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The following story is true, told to the best of my recollections. Ten years ago today I had one of the most incredible sexual experiences of my life. Here’s what happened. I met Molly in the San Fernando Valley. I was working at an art supply store, this gigantic warehouse selling everything from spray paint and acrylics to canvas on the roll. Molly came in on a whim. She decided that morning she wanted to take up watercolor, and I spent an hour showing her various techniques and supplies that she might need.

To say that she was simply "pretty" would be unjust. Molly was stunning. She had a dancer’s body, long and lithe, with slender calves and petite ankles which she accented in Grecian sandals. She wore a sundress with a sweater over the top, pulled down off the shoulder at one side to bring the eye across the lines of her clavicle and neck. It was her face, however, that stopped the show. Picture, if you will, a young Angelina Jolie, Molly had those same impossibly high cheekbones, the gigantic deep set eyes, those gorgeous full lips.

Now picture that face as softer, easier to smile. Unlike Angie, her skin was a natural olive. And her hazel eyes were so bright, that when she smiled the color became a fiery orange sunset, framed perfectly by her long chestnut-colored hair. Also, it’s important for you to know that Molly was more than the sum of her beauty. She was intelligent, and spoke with a wry, prodding wit. She was poised and kind and down-to-earth. I could say she was my kind-of girl, but really she was every guy’s kind of girl.

Throughout our time at the art store, I real college girls could feel a chemistry between us. She flirted, but remained aloof. We exchanged numbers, and in the following weeks we texted every other day or so. The conversations were more than friendly, but just as I would work up the courage to ask her on a proper date she would pull back. I wanted this woman with every cell in my body. As time went on I resigned myself that it wasn’t meant to be.

That all changed the night of St. Patrick’s Day. I had the day off and I ended up at a dance club in Hollywood with a couple of friends. It was one of those dingy places in the early days of hipsterdom — skin-tight pants and eye-liner and asymmetrical hair cuts. The music rocked and we were having a blast. I texted Molly and told her to come join us. She played it cool and gave me a maybe. So I continued in my reveries, not giving it much of a second thought.

Later that night, I was standing in the outdoor patio of the club, watching a band through a crowd of chain-smokers when two hands slipped over my eyes from behind. "Guess who?" a voice whispered in my ear. I turned and there she was. The girl of my dreams had dressed for the occasion. Molly wore a neon green top-hat with rows of green necklace beads hanging down over a tiny black tank top. Her jeans were ripped and they revealed great swaths of flesh on both the front and back of her legs.

"Hey, you made it!" I said. I went to give her a hug, but with her hands still resting around my neck, she pulled me in and kissed me instead. I was shocked. Happy shocked. She kissed me hard, and with emphasis, twice, three times, parting our lips enough to taste each other. Her mouth was intoxicating. She pulled away then, smiling, and grabbed my hand. "Let’s get a drink" she said. We went to the main club, to the bar, where we met up with my friend Curtis and his girlfriend Callie.

Molly draped her arms around my shoulders as we waited for our drinks. She nibbled on my neck. I held on to her waist, laughing, joking around, kissing her often. To an outsider, we must have looked every bit a young couple in love. I wasn’t sure what brought on this turn of events, but I was happy to keep my mouth shut and ride it out.