Meet Damien, a punk-rock boy, and this, our tale of fucking. A testimony to that rare unforgettable one-night stand we all deserve at least one of. (The image isn’t him, just someone who evokes his style, by some uncredited photog, that I found on the web. Damien was taller, broader, more imposing. More my type.)

And this is a three-parter that’s already complete. Part two? Very, very soon.

He was hard to miss. At 6’2 with a conservatively short blue mohawk and a studded leather jacket, it was safe to say Damien stood out. He was leaning on the wall by the stereo, talking to the would-be DJ, when I first noticed him.

The party was filled with Gapsters and Eddie Bauer-types along with a few grunged rockers, but Damien was in a class all his own. You couldn’t help but notice that stark combination of the chiselled movie-star features contrasting those hot fuck-’em-all punk stylings.

He caught my gaze and shot me a piercing stare back, a flirtatious smirk on his lips.

The audacity in his eyes took me by surprise, so I merely smiled back, and quickly broke the gaze as I chose to follow my friend to the kitchen to deposit our drinks. Along the way, she spotted a guy she’d been sweet on and decided to casually collide into him. I had her bevvies foisted on me, and made the cooler journey solo.

The fridge full, a 30-gallon blue Coleman cooler sat brimming with ice and drinks in the middle of the eating area. I was squatting down, setting the drinks in, when a pair of ratty Doc Martens stepped next to my spankin’-new cherry 9-hole Docs.

Damien’s hulking figure sunk to my level. He peered at me.

“You know, you’re the only girl here wearing Docs,” he commented, fingering a longneck bottle in the cooler before deciding on a can of Blue.

“That must make me unfashionable,” I said, dryly.

He grinned. “Mm, no. Not to me, it doesn’t.”

I shrugged, opted for a vodka cooler, twisted the cap off, and looked at him. “Well, that’s something, then, ” I commented, swigging my first sip as I stood, casually closing the cooler lid.

He sprung onto his feet and extended a hand. “Damien,” he said. “You are?”

“Someone who’s heard about you,” ignoring the hand, but smiling slyly.

“Really?”

And it was true, I had recognized him by reputation the instant I saw him. He was a playboy and a genius, but he looked like neither. The guy played four instruments, had landed a full four-year scholarship in mathematics, and was a published short fiction writer on the side — at 20.

But that was where the good boy ended. Ridiculously charming, he was hard to turn down — and he knew it.

Me, on the other hand, I’d just hit another roadbump with T. and we were on the outs yet once again. A little dalliance might well hit the spot — and I knew it.

“Mm-hmm. I heard about you.”

“All right. Whatcha hear?”

“Rumour has it you broke a friend of mine’s heart.”

“Oh! That.” He furrowed his brows playfully and smirked. “I assure you, it was mutual.”

“Oh, that reassures me,” I said, mockingly.

He was about to speak as I waited a beat, but I cut him off, quipping, “It’s all right. She’s a bitch anyway. Never did like her.”

With this, he erupted with laughter, his eyes sparkling.

“As long as you’re fine with it,” he sighed.

“Mm, yeah. I’m peachy. It’s all good.”

He grinned and cracked his beer open. “Hey,” he said, gesturing to the glass door a few feet away. “You seen the grounds yet?”

“Not yet,” I answered.

Unlike the usual urban parties our semi-attached but separate circles would happen onto, this was a lavish country spread. A pool, hot tub, tennis court, and extensive games “wing” in an adjacent old two-floor servants quarter made this the ideal place for a sprawling party, and offered places plenty where people could disappear.

“I can give you a guided tour,” he said. “There’s a couple lit walkways out here.”

The strains of cheesy mainstream techno began pumping out from the main room. “Besides, it seems to be taking a turn for the worst in there,” he muttered.

We’d been wandering through the grounds for half an hour at least, talking about books we’d been reading, comparing notes on Kesey, and wondering whether Hunter Thompson would ever be the same again, when I suddenly tripped, nearly falling into a large, rooty oak tree.

Damien reacted quickly, preventing me from colliding with the lumber, but in the act, lost his footing and toppled towards me (deliberately, I suspect), now that I was leaning safely against the lumbering oak.

Deliberately or not, I returned the favour and helped him, grabbing onto both his bulging biceps to keep him vertical. Steadying, he slid his hands around my waist and rather obviously searched my face for permission

Finding what he sought, he leaned in and kissed me — tenderly, at first.

Falling prey now more to his skills than his charms, I began increasing the tension by nibbling on his lip and gently sucking his tongue. He leaned harder into me and scooped his hands around my ass, holding me close to him as the kiss continued for what seemed forever, our tongues mercilessly probing each other.

There was no light except the faint glow from the nearby hothouse, which had dew-lined glass walls and nominal lighting. It was just light enough to see Damien’s eyes firmly clenched shut. Breathing hard now, he broke the kiss, opened his eyes, and said simply, “I like you.”

By now, I knew his type. Playing it coy, I whispered, “Prove it.”

He studied me, then groaned softly. He quickly nibbled my ear, took my hand, and then led me wordlessly across the lawn to the nearby greenhouse.

We glanced around. No one was to be seen.