For the thrill, if for no other reason
For the thrill, if for no other reason
September 28, 2024
Today, I am a flasher. My skirt is too short. My heels are too high. I am exposing too much. But, this is what I do.
On the train, I made eye contact with a man who made eye contact with me. I sat Queen Elizabeth style (knees together, legs at an angle). I made attempts to raise my skirt, but never actually did. He knew I was teasing him. He tried to look without looking at me. He looked through me. He pretended to focus on the person to my left as he scanned to my right. I timed my hand to touch the hem when his scan synchronized with me.
He expected to see something. He didn’t. But he almost did. It was enough to keep his attention until I departed. He seemed happy. He has a memory that he can augment any way he wants. By the time he turns 50, he will recall the conquest of visually deflowering me, succumbing to both his charm and his manly wiles.
As I began window shopping, I viewed a few college aged men within my proximity. I took the time to remove my lipstick and mirror. I applied a small finishing coat, puckered, and blew them a kiss and a smile. At that moment, the wind blew around my skirt causing it to billow, but not uplift. It was enough to melt them where they stood. I actually enjoyed this encounter and wondered why they did not pursue it.
I must be losing my touch.
Or perhaps not.
I let my hand trace the opening of my top across my décolletage as I sat in the restaurant for lunch. This caught the eye of a lovely woman who must have been on the same voyage as I. She crossed and recrossed her legs for my viewing pleasure. I responded likewise. As her hem rose, I (almost) leered at the welts of her stockings and how they shimmered in the morning sun. I thanked her with some heavy breathing, exaggerating my inhalation and exhalation as if orgasmic.
The ball was now in her court. She lowered her hands to her thighs, covered by a linen napkin, to make the adjacent onlookers believe she was rubbing herself to match my breathing.
I ran my tongue over my lips and called for the waiter.
He brought her an Old Fashioned. He brought me a vodka martini. I signaled for her to come to my table. During the next hour, we exchanged all pertinent information so as to include her tips to seduce from afar and my absent minded look when the wind actually does raise my hemline.
A kindred spirit at heart, worthy of an entire month of proximity, but only a few minutes of quality time. I paid the bill as she ran her hand across mine. It was a display for the waiter, requiring him to look up the dictionary definition of turgidity to explain his stammering and discomfort.
Well worth the thrill, if for no other reason.