear entrance. But she was the wildest. With the aid of some hand cream from the bedside table, I managed to get my cock in her big ass without much trouble. From the first inch in, she began bucking and thrusting her ass, all the time groaning and grunting like a piano mover. I felt like rodeo cowboy, holding on until I came with my cock buried to the balls.

Whoopee tie eye oh! When I left, Audrey was snoring peacefully.

Audrey and I became fuck buddies after that. We didn’t have a regular thing, no one would consider it dating, but every couple of weeks one of us would call and set something up. A month or so after I met her, I transferred to the night shift to get away from the constant whining and gnashing of teeth in the newsroom. Real work would probably kill the average journalist. Audrey started calling me late at night, sometimes from bars when she was out drinking. I pretty much understood by then that she picked up guys. I figured she fucked some of them. That’s why I always used condoms when I was with her.

She could have been pretty if she would have put some effort into it. If she would fix her hair and wear makeup. She had a good body, big breasts and a nice round ass, although she was getting thick around the middle. She had dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, and good skin. She didn’t wear makeup or scents. Her typical outfit was jeans and a sweatshirt, the clothes she wore to work. She was strictly blue-collar, the child of an alcoholic iron worker and his long-suffering wife. Her inner child was probably a street kid from the city. She was very butch, and I often thought she would have been happier as a lesbian.

Audrey never revealed much about her herself or her childhood, and I could only imagine what vulnerabilities were hidden behind that raucous behavior. In spite of it, I actually became quite attached to her in time, although neither of us ever let slip the word “love.” We remained fuck buddies for about a year before she fell for a real dickhead and married him. Only once did we achieve real intimacy.

I invited her to my place for dinner. It was Saturday; I didn’t have to work, so I decided to cook. I made Chicken Waikiki and Crème brûlée for dessert. After dinner we had coffee and Grand Marnier, which I bought especially for her because she loved it. She appeared to be in a subdued mood when we moved to the bedroom. She came to bed wearing matching bra and panties, blood red satin with black lace trim. When I kissed her she melted in my arms, opening her mouth eagerly. I immediately noticed how soft and yielding she was under my touch. My hard-assed little street urchin was suddenly acting like a real woman. I was enthralled, surprised but reluctant to spoil the moment by asking what was behind the change. I unhooked her bra and her breast spilled out, soft and warm. I gently kissed her nipples, feeling them harden in my lips. We were truly acting as lovers for the first time, holding one another, kissing, stroking each other in affectionate embrace. Had the real Audrey suddenly revealed herself to me? I was feeling a true connection with her when she spoke.

“Would you marry me?” she whispered near my ear.

“Jesus! Where did that come from?” I said, exposing my surprise.

“Would you? I’m only asking if you would,” she said.

“So you’re not asking me to marry you, you’re only asking if I would?” I said, sitting up to study her. “I mean, you’ve never given me the impression that we had that kind of relationship.” I didn’t know what to say. She turned away from me. “Listen, Audrey, I’m trying to understand where this is coming from. I mean, I don’t know if I would marry you. I never thought about it.”

She didn’t say anything else. She pulled me to her and I held her close. She didn’t make a sound, but I felt hot tears on my cheek and knew she was weeping. I didn’t know what she was going through, but I sensed that the right thing was to hold her. After a moment, she took my hand and rubbed it on her pussy. I took off her panties and with them tied her hands loosely above her head to a spoke of the brass bed. I had never done that before. I imagine I wanted to keep her the way she was then, soft and loving and submissive. She didn’t resist, didn’t try to free herself, merely spread her legs wide, surrendering all to me. I caressed her pussy with my fingertips, feeling the hot wetness spread until I touched her clitoris with it and she gasped. I rubbed around the hard nub in tiny circles and she arched her back and moaned. I was so hard by then I leaned over her, holding my weight above her on straight arms, and my cock found its way into her. We began slowly moving, groins locked together. Her hot cunt gripped my cock tightly. Her hot mouth yielded to mine. Languidly, sweetly, we rose as one toward long shattering orgasm. Breathless, I sagged to the bed and held her tightly.

She never told me what it was about. That hour of intimacy surely frightened her, because I didn’t hear from her for weeks, until she called to tell me she was getting married. I was surprised, but even more surprised later to discover that I missed her. Missed the woman she revealed that night.