After my five-year relationship with Sally came to an end, I floundered at romance.

After a few months of mourning and grappling with my loss, I tried all the obvious, from singles bars and supermarkets to blind dates and video dating services. Granted, I did meet a few nice women, but there was simply nothing there for me. All I got, for the most part, was a great deal of frustration and pain.

Over time, I suppose I became visibly depressed, and my best friend, Bob, suggested I try my hand at writing a personal ad. At first, I just dismissed the idea. I had always thought that the personals were for the really lonely and desperate. Then it occurred to me that that was precisely what I was.

I quickly ran out and bought one of the more upscale magazines that carry personals and began looking them over to get an idea of what to write. As I perused the pages, I came across an ad that made me stop. “Very attractive, single white female, thirty-four, seeking single man in his thirties, strong will, strong mind. Looking for companionship with someone eager to celebrate life.”

I know it doesn’t seem all that sensational, but there was something about that ad that made my heart skip a beat. It had determination, strength, a real hopeful attitude. Suddenly I only wanted to answer that one.

That night I spent hours constructing a letter, pouring my heart and soul onto the page. I included an old photo and my phone number and, at midnight, hurried down to the corner and mailed my letter.

Two weeks passed, and I was beginning to lose hope. Certainly this woman had received my response. She was either not interested in me or — wishful thinking — she had had so many responses, she was unable to get back to me in a reasonable amount of time. I was growing more and more depressed and convinced that I’d never meet the right woman.

I came home from work one night, and my answering machine was blinking with messages: my mother to say hello; my mechanic to say the car was ready; my friend Bob to see how things were going; and Heather, to make my day. Her voice was mature and sultry, and I stood motionless as her voice filled up my room.

“Hello,” she said, “my name is Heather, and I’m calling about the letter you sent in response to my ad in the magazine. Your words really moved me … so did your photo. I’d love to meet.”

She left her number and a good time to call. Call me a romantic, but I was walking on air, dancing through clouds. This was the most excitement, the most promise, I’d experienced since parting with Sally. I was positively ecstatic.

Heather and I met at a little coffee shop in Greenwich Village. She was tall and slender with beautifully long auburn hair and emerald-green eyes.

We talked for hours over cups of coffee and plates of appetizers. She told me all about herself, and by the time we concluded our conversation, we both knew that it felt right.

“Well,” she finally said, “this has been wonderful. You’re one fabulous gentleman. How would you feel about escorting me back to my place? It’s only a few blocks away.”

Heather’s apartment was on the small side, but very intimate and tastefully decorated. She had a living room filled with antiques, tables and chairs, a real wood-burning fireplace and a lovely Oriental carpet on the floor.

Heather fixed me a drink and excused herself. When she returned, she was dressed in a sheer peignoir and a fancy pair of spike heels. Her breasts were full, with delectable cherry nubs pointing upward at the tips. On her hips were a pair of tight-fitting black panties that just covered what appeared to be a scrumptious, fleshy cunt.

Taking me by the hand, she led me to her bedroom, where she helped me step up into her canopied bed.

With that, Heather began to undress me. When I was finally naked, she ran her long fingernails over my hot flesh, gently pinching my nipples and pulling ever so slightly at the hairs on my chest.

Slowly, skillfully, she worked her way down my body, cupping my balls in her palm, coyly running her tongue over my fleshy sac, before taking my cock in the wet warmth of her mouth and sucking it sweetly. In time Heather stood up and slithered out of her peignoir and then gracefully wriggled out of her panties, baring the splendor of her femininity. My cock was rock-hard as my eyes browsed, scoping her tempting sex bush.

“You look hungry,” she said in a husky voice. She climbed onto the bed and straddled my face, resting her musky mound on my lips. My tongue lapped happily at her hot pink crevice, darting into her tight orifice, teasing her clit.

In time Heather had maneuvered her body down to my hips and, with graceful elegance, she hoisted herself on top of my erection and impaled herself. Grabbing my shoulders, she began thrusting, bucking, fucking me with the zeal of a woman on fire with passion.

Heather came quickly, intensely, screaming and moaning as she squirmed round on my cock. The sight of her coming was, to say the least, inspiring, and I reciprocated by spewing my hot seed inside her.

Heather and I lay together the rest of the night in a warm, loving embrace. It was the start of something very meaningful for both of us. We’ve mentioned marriage a few times, and while that will happen one day no doubt, for now we enjoy an intense love that we once thought had escaped us. Thank God for personals.