his face.
"Please," I offered, convinced his lips would not move, regardless of
the response.
"When
was the last time you were with a man?" I both heard and watched him ask.
His eyes looked up and found mine from twenty feet away, melting me all over my
chair. I looked away, searching frantically for anything else in the room.
"It's
okay," he said.
I fixed my
gaze on the exit and took another sip of my drink, afraid to make any sudden
moves as he continued.
“Since when
is stalking okay?” I found the breath to ask.
"I'm
new in town. I saw you for the first time just twenty minutes ago as I stood
in line waiting for you to quit flirting with the coffee boy."
"How
did you get my number?" I asked.
"From
the business card you dropped as you were paying for your drink."
He was
right, by the way. Errol Flynn was exactly the movie star whose name I'd been
trying to pin on Ryan. My father's favorite movie was The Adventures of
Robin Hood. I should have recalled that
easily.
"What
do you want?" I asked.
"I want
you to answer my question," he said.
"I
don't remember it."
"When
was the last time you were with a man?" he reminded me.
My mind was
racing even as my body sat motionless, afraid in fact to move. Who asks
something like that of a total stranger? Why was he doing this? And why did
he have to be so damned attractive? He was attractive wasn't he? I can't make
myself look. Those eyes were too deep, too green. I can't risk another
glance.
"Has it
been more than a month?" he persisted.
"Yes,"
I found myself offering for no apparent reason.
"More
than a year?"
"I
don't know," I said, "Maybe."
"Then
it's been two years," he suggested.
"Yes,"
I said.
"Would
you look at me please?"
"No."
"Why
not."
"Because
I can't."
"Okay,
fine. Then just listen and breathe while I tell you what I'm looking at," he said, "Fair enough?"
"Maybe."
"I'm
looking at a smart, successful young woman in her late twenties who is in
danger of squandering the best years of her life. Judging by the small diamond
ring on her right hand, she married at an early age but it didn't work out.
She's tried to date a few times since then, but they were all too impatient,
too eager. And who could blame them? After all, they knew exactly what was
hiding inside that perfectly dry-cleaned jacket and skirt. They'd seen those
ripe, round breasts pressing against her designer blouse. They'd studied the contours
of her adorable, bubble-ass. Watched everything from drink straws to bananas
slide between her hungry lips, wishing their own stiff cocks could be so lucky.
But they can't, and they won't. Because she's too busy selling California
split-levels and two-story brick Tudors to make time for something so trivial
as entertaining men."
He paused
and I heard him take a sip of his own coffee.
"Am I
right?" he finally asked.
"Not
entirely," I said, "I'm allergic to bananas."
I heard him
chuckle just a little, making me feel every-so-slightly more comfortable.
"And
besides," I continued, "I'm not a complete prude."
"Prove
it," he said with renewed seriousness.
"And
how would I do that?" I asked, ignoring an incoming call from my office.
"Show
me the color of your panties," he suggested.
"What?
Here?" I asked, feeling my pussy become instantly moist.
I needed to
hang up. No, I needed to hang up, stand up, walk over to his table and douse
his $3,000 suit with hot coffee. Instead, I found myself standing up,
repositioning my chair about 45 degrees to the right and sitting back down, all
without looking away from that exit.
"You
should really try to look at me while you do this," he said.
"I
can't," I replied, "I'm sorry."
Sorry!
Sorry for what? Now I'm apologizing to a man who brazenly plucks my business
card off the floor, calls my phone and demands to see my panties? I'm supposed
to be a professional now. The days of fumbling around in the back seat with
awkward boys ended ten years ago. And, even then I never fully yielded
control. Never
"Please," I offered, convinced his lips would not move, regardless of
the response.
"When
was the last time you were with a man?" I both heard and watched him ask.
His eyes looked up and found mine from twenty feet away, melting me all over my
chair. I looked away, searching frantically for anything else in the room.
"It's
okay," he said.
I fixed my
gaze on the exit and took another sip of my drink, afraid to make any sudden
moves as he continued.
“Since when
is stalking okay?” I found the breath to ask.
"I'm
new in town. I saw you for the first time just twenty minutes ago as I stood
in line waiting for you to quit flirting with the coffee boy."
"How
did you get my number?" I asked.
"From
the business card you dropped as you were paying for your drink."
He was
right, by the way. Errol Flynn was exactly the movie star whose name I'd been
trying to pin on Ryan. My father's favorite movie was The Adventures of
Robin Hood. I should have recalled that
easily.
"What
do you want?" I asked.
"I want
you to answer my question," he said.
"I
don't remember it."
"When
was the last time you were with a man?" he reminded me.
My mind was
racing even as my body sat motionless, afraid in fact to move. Who asks
something like that of a total stranger? Why was he doing this? And why did
he have to be so damned attractive? He was attractive wasn't he? I can't make
myself look. Those eyes were too deep, too green. I can't risk another
glance.
"Has it
been more than a month?" he persisted.
"Yes,"
I found myself offering for no apparent reason.
"More
than a year?"
"I
don't know," I said, "Maybe."
"Then
it's been two years," he suggested.
"Yes,"
I said.
"Would
you look at me please?"
"No."
"Why
not."
"Because
I can't."
"Okay,
fine. Then just listen and breathe while I tell you what I'm looking at," he said, "Fair enough?"
"Maybe."
"I'm
looking at a smart, successful young woman in her late twenties who is in
danger of squandering the best years of her life. Judging by the small diamond
ring on her right hand, she married at an early age but it didn't work out.
She's tried to date a few times since then, but they were all too impatient,
too eager. And who could blame them? After all, they knew exactly what was
hiding inside that perfectly dry-cleaned jacket and skirt. They'd seen those
ripe, round breasts pressing against her designer blouse. They'd studied the contours
of her adorable, bubble-ass. Watched everything from drink straws to bananas
slide between her hungry lips, wishing their own stiff cocks could be so lucky.
But they can't, and they won't. Because she's too busy selling California
split-levels and two-story brick Tudors to make time for something so trivial
as entertaining men."
He paused
and I heard him take a sip of his own coffee.
"Am I
right?" he finally asked.
"Not
entirely," I said, "I'm allergic to bananas."
I heard him
chuckle just a little, making me feel every-so-slightly more comfortable.
"And
besides," I continued, "I'm not a complete prude."
"Prove
it," he said with renewed seriousness.
"And
how would I do that?" I asked, ignoring an incoming call from my office.
"Show
me the color of your panties," he suggested.
"What?
Here?" I asked, feeling my pussy become instantly moist.
I needed to
hang up. No, I needed to hang up, stand up, walk over to his table and douse
his $3,000 suit with hot coffee. Instead, I found myself standing up,
repositioning my chair about 45 degrees to the right and sitting back down, all
without looking away from that exit.
"You
should really try to look at me while you do this," he said.
"I
can't," I replied, "I'm sorry."
Sorry!
Sorry for what? Now I'm apologizing to a man who brazenly plucks my business
card off the floor, calls my phone and demands to see my panties? I'm supposed
to be a professional now. The days of fumbling around in the back seat with
awkward boys ended ten years ago. And, even then I never fully yielded
control. Never
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