start imagining how rough or smooth his palm would be, in a way usually reserved for my innermost and deepest sex fantasies.
But I can cope with it, I swear to God I can.
Iâm absolutely sure that I am fine with all of this.
Until the movie theater, that is.
W E GO TO a ramshackle place just off Main Street, showing a movie we each were startled to learn the other lovedâhim startled because it was a little before my time and me startled because of the violence. He should hate the violence, I know, yet somehow he agrees when I list it in my top ten of all time. He tells me he has dreams about Clarice Starling coming to save him, and Iâm so startled he would cast himself as the girl in the well that for a moment I canât say anything.
Iâm too busy imagining myself with a gun drawn, telling him that everything is going to be okay now. Just stay quiet, the other agents are on their way , I see myself saying, and by the time I come back to the conversation heâs already halfway through plans to see it at the Tennenbaum. âI havenât been to the movies in years,â he says in this wistful sort of voice, and after that I can hardly say no.
But once weâve sat in that sultry darkness, I sort of wish I had.
For a start, the film is much sexier than I remember it being. The conversations between Lecter and Starling take on an oddly seductive note that Iâm sure wasnât there beforeâthough if Iâm honest, it might not be there now. My radar for this sort of thing has just been fine-tuned; Iâm so aware of everything even remotely erotic that I see it in a serial killer casually chatting to a rookie agent.
And then there are the seats in here. Were they so close together before? Iâm absolutely certain they werenât, when I last visited with the guy from accounting. At the very least the seats had arms, yet somehow they donât seem to now. There is nothing between us but empty air, and that empty air is starting to crackle again before Clarice has even gotten to the disembodied head in a jar.
God knows where I will be by the time the third act hits. My whole body feels alive to his every move, even though his moves are all utterly tiny and insignificant. He scratches his elbow. He shifts a little in his seat. He checks his watch.
Oh, and he also presses his leg right into mine .
There I am waiting for another miniscule movement, and suddenly I have the entire length of his right thigh pushing into my left one. I can feel the seam of his jeans and the place where muscle gives way to bone, and absolutely none of it feels like an accident. If it was an accident, would he keep the limb there long after weâve both acknowledged that this is going on? Would he keep staring straight at the screen as though nothing has happened?
I glance at him for some kind of confirmation, and I know he feels me doing it. Yet he wonât look in my direction. And he doesnât move away. Quite the contraryâafter one long agonizing minute of this new kind of contact, he shifts his leg up and down in a way that only makes things worse. It presses his thigh so tightly to mine I probably couldnât get a penny between us, and when he does so something else happens.
My skirt ruffles up.
My skirt ruffles almost all the way up . Another inch and he could probably see panties, if he happened to glance down. Suddenly I can feel denim against the bare and far-too-sensitive skin of my thigh, and I have almost no idea what to do with the sensation. My body wants to process it as exciting and arousing, but my brain keeps reminding me that Iâm not supposed to. He doesnât want me to.
So why is he rubbing his leg against mine?
Because that is definitely what he seems to be doing. He has exposed an expanse of skin, and is currently stroking that skin in the most casual way possible. His leg just sort of rocks in this slow, maddening circle, until that one point
But I can cope with it, I swear to God I can.
Iâm absolutely sure that I am fine with all of this.
Until the movie theater, that is.
W E GO TO a ramshackle place just off Main Street, showing a movie we each were startled to learn the other lovedâhim startled because it was a little before my time and me startled because of the violence. He should hate the violence, I know, yet somehow he agrees when I list it in my top ten of all time. He tells me he has dreams about Clarice Starling coming to save him, and Iâm so startled he would cast himself as the girl in the well that for a moment I canât say anything.
Iâm too busy imagining myself with a gun drawn, telling him that everything is going to be okay now. Just stay quiet, the other agents are on their way , I see myself saying, and by the time I come back to the conversation heâs already halfway through plans to see it at the Tennenbaum. âI havenât been to the movies in years,â he says in this wistful sort of voice, and after that I can hardly say no.
But once weâve sat in that sultry darkness, I sort of wish I had.
For a start, the film is much sexier than I remember it being. The conversations between Lecter and Starling take on an oddly seductive note that Iâm sure wasnât there beforeâthough if Iâm honest, it might not be there now. My radar for this sort of thing has just been fine-tuned; Iâm so aware of everything even remotely erotic that I see it in a serial killer casually chatting to a rookie agent.
And then there are the seats in here. Were they so close together before? Iâm absolutely certain they werenât, when I last visited with the guy from accounting. At the very least the seats had arms, yet somehow they donât seem to now. There is nothing between us but empty air, and that empty air is starting to crackle again before Clarice has even gotten to the disembodied head in a jar.
God knows where I will be by the time the third act hits. My whole body feels alive to his every move, even though his moves are all utterly tiny and insignificant. He scratches his elbow. He shifts a little in his seat. He checks his watch.
Oh, and he also presses his leg right into mine .
There I am waiting for another miniscule movement, and suddenly I have the entire length of his right thigh pushing into my left one. I can feel the seam of his jeans and the place where muscle gives way to bone, and absolutely none of it feels like an accident. If it was an accident, would he keep the limb there long after weâve both acknowledged that this is going on? Would he keep staring straight at the screen as though nothing has happened?
I glance at him for some kind of confirmation, and I know he feels me doing it. Yet he wonât look in my direction. And he doesnât move away. Quite the contraryâafter one long agonizing minute of this new kind of contact, he shifts his leg up and down in a way that only makes things worse. It presses his thigh so tightly to mine I probably couldnât get a penny between us, and when he does so something else happens.
My skirt ruffles up.
My skirt ruffles almost all the way up . Another inch and he could probably see panties, if he happened to glance down. Suddenly I can feel denim against the bare and far-too-sensitive skin of my thigh, and I have almost no idea what to do with the sensation. My body wants to process it as exciting and arousing, but my brain keeps reminding me that Iâm not supposed to. He doesnât want me to.
So why is he rubbing his leg against mine?
Because that is definitely what he seems to be doing. He has exposed an expanse of skin, and is currently stroking that skin in the most casual way possible. His leg just sort of rocks in this slow, maddening circle, until that one point
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