mixing a drink for me. I didn’t want her to know what effect it had on me. Dangling precariously above her delicious swell, brushing it occasionally, was a golden charm. As she leaned over to hand me the highball glass, the charm rocked back and forth till it nestled into the alcove fashioned by breasts jostling against biceps. Warmth surged up me, a growing consternation – had she figured out that necklines have an effect on me? I was quite sure that I hadn’t betrayed any emotion the last time – she had worn a red shirt and left one too many unbuttoned. Now, a décolletage framed by a deep and gauzy black ‘V’ – an escalation, a progression on her part. I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid. Maybe I had stared too long or maybe this was the second time I was focusing on her breasts. But, had she bent down too deep? Did she linger longer than she should have? Anything was possible. My fingers felt wet and sticky all of a sudden as I groped for a response to her, calling me back to earth.
I wiped off the condensation from my fingers. My other hand was damp from sweat. Was she as painfully aware of my own awkward movements as I was? This was the second time we were meeting after the drunken make-out at the drag party. I had no clue what she liked – the alcohol had left our initial encounters hazy. Couldn’t even say whether she liked to take the initiative or preferred to sit back. What if she was one of those people who took umbrage at being read the wrong way? We were obviously meeting for sex, dammit; I had been hasty in saying yes to this date. Though the very sight of her sent quivers coursing through me – towering height, thundering hair and the lightning-sharp nose.
Tonight, she was storming my bastions, and I wasn’t ready. What if cardinal mistakes were made and I left her dissatisfied? I began considering opening gambits. Maybe I could offer to help with the drinks in the cheek-by-jowl kitchen and skim a fingertip along her pronounced shoulder blades. Or would I look like the cheap guy in the theatre who snakes an arm around his date? I could sit next to her, clothes grazing and the gradual linger that would see flesh meeting flesh. Would that be too slow? We weren’t out for a romantic dinner after all.
A few nervous gulps later, my glass was empty. She had started mixing the next round of drinks, ice rattling furiously as her hands went snap, jerk, up and down with the shaker. This would be a good time to approach her – that coiled, controlled power in her arms had given me a head rush. I could imagine that strength being used on me, arms encircling me or the firm pressure of her palms on my body. The L-shaped platform in the kitchen jutted out unkindly, trying something sexy would be awkward. Logistically, I wasn’t clear on how or what could happen. I didn’t want to fall flat on my face. The drink fizzed loudly as she topped it up with soda.
PERSON 2
I decide to sit down next to my date. Dipping neck-lines had worked for me in the past, but with her, not even a compliment. In fact, I wonder whether she had noticed at all, she was verging on the platonic tonight. Our initial meetings had seen us both drunk and tongue-loose in more ways than one. I was taken by a surprising attraction when I first saw her at the party. Plaid shorts, white shirt and suspenders and a Gatsby jauntily perched on her head. Her sexiness was casual and indifferent, like last night’s clothes thrown over a chair. Just when I thought that my flirting had gone in vain, she asked me to join her for a smoke. I was led to a narrow, dark utility passage with criss-crossing ventilators and dropping wires, where she backed me into a corner and kissed me without preamble. As her tongue entered my mouth, I felt her thumbs press into the sides of my throat. As we leaned into each other, my overwhelming wetness pushed back against me.
We blew smoke out of a tiny cubby-hole of a window after we were done. The second
I wiped off the condensation from my fingers. My other hand was damp from sweat. Was she as painfully aware of my own awkward movements as I was? This was the second time we were meeting after the drunken make-out at the drag party. I had no clue what she liked – the alcohol had left our initial encounters hazy. Couldn’t even say whether she liked to take the initiative or preferred to sit back. What if she was one of those people who took umbrage at being read the wrong way? We were obviously meeting for sex, dammit; I had been hasty in saying yes to this date. Though the very sight of her sent quivers coursing through me – towering height, thundering hair and the lightning-sharp nose.
Tonight, she was storming my bastions, and I wasn’t ready. What if cardinal mistakes were made and I left her dissatisfied? I began considering opening gambits. Maybe I could offer to help with the drinks in the cheek-by-jowl kitchen and skim a fingertip along her pronounced shoulder blades. Or would I look like the cheap guy in the theatre who snakes an arm around his date? I could sit next to her, clothes grazing and the gradual linger that would see flesh meeting flesh. Would that be too slow? We weren’t out for a romantic dinner after all.
A few nervous gulps later, my glass was empty. She had started mixing the next round of drinks, ice rattling furiously as her hands went snap, jerk, up and down with the shaker. This would be a good time to approach her – that coiled, controlled power in her arms had given me a head rush. I could imagine that strength being used on me, arms encircling me or the firm pressure of her palms on my body. The L-shaped platform in the kitchen jutted out unkindly, trying something sexy would be awkward. Logistically, I wasn’t clear on how or what could happen. I didn’t want to fall flat on my face. The drink fizzed loudly as she topped it up with soda.
PERSON 2
I decide to sit down next to my date. Dipping neck-lines had worked for me in the past, but with her, not even a compliment. In fact, I wonder whether she had noticed at all, she was verging on the platonic tonight. Our initial meetings had seen us both drunk and tongue-loose in more ways than one. I was taken by a surprising attraction when I first saw her at the party. Plaid shorts, white shirt and suspenders and a Gatsby jauntily perched on her head. Her sexiness was casual and indifferent, like last night’s clothes thrown over a chair. Just when I thought that my flirting had gone in vain, she asked me to join her for a smoke. I was led to a narrow, dark utility passage with criss-crossing ventilators and dropping wires, where she backed me into a corner and kissed me without preamble. As her tongue entered my mouth, I felt her thumbs press into the sides of my throat. As we leaned into each other, my overwhelming wetness pushed back against me.
We blew smoke out of a tiny cubby-hole of a window after we were done. The second
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