The last sane bloke in Chicago

The Touch (A Fantasy), Part I

You tried it again. You tried to touch me and I smoothly avoided it while looking like I had no idea you even attempted it.

I can be smooth like that. I know you want to touch me again. The first time you did, it took you 3 tries in an hour, I was so good at avoiding it. When your hand finally fell on my back as we walked, I could hear the sizzle that went from your palm, up your arm, into your shoulder, and through your torso. I smiled inside, but my outside was completely smooth.

That second touch took you longer. You managed to snag the cuff of my dress shirt (epic fail reach for the hand), you almost touched my neck but my mop of hair got in the way. When I grabbed you to lift you off your feet, your hands almost made it around my back but I dumped you down, stepped backwards, and asked what you were doing jumping on me like that.

I laughed and turned away. You laughed too, but I could see the look of chagrin on your face, peripherally.

Why do you want to touch me so bad? What do I have to offer you that the other guys harassing you with late night texts and daytime emails don't? They're attractive men or boys, they sort of have a good way of pretending to have their shit together. They've slept with far more women than I have, and you still keep them around. Why aren't you going after them on this gorgeous afternoon? It makes little sense.

Maybe it's because you know I'm avoiding your hands. Sometimes I make it obvious, but most of the time, I don't.

So when you finally push me against a wall and grab my hands, I can see that all the waiting and teasing was worth it. The look in your eyes of anger and frustration and domination melts when I pull you towards me and you kiss me. Is that the touch you're waiting for? The way your body falls limp in my arms leads me to believe it's part of it, but not everything.

When we break from The Kiss, you try to grab my hands but I pull them behind my back, spin away from the wall, and ask you what is taking you so long, we'll be late, get your ass in gear, little girl. There's that face of anger, of frustration, of the desire to dominate me. Not now, little girl.

I can tell you want to scream "I'm a woman," but you know how much I laugh at people that have to use words to explain what they are. It's one reason I don't explain what I do for a living. Words are unimportant. You increase the speed of your step, and when I hear your footfalls are closer I walk faster. We're almost there.

The show was fun. You stood slightly behind me, to my left. I noticed, peripherally again, that your eyes went from the band to my face and back. I never turned around to look. When I felt your body step forward to be closer to me, I turned quickly and said I would go get another round of drinks. There's that face again. Your hand pops up to touch my arm when you say thank you, but I turned and walked too quickly. Another epic fail for you.

We leave the show and you're looking perplexed. I ask if I should hail you a cab as we approach my car. It's obvious what you want and who should give it to you. Or are you taking the cab to meet up with him later? I forgot. I am forgetful, but I didn't forget this. You had late plans, and I am just fine with taking my leave and finding another place to retreat to. You bite your lip, look down at your shoes. If you prefer, I can wait with you here. You know I don't drive women to meet guys. Ever.

"Can we hang out more?" you finally ask. If that's what you want, but I'd hate for you to do this to me if I was the guy waiting for you later. Go see him. I'll be around, we'll hang out again.

You step forward to give me a hug but I unlock my car door and open it. Be safe, and have some fun! No hug. No kiss. Just a wink and I'm in my car. My engine is on before you can say anything, but my window is closed anyway. You wander off and find your own cab.

The date with him wasn't as good as it intended. He pawed at you, grabbed at you, said inappropriate things that sounded funny at first but thinking back were completely a doofus showing his card at a high stakes poker table. He's really not that manly. Sexy, maybe. Attractive, for sure. But he's a wimp on the inside. His muscles could possibly harm my body, but my mind and my depth and my attention to details would leave him panting, bloody, and broken. There's no match for a man, not this man.

When you texted me at 11, I ignored it. You tried hitting me up on chat, I closed the window on my phone. I'm having fun, with a new friend, in some random bar. Finally, you call. I answer. "I'm free, want to come by?" I'm busy, but how about next Tuesday? "Oh. If you free up tonight, just come over." We'll see. Good night.

I could hear your voice cringe at the thought that I might end up in someone else's bed. Maybe she's more feminine, or prettier, or wears nicer clothes. Maybe her tits are bigger (or better yet, smaller). Maybe she shed that tummy fat now instead of 4 weeks from now. Maybe she's a woman, what if I think you're just a girl?

I really don't, We all have issues, we all have frustrations, we all have needs and desires and goals that aren't being met. I'm just better at looking past those problems myself. I'm not Mr. Perfect. I'm not Mr. Right. I'm not Mr. Everything. I'm Sane, and you know me by the way I walk and talk and smile and listen.

I decide to bail on Little Miss Better Than You, so I call you at midnight. You answer in 1 ring. Desperate much? I'm on my way, I hope you're not too tired. You sound it, and I mention that.

I get there and you're nursing a cup of coffee instead of the usual shitty beer you like to drink when you're down. Your eyes are awake, your makeup was recently touched up, and your hair looks fantastic. My hands are behind my back and I display two DVDs for you to choose from. You look at both and smile weakly. Movie night! "Oh, ok."

I sit on the single chair in your living room, leaving the huge, big, make-out-friendly couch for you. Your throw your feet over, aiming at me, and we put in a DVD. I watch, still noticing you watching me. "Do you want to sit over here?" I'm comfortable in the chair, you relax, you need it. "Oh, I don't mind." You deserve it. "Oh." Back to watching the movie.

I offer to pour a glass of wine, but you have none. Beer doesn't do my body justice, so I grab a bottle of water from your fridge and ask if you want anything. When I bring you a glass of cold, filtered water and put it on the table in front of you, your hand covers the hand I have on the glass. I look at your face, and as my hand leaves the glass you pull me down to you, on top of you, covering you. Instead of kissing you, I look at your face, giving you my best isn't-that-cute face. Your face shows stronger anger, desire, need than ever before. Your hands run up my entire body, over my shoulders and neck to my face. You pull me in for another kiss, maybe bigger and better than The Kiss, because you needed this so badly. Why don't people give you what you need, instead taking what they want?

We kiss until you can't stand it anymore. You try to remove my clothes, your clothes, anything that will allow you to touch me much closer, much more intimately. I refuse, pushing your hands above your head, holding them down so you can't remove anything. I kiss you again, then work my mouth down to a button that I deftly remove with my teeth and lips alone. You moan.

I have to remove my hands from your hands, blue from the force I used to keep you at bay. As I move down your torso, slowing removing buttons, you try to force your hands down further to do it yourself. I almost bite your hand in punishment for you moving too quickly. Finally, your work shirt opens, and I work my way back up your body, staying as close to the middle with my lips as possible. Can you even feel my lips, touching so softly as to possibly go unnoticed? Your breathing proves you do.

As I get closer to you, I fend off your hands from my side, from my chest, from my back. I move my face up to yours, and finally allow you to touch my face and my neck, to pull me into you. I accept your kisses, and start to kiss back myself.

"I want to take my shirt off." I already did. "No, completely off." Ok. Close your eyes when you do. You close your eyes, and remove your shirt. You also remove your bra, eyes still closed. I push my body against yours, my chest now unclothed as well. You open your eyes and I kiss you for the first time. Your hands touch my back and you shudder; this time I don't force you away.

To Be Continued in Part II

Posted by ChicagoSane at 4:30 PM

Labels: fantasy, tease, touching