Playfully His

Chapter 01: To Have Resolve

Note: The events in this series are based on real experiences, which have been somewhat condensed and altered to allow for presentation as a story.

*

My landlord, Ron, is replacing the sink in my bathroom, and so, as nature calls, he has me use the bathroom downstairs in his apartment. But I am not content to just use the bathroom—I am also snooping a little. Something draws me to do it—I am not normally a snoop—I think it is despicable. Something about this strong, quiet, easy-going man has stirred up this uncharacteristic behavior in me.

In the mirrored cabinet, shaving gear, a hair brush, a bottle of aspirin, first-aid stuff, bars of soap, all neatly ordered. In a small linen cabinet, towels and sheets folded and in place. Beneath that, an opening concealed by a curtain, behind it a laundry basket—some discarded articles in it. Blue jeans and a denim shirt—the clothes he wears to work—and socks, boxers, and a tee shirt. Moving the curtain further aside in my act of snooping brings to me a faint scent of him. The scent tugs at me, draws me toward wanting to know it better.

What is wrong with me? How can I be so disrespectful? What kind of a person would be so nosey about a man's laundry, looking at his used underwear, even wanting to smell the scent they hold? I turn away, feeling somewhat ashamed.

On the back of the bathroom door, belts hang by their buckles from evenly placed hooks, mostly various belts for slacks, arranged by style. At the end is an empty hook, probably for the belt he is now wearing. On a separate hook by itself, a brown, well-worn, wide leather belt, maybe for wearing to his job in construction, shiny on the flat surface and rough at the edges. I touch it, explore its texture with my fingertips.

Oh, this is so silly! "What is wrong with you? You despicable snoop! This is not like anything you would normally do." Silly—but also strangely exciting.

I am about to pull open his bathroom door to leave his apartment and go back upstairs. But I stop for just a moment—look quickly behind the curtain into the basket again. Just for a moment, just for a quick moment, I tell myself. I reach for the tee shirt. I hold it, feeling the cotton. I hold it to my face and breath through the material.

"Stop it!" Something about doing this, secretly smelling him—does it mean I am suddenly crazy? I throw it back into the basket, close the curtain, and turn away from it.

I stand still, waiting to calm down, letting my breath come back to normal. Feeling silly, ashamed—and excited.

I touch the crude brown belt on the door again. I draw it away from where it hangs, loop it outward, draw it up to my face, brush my cheek with its rough edge, and gently touch my skin with it. My nostrils flare, savoring the belt's many wonderfully-mingled aromas.

"Enough! Get control of yourself, girl! No waiting to calm down—just get out of here!" Able to break the spell, I quickly leave his apartment.

I am back upstairs. The landlord, Ron, looks at me a little funny for just an instant, as he puts a wrench to a pipe under the new sink he is installing in my bathroom. "I hope you found everything you needed, Audrey" he says.

"Oh, sure," I reply.

Does he know? I hope it is not obvious. Is the expression on my face a give-away?. I did not merely use the bathroom in his downstairs apartment—I also invaded his privacy. Is he able to tell?

As he is working under my bathroom sink, looking over at me, I am acutely aware that I am not good at hiding my feelings. Being fair-skinned, I blush easily. I worry that he can read it in my face, in the way I am not looking directly at him since coming back upstairs, or in how I keep looking away.

"How's the new sink coming along? Can I do anything to help?" I say, trying to divert suspicion.

"Almost finished. Very kind of you to ask," he smiles.

You wouldn't figure my landlord to be a construction supervisor if you went by personality stereotypes. Ron is a physically strong, powerfully built man, yet also soft-spoken and cordial. "Yes, you can help. You can turn the wrench for me while I hold the trap."

He sits cross-legged in front of the sink. He slides over a little to give me a small space between him and the wall, where I squat down.

"Better if you kneel," he says. "Distribute your weight more evenly."

I kneel and grab onto the handle of the wrench, which he already put in place. He reaches in to grip the trap in both hands, his muscles flexing under sleeves rolled up to just past the elbows. I have never been this close to him.

"Pull back on the wrench," he says, "but don't use your arms to do the pulling. Just lean away, so you are letting your own weight do the work. Use your arms and wrists just for control. The idea is, don't kill it, but don't pamper it either."

The supervisor in him is coming out now. His instructions are very clear and precise, his gentle voice assuming a matter-of-fact tone.

The nut turns for me, first easily, then meeting resistance. He crouches further down into the work, powerful hands transforming into grisly vises that grip the shiny pipe. As I continue to pull back, we touch. It is almost imperceptive, blue denim fabric at the top of his shoulder brushing lightly my light cotton short sleeve at the underside of my outstretched arm. We continue to touch, he crouched forward, I slightly behind and above him. I feel his heat. I wonder if he feels mine.

"Just a little more," he says. I pull, and he resists my pull, as we work against each other in order to seal the connection, creating a tension between us. I feel strength in his grip through the handle of my wrench, and I know he can feel my tug through his hands on the pipe. I lower myself slightly, to make the direction of my effort more level.

That causes us to touch more solidly now. I am surprised that his shoulder is soft, supple, yet underlying that, muscular firmness. My arm seems so slender sticking out of the white cotton sleeve, so feminine in contrast to the male physique flexing from inside blue denim. I lower myself more—not to gain any advantage on the wrench—I want to feel more of him. My arm presses deeper into that deceptive softness now, engaging more of his firmness there, almost boulder-like.

He is all business. All work. "Now we both ease off—good," he pronounces.

I remove the wrench from the nut. I allow its weight to draw my hand down. My relaxed arm drapes over his shoulder for a fleeting instant until he takes the wrench from me. He sits up straight again. A ghost of sensation lingers at the underside of my arm where we were touching, We stay put for a moment, not saying anything, maybe feeling a little awkward being so close to each other, having touched. Closeness floods me with awareness of him, of his heat, of his smell. I remember my snooping and feel myself flush with shame.

He smiles and says I did well, thanking me. His face is close to mine, his breath touches my cheek. I tell him I often helped my dad around the house while growing up. Because we are so close, I speak softly, and to me my voice sounds almost sultry. Is that what he thinks? I feel more shame at the way I am behaving without really meaning to.

He slides out, away from the sink, and stands. I stand with him, feeling myself flush again, maybe from the exertion of standing, but also from rising awareness of my feelings. From down deep, in a secret place—well, some kind of stirring. I've experienced it before, something quite different than simple attraction. I am attracted to my boyfriend, Todd, but this is something different. A feeling more powerful than that, like a sense of being exposed—almost like stage fright. Or shame. Or the humiliation of knowing I was snooping. If he ever should find out somehow, I will die! But that is so silly—how would he ever find out?

In the kitchen I pour iced tea for us, while in the bathroom he runs water and tests the plumbing. He comes into the kitchen, that male swagger guys have when they know they've accomplished something.

Between gulps of tea he explains how once a month he adds something of value to his property. "So, you see, I didn't give you a new sink just to be a nice guy," he says, his face aglow. "This place is an investment, not just a rental income generator."

I am thinking that just a moment ago, we were under the sink together, touching. His shoulder against my arm—or my arm upon his shoulder—and I felt his heat and savored his smell—nothing artificial, no cologne or deoderant, just a slight scent of soap, and all the rest was him—and he must have felt my heat. Am I giving off any scent? Does it attract him at all? I hope he likes my smell as much as I like his. My liking his smell—well, it seems kind of naughty somehow, which enhances my liking it all the more. And now, as we stand in the kitchen, a comfortable physical space separates us, my senses continue to buzz. They are like a beehive awakened by the spring sun.

Oh, what is wrong with me! On the outside, I nod and smile as he speaks. But inside, some kind of primitive inclinations quiver.

He is looking at me in a funny way again. Like he is seeing into me, for just an instant. He stops talking. I am supposed to be saying something, anything, to carry on my half of the conversation, but my mind has gotten tangled in some kind of sensual undergrowth, thinking of him, his neat orderliness, his belts, his heat, his smell, the touch of his shoulder on the underside of my arm. He sees me looking at the belt on his jeans, wide brown leather like the one on the door, but a newer version.

I feel so naughty looking at his belt. What must he think of me? I must say something. To end the awkwardness, I motion toward the front room. "Would you like to sit a minute? No reason to run back downstairs immediately, is there?"

"Sure, I can spare a minute."

We take our iced tea with us. He sits on the sofa and I on the bentwood rocker, a favorite possession I brought from home.

I feel a stronger need to dispel awkwardness. I laugh. "I noticed your belts," I blurt.

He looks puzzled.

"On the back of the door when I used your bathroom downstairs."

"Oh," he says and smiles, still unsure.

"So neatly arranged," I explain, trying to make up a reason why I would have said such a thing. "I like neatness also."

It works. He smiles fully. "Yes, I noticed you are very neat," he says, complimenting me as he looks around.

"Zelda is a bit of a slob," I laugh, mentioning my apartment mate who is gone for the weekend. "But we have an agreement that, as long as she keeps her mess confined to her bedroom, I don't say anything."

As we talk, I realize that out of habit I have been moving the rocking chair at a slight rhythm. The motion causes the material of my sweats to lightly move against me, alerting me to the early budding of arousal. What is wrong with me? Why can't I just sit here and enjoy a civil conversation with this man? The cotton fabric of my tee shirt also moves ever so slightly over my breasts. I stop the rocker and remain still. I am aware that dew is beginning to form. Something catches his eye. My framed team photo on the wall. "So, you play basketball?"

"I did. High school," I say, happy to be distracted. "I was good, but I'm not good enough for the team here at the university."

"You certainly look like you could play," his eyes passing over my body in a modest kind of way, careful not to leer.

I'm without underwear. Suppose my dewy arousal shows through the sweats—a spot of moisture—maybe a whole patch of moisture. I have to concentrate. I have to get away from this train of thought.

I stand and turn toward the photo, away from him momentarily, and covertly pull at my pant legs to draw any bunched material away from my center. I glance down. No spot. That's a relief! I also pull down the long end of my loose tee shirt to cover me there. Then, turning back to him, as an excuse for having stood up, I name all my teammates and coaches, pointing them out for him.

He stands up and looks at the picture. "You are certainly tall enough," he says, returning to the subject of my playing, eyeing my stature. "About five-ten, I would guess."

"Ten and a half. Five-ten and a half, when barefoot."

He nods. He stands about six feet.

As he takes another drink of tea and steps closer to the picture, I allow my eyes to wonder over him. He is a mature male, in his thirties I am guessing, very physically fit. His shirt does not hide his shape. He has hard looking muscles—not bulging the way they do on a body builder—but solidly formed in slab-like layers by long experience with hard work.

When he looks at me, I smile, realizing how childish it is to say, "Five ten and a half," like a kid trying to be a half inch taller . I must try to be more adult. "Oh, yes," I now say, "I'm tall enough, and quick enough, and a good shot from just about anywhere. But at the college level you really get bumped around, and I just don't have the strength for that. I don't have the beef," I laugh and he smiles.

He looks me over again. Discussion of my playing potential has given his eyes permission to linger. I feel like I was given permission also—to feel the pleasure of his attention—to let him look. To wonder how he finds me. Am I attractive? Tall and athletic, but slender, my feminine features are subdued and subtle. He has looked twice at my breasts, and now he returns to them a third time. They are small, and although nicely shaped when visible, their form does not present much to look at from within this loose-fitting cotton shirt. The material drapes over them, offering just a hint. I know many men find that attractive, being teased by the suggestion of form that is not obvious. Is he one of them? I feel my nipples firming. I am afraid to sneak a look down to see if they are poking out, tenting my loose shirt. He looks a little too long, and I detect a slight flush in his face as he looks away, thinking he's been caught staring. Well, he has, and I have been caught with hardened nipples, and feel a flush in my own face that matches his.

We are quiet for a while. We both focus on the basketball photo, as if really interested in it, as a way of diverting attention from the discomfort of having enjoyed looking and being looked at.

"I'm wondering," he says. "Why are you the only one in uniform who is also wearing a tee shirt underneath it? Nobody else is."

"I know this is going to sound silly," I roll my eyes. "I don't shave. When I went out for the team in my freshman year, I was still a kid, so it was not very noticeable, and nobody said anything. But by the next season, I had become more mature physically and the coach grew insistent that I do something before she would ever put me into a game. One of my teammates suggested I wear a sleeved tee shirt."

He nods and continues to look at the photo for a moment. "I guess that was kind of a nosey question, wasn't it. I'm sorry."

Nosey? Not anywhere near as nosey as me snooping—looking at his private things, sniffing his tee shirt, and feeling his belt. And, here he is apologizing.

"Oh, not at all. I don't mind, really. If I were offended by that, I would have to be one superficial chick," I laugh. "A complete waste of time and energy to be that way."

He smiles. "A great attitude," he says. "You want to focus only on what's important—no doubt that characteristic made you very valuable to the team."

Here we are, having a conversation like two civil adults, and the dew I was aware of earlier now transforms into a blossom of moisture. I am so primitive, like I just climbed down out of the trees, regressing into a primitive self, where ancient instincts reside. We are standing close together now, and I feel his heat again, and smell his scent, and feel so ashamed—and yet feel so alive and alert.

Focus. That's what we were talking about, and now I need to do that. "I was not always a good team player," I say, responding to his comment, my words and voice keeping my expressions occupied so they do not reveal the turmoil inside.

"How so?"

"Let's just say I've been know to be a teensy stubborn."

He laughs. "In my experience, most people who are focused are also stubborn. Nothing wrong with that. I think a better word is resolve. You just have to know when to have resolve. Of course, you also have to know when not to." He is looking at the photo.

"So, I should have shaved."

He looks at me, puzzled.

"To be a team player," I say, a self-defensive strain in my voice, remembering how angry the coach had been at my stubbornness. "I should have shaved because everyone else did and the coach wanted me to. Everybody said hair visible under my arms, even little wisps of blonde hair like mine, would only cause a distraction from our game. Opposing players would make comments, and opposing spectators catcalls. Besides, any girl who ever plays sports always shaves any body hair that can be seen. Everybody knows that."

I stop talking in the face of his cross expression. "Actually, that was the furthest thing from my mind," he says matter-of-factly. "Why would such a thing even matter? So, wear a tee shirt if you don't want to shave—end of story."

Oops. I'm embarrassed. "Of course, such a thing does not matter at all. And here I thought you were talking about that. It seems to be so very important to a lot of people. I am sorry for assuming that of you. I had no right."

He smiles again, but now he looks at me like I am a child. "And you are the girl who focuses on what is important," he laughs. My face burns. I can be so silly sometimes. Again, I am aware of the odd effect my own shame is having on me. I sneak a glance down and see my nipples are definitely poking out. They are small, but enough to tent my shirt a little, betraying my arousal. That only deepens my shame—which only heightens my arousal. Oh, what is wrong with me?

We drink the last of our tea, and go to the kitchen. He pours his ice cubes into the sink, rinses out the glass, and places it on the counter. Then he takes my glass and does the same with it. "Thanks for the iced tea," he says and smiles.

I thank him for rinsing the glasses. I wonder how many guys would have just put their glass down in the front room—leave it for the woman to pick up afterward. I am grateful that he has stopped looking at me like I'm a kid. I bask in his pleasant expression. I find myself moving closer to him. I want to feel his heat again. I want to smell him. I want—what? I cannot define it, nor identify it, as it wells up from deep inside.

"You are right," I say. I have no thought of what I am agreeing to. I just want to acquiesce.

He is quiet. He looks into my eyes. He can read me. He is like R2D2 plugged into a port, reading files, downloading me. I cannot look away. What now? I lean closer. I don't mean to. I just do. He looks into me. I lean into him. Then he suddenly backs away.

"Uh, oh," he says in a hoarse whisper, his breath ragged, looking away. "You are my tenant. Not a good idea. And, don't you have a boyfriend?"

"Yes. He is a friend." My breath has lost its natural rhythm. I take his hand in mine—it is sinuous and rough and callused—and place his fingertips on my cheek.

He looks very serious. He clears his throat, and in that supervisor's tone says, "Audrey, it's really not a good idea." But he lets me keep his fingertips there.

The stern manner of his voice only incites a new flood of sensations deep down. His eyes are into my eyes again. Now they are gentle, not probing. He is accepting what he sees there.

"I know," I finally answer in a whisper, and I step to him and place my cheek on his shoulder, my face turned away from his. His shoulder is round and firm with a softness to its surface. The shoulder of a man. A man who works hard and knows who he is. I just want to melt into him. Oh, what is wrong with me?