After years of playing the field at work and college, you met Doe at a friend's party a few years ago. She took your breath away: funny, vivacious, flirty and gorgeous. You pursued her relentlessly, despite her claim that she wasn't looking for a relationship. Soon enough you became friends, and then more than friends.

You still remember the first night, after you'd taken her to that Broadway musical. Doe had been dressed tastefully in a long black satin dress with a deep red silk shawl, but you'd found it provocative nonetheless: her high heels made her ass press firmly as the confines of the satin, and her flesh would show through the low-cut back when she moved her shawl slickly across her bare shoulders. You'd found it hard to focus on the show the whole night, and afterward her perfume drove you crazy in the car in the parking lot. You'd stopped in the act of turning the key in the ignition and turned to Doe.

"Doe, I really like you."

She'd smiled, her teeth white and perfect. "I like you, too, John." She had then reached out and caressed your cheek. "Thank you so much for taking me to this tonight."

"I've never felt this way about any woman before..." Her fingers had curled down to your jaw and stroked under your chin. It was always hard to read her gestures, but you'd read this as encouragement, and taken her hand to kiss the palm then nuzzle her wrist.

"Felt what way?" Doe had said, and you'd nuzzled up her arm to her throat, kissing just under her jaw.

"Felt like I would do anything for you." Then you gently grabbed her head in yours and kissed her. The kiss had been tentative at first, then growing in intensity as your tongues lashed each other. Your hands had explored her body of their own volition, caressing her breasts through the silk, then squeezing her thighs as you had leaned over the stick shift. Her hands were busy on your arms, your chest, your belly and then your pants. You'd freed her pert, erect young breasts and found that they filled your hands quite nicely. She'd moaned around your mouth and then pushed you back, climbing half out of her seat to pull your engorged cock out of your pants and into her mouth. She had given you an incredible blow-job for five minutes, while pedestrians walked past on the sidewalk a few feet in front of your car. Your groans had attested to how little you cared about what they saw at that point, and then she'd climbed into your lap, pulled aside her panties and proceeded to engulf your saliva-slick shaft in her blazing hot vagina, bouncing her tits in your delighted face as she rode you to mutual, earth-shattering orgasm.

You shake yourself back to the present. All that was in the past, now. After years of dating and then living together, you'd asked her to marry you last spring. She'd agreed and they'd started to plan the wedding. But a week ago Doe had sat you down with a serious look on her gorgeous face. You color with shame at the thought of how you'd been eager to hear what she had to say, this love of your life.

She proceeded to tell you that she couldn't marry you, and that she was moving out. She'd been dissatisfied with your relationship for quite some time, had gone to therapy for the last few months, and been processing it with her friends and family. "Wha-what do you mean?" you'd stammered, your world turning upside-down.

"I'm a lesbian, John. I'm going to move out this weekend, and I'd appreciate it if you would stay somewhere else until I finish."

You'd ranted and raved, screamed obscenities, threatened violence and even begged on your knees for Doe to not make up her mind like this, to stay with you, to not leave you. But she was adamant.

You've spent the last week sitting on the sofa, getting drunk and crying in your empty apartment, looking through all the wedding invitations that were ready to be sent. The only times you've gone out in the last few days, you found yourself drawn to the places where you might happen to see her from afar. But every glance brought new tears.

"Shit", you finally say, a week after she left. "I can't stay like this forever. I've got to do something, get myself out of this funk. She's probably off fucking Sheila right now. Well, two can play that game. I'll find someone to take my mind off of that bitch. Oh, Doe, I didn't mean that. Sweet, sweet Doe...oh, dammit!" You storm around the apartment, throwing small objects and yelling at yourself. Finally, you dig out your old address book and look to see whose numbers you might still have. Hooking up the computer, you log onto some networking sites and find that a bunch of the girls you used to date in high school and college are online. That's tempting, but are you really ready to get back into that scene? Maybe you should just get out of the gloom of your apartment and try simply living for a while, get some exercise, do some errands.