Sometimes, a first date is overdetermined. Its outcome is known, at least in rough outline – to both parties even before it starts.

I knew I would fuck Luna as I approached the bar, before I met her. I had seen nearly every inch of her body. Except for her pussy. Which I had seen through panties hours earlier, and knew was trimmed neatly.

As I approached the bar, I saw her ahead of me. I recognized her by the black-and-white tight minidress that hugged her curves. She didn’t see me. (She wore the minidress to work. It’s professional. But it’s sexy.)

“How will I know you?” she had asked minutes earlier. “You won’t,” I replied. “But when I see you, I’ll put my hand on your hip, and whisper, ‘You’re going to suck my cock,’ to you. That’s how you’ll know me.”

She was ten feet ahead of me, taller than I imagined. When I heard 5’8″, I thought “my height.” I didn’t imagine the heels she had shown me earlier in a photo lifting her over me. If anything, all I had imagined was, as I told her, those heels up by her ears.

I was gliding toward her when she spun around, opening a big brass door, and our eyes met.

Her eyes are big, blue. Her lips are huge, luscious, pouty. Her perfect b-cup breasts strained against the fabric. Her creamy, pale thighs and muscular legs extended down.

I placed my hand on her hip, not feeling nearly as confident as I might have liked, as I strived to appear. Her beauty was, genuinely, offputting. “You’re going to suck my cock,” I whispered. None of the dozens of people within earshot noticed, but she reacted as if I’d yelled it. Her head reeled around, she blushed, and she said in a self-consciously demure tone, lowering her eyes, “Maybe.” Her first word to me.

The bar I’d picked was closed for a private function. There were three equally swanky bars within fifty feet. I picked the one with two stools free.

She had told me she might be shy, scared, at the beginning, that she would require a drink or three to loosen up. “What are you having?” she asked. “Depends on what you’re having,” I said. (I’ve been drinking less scotch lately, for reasons having to do with acid reflux – sexy.) I ordered us two proseccos (prosecci?), and she said, “Tell me about you.”

I pointed out the structural challenge I faced with her – and with any woman I meet as N. I don’t know how much she already knows, but I know she MIGHT know a shit-ton. “I haven’t read much,” she said. Mostly convincingly. I told her some stories, answered some questions, made some predictions. (“You ARE gonna suck my cock.”)

By the end of our drink, she was ready to authorize me to book a room.

We walked the few blocks to our hotel. “You want another drink before we head upstairs?” I offered her. I didn’t. But she wasn’t quite ready yet. She ordered us drinks while I checked in. We drank. The flirting was more overt. My hand snaked up under her dress. I brushed near her pussy.

We talked about her work, about my work. Turns out we know some people in common. I’d wager our LinkedIn profiles have not-insignificant overlap.

My patience was dwindling. I wanted to taste her. I told her.

We finished our drinks. We went upstairs. I’d hoped she’d precede me, but the elevator had flummoxed her. We arrived together. Once in the room, we kissed, hard. I had her stand against a wall, arms over her head, and my hand found her warm, wet panties.

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