Her lips moved me.
I mean that quite literally.
If I so much as thought (think) about her lips, my cock moved. (Moves.)
I sat in a room, with 50 others, awaiting her arrival. She didn’t know about her power over me. She didn’t understand the role she played in my mind, in my body.
I saved a seat next to me. My anxiety mounted as the start time for the event approached, and passed. At t+2, I contemplated texting her. “Should I save you a seat?” I composed the text in my mind. I typed it on my phone. Deleted it. Typed it again.
The room was filling up. I was anxious. Would I have to defend the seat?
In the event, I didn’t. She arrived, at t+4. And she sat in front of me. I was simultaneously wounded and flattered. I pretended I hadn’t been saving her seat. She almost certainly didn’t realize I had.
My conflict was in full flower. My desire for her was, profoundly, perverse. On a fundamental level it was not her, as a human, that I desired. Rather, it was her, as an object. A 3-dimensional object, to be sure: an intelligent, attractive, intriguing object. But an object. I imagine/d deploying her for my gratification. (And, I imagine/d she would have enjoyed being so deployed. And what’s worst of all: I’m not sure I was/am wrong.)
In any event. She sat. In front of me. I watched her squirm, as the event unfolded. It was an erotic event. Neither of us imagined it would be so. I’m pretty sure she was wet. I know I was hard. The day after, we texted. Maybe ten times, back and forth. With longer e-mails in the mix, as well. About how we had been wet, and hard – without ever using those words.
Here’s the crushing thing – it all was dreadfully, deadeningly, appropriate.