Between the Sheets

J grabbed my hand this evening. My hands are small and fair skinned, with short, manicured nails. J’s hands are at least twice the size of mine. We laugh that I can make a fist and his fist fits over mine, completely covering my hand. He brought my hand gently to his face as he knelt at the couch. It was his way of making me stop what I was doing for a moment, a brush of intimacy.

He could tell even though I’ve washed dishes and taken a bath since then that I touched myself today. Many times, actually. I detest and am turned on by that uncanny ability he has to detect my scent in a room or on me in some way. I became immediately self-conscious and coy about it. That little dance we do despite all of these years of catching me in this situation. He asked my fantasy—what I thought about as I played.

Was I thinking of an old lover? Was I thinking of an encounter we’ve had together? Was I thinking of a party we’ve been to? Was I fantasizing about him?

No, no, no and no.

I think he was slightly disappointed at those answers, though I’m not sure which was the most frustrating. He is very much a voyeur and we do tend to relive our experiences in great detail together.

When I encapsulated my fantasy in a sentence for him, dismissing the conversation, he said, “Oh, you’re lying.�

“You aren’t?�

He was shocked to hear that I was envisioning myself walking up to a hotel room door, knocking and being let in. I wasn’t asked my name. We’d already exchanged that on the phone. It was a lunch encounter designed to be quick, random and anonymous. The man was stocky, though not overweight. He wore a dress shirt with the collar unbuttoned and dress pants. He shoes, tie, and coat were draped on the bed. They were safe there. We weren’t going to be anywhere near the bed.

masturbation, orgasm, fantasy, sex, oral sex, fellatio