He was never-ending night with stars for eyes and breath like breezes after summer rain. He touches me like butterflies, floating over my skin bringing me electric pleasure as he kissed my lips with his own full, succulent, soft mouth. He made love to me like I was a goddess and he only a mere mortal who must worship the nuances of my body and bring it the most divine pleasure. I found myself moaning his name over and over and over again, and submitting to his tender dominance each time he thrust sharply into my hot, wet…. Oh yeah, I nearly forgot the way he brushed his lips across my face and lovingly laced kisses across each lid.

That night had been so perfect. My life was never quite the same after that. "Alisha", he moaned softly as his passion culminated in a tiny, hot explosion. He embraced me tightly as I felt his warm fluid slide down the length of my thighs and I sighed. "Justice—I—I mean we should talk about things this is much too fast." "Shhhh," he silenced me as he slid his length slowly back into my body. "I would never, ever hurt you. Trust me." So I closed my eyes and abandoned myself to the unbelievable intensity of passion he brought to me again and again. "Oh baby," I moaned as we made love for the tenth time "Don’t—stop—yet."

After that I was hooked. And all it took sometimes was a look, a touch, an embrace and we’d be in a wild dervish of tongues, teeth, sweat, and breaths mingling. Justice made any other fling I ever had look mundane and boring. No one ever took the time to find what brought me the most pleasure and stimulated me so much that I wanted to give another human being all the pleasure they gave to me. Most guys I dated simply gave the usual mode of foreplay; you know ladies, a touch here, there, or there was no foreplay at all. And the next thing you know you’re lying beneath some sweaty, heavy brotha and you’re thinking, "Just come so this can be all over." You start thinking of all the things you have to do that day like wash the clothes or run errands. Then you fake it just enough for him to be satisfied and you can’t wait to tell your best friend, "Girl, this man thought he was doing something girl. Sittin’ up there sweating and grunting, and talking about whose is it? Girl I wanted to laugh."

Then of course, you’d silently wish that someone would make love to you. No, not just stinky, funky, sweaty, bedshaking, legs splayed kind of sex. I mean spine tingling, out of breath, make you want to get up-out-of-your-bed- and-go-find-your-momma-and-slap-her-for-not-telling-you- this-was-so-damn-good-kind of lovemaking.

Justice was like that. He made my toes curl, my hips shake and parts of my body feel things I had never felt before. Justice was not your normal man. He was your hard-as-steel, soft-as-butter, bonafide superman. I don’t doubt he could leap tall buildings in a single bound or if he was faster than a speeding bullet (never in the bedroom of course!!). He knew what a woman really wanted. See, a playa doesn’t understand that sometimes experience with a lot of women amounts to a hill of beans. Because every woman is different. You’ve got to get into her head and find out what SHE likes, what SHE desires, and what she likes to eat, smell and drink and use that to create the ultimate, sensual experience.

Justice continually employed the element of surprise. I’d come home to find my living room filled with roses, and a candlelight bath awaiting my tired body, and his strong hands would lather my hair and stroke away the tension. He’d massage my feet and by the time it was all over, I didn’t give a damn what my boss had done or what professor had given me a bad grade. It was all about the experience he gave me.

And it wasn’t always just sex. Oh, no, see lovemaking isn’t about the culmination of the act. No, Justice would just do things. Little things. Stroke my hair. Kiss my feet. I couldn’t think to go back to anything less than what I was getting.

The attraction between he and I wasn’t completely sexual either. I respected him for his ideas and principles, which he never compromised. I loved his bright, sparkling sense of humor and his easygoing manner. I adored his gentlemanly and chivalrous ways, for he was always one to pull out chairs or open car doors. He was the consummate companion. In turn, he respected my own views and ideas even when they were different from his own. He always spoke to me in a manner that suggested that he admired my intelligence and often learned from it. He was often forthright and honest and a man of his convictions.

He was a brotha who did not mind making a woman feel good mentally, spiritually, emotionally and physically. And sistahs, when you find a man who makes sweet, tender love to you, you find that the conversation you had with your friends you don’t have anymore. You don’t want your best friend to know how your man made you feel that funny flutter in your stomach or how he licked ice cream passionately from your body or how he stroked your feet and sucked your toes….you get the idea. You don’t want her to get some inkling of what good thing you’ve got. You don’t need to even go to the club anymore because you’re too busy at home with your man. As for Justice and I, keep your thugs. Keep your hard-core gangsta, throw you on the bed and don’t give a damn what you feel kinda brotha. I need a superman. Because ladies, if you’ve never made love, you haven’t lived.