Candy

I met her at Ray's Pizza in New York. There she was, Magda, caramel Dominican skin, thick, smiling and loving life.

Once I heard her and that Brooklyn accent hit me like a ton of bricks ... whoa. I asked for help, ordering as though it was my first time being there, and she was very helpful. Her eyes sparkled, one brow raised and her dimples danced as she folded her pizza and devoured her slice -- I love a woman unaffraid of a real appetite.

We talked about everything and nothing as we watched at least a million people groove past the our window seats. She showed me how to add the peppers and extra Parmesan. Man, the soda was sweeter, the sausage juicier and the aroma of the pizzeria floated in my head. Then I noticed that we had walked a few blocks away and down a deserted Manhattan alley. I saw fangs, then her eyes shifted, then warmth ... then hotness in my neck.

Just that instant my mind flashed back to the ring she was wearing and how it opened up while she poured the Parmesan on my slice. How could .... I .... have .... been ...... soooooo ..... stupid? Fangs in my neck. No way.

That was 1970, I was 21, she was 273 and didn't look a day over 25. Years later, we were shopping for shoes in SOHO and she saw another brotha, 21, looking for a slice and I faded back, cause I saw my own cutie. This chick has almost 300 years of shoes, but she keeps looking for something new for her appetite, body and feet. She treats pizza, men and shoes like candy.

Who knew that Vampires are clothes hounds.