Her name was Cory, because her parents wanted a boy.

Nothing from our correspondence that day had led me to expect that anyone but a man would answer the door.

But there she was, standing in the opening wearing a translucent top — her undergarments clearly visible through the fabric of her shirt.

I was really beginning to like California.

It was December, 1999 and I’d only been in the state barely a week — having just moved all the way from Virginia to take a job for an Internet startup in San Francisco.

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