“Go to the men’s room and do it there, thinking of me,” she
told me, and like a submissive following a directive of a goddess, I do, climbing
in the one stall on the third floor because I was scared to be seen going into
the one near the owner’s office on the first.
But even as I stroked it, I kept waiting for someone else to
come in, the stall door having gaps that allowed anyone to see me with it in my
hand, worse, could hear the slap of flesh on flesh, and eventually the moan
when it spurted in my hand, all this she wanted me to describe in detail when I
got back to my desk.
Even back then, I knew just how much more experienced she
was in these things, how to turn on a man like me like a light switch, and
leaving me to sputter when not turned off.
She had asked other men to do these things, had them cradling
their manhood in public space for her amusement, asking us to take a picture
with our cell phones just to prove we had done what she told us to do, and even
as old as I was, older than she, I felt like a kid, unable to fully grasp her
intentions, or deal with the self-torture these things forced me to inflict upon
myself, my imagination painting an even more vivid picture of what was possible
and how far we might go, and how she might tell me to go there, in public, or
in the dead of night.
No comments:
Post a Comment