Crossing The Line 47

Crossing The Line, A Married Woman's Tale.

Years ago, when my life collapsed and I had nothing left, a person told me a poem they had written. Although it had nothing to do with me, the context was there, whereupon my memories could be substituted. So I rewrote her poem using my own memories and in some way, it helped me to survive.

Now, I am not here to offer up the plagiarized bones of someone else's genius, but to share what I learned from it. You see, we, as people, collect stuff to remember the past and store it away. While the poem suggests that the real treasure of remembrance comes not from the stuff, but the actual memories and sharing of. This then leads me to the sharing of my memories so that these stories and lessons are not lost...

I once knew a lady CFO, who worked for a moving company, and every day she dressed in a casual way; suited to the working environment; except, of course, when she had some special plan either after work or excused early departures.

Sometimes, they were tagged as doctors appointments or business meetings, but it didn't take Einstein to figure out these were covers. On these days, she dressed to the nines; figure-flattering dresses, sheer stockings, makeup, and every conceivable effort to present the most favourable impression. You knew, or at least suspected, she was job hunting, but boy when she dolled up, the reaction was always a resounding 'Wow!'

Certainly on the surface of it, we all might take that for granted, but presented before me, those rare moments spoke of something more. Suddenly, she became a fantasy, work suffered, sleep suffered and thoughts constantly imagined scenarios where touch, pleasure and response were encouraged.

One day, she was in one of these moments of excellence, but her meeting, interview or intended reaction had not gone well. Everything seemed to go wrong on this day, stuff at the office, her car and let's say interview, all went sour. She needed to talk with someone; just an innocent moment to vent - and beyond my understanding, she chose me.

It came out of the blue. She asked me to come to her office, and immediately, two things happened. I feared what this was all about, and at getting to be close to her on this most precious of days.

Had I been fired? Had someone learned of my secret obsession and ratted me out? There was no telling, but there was also no hesitation; any moment, no matter the reason, it had to be cherished; as a beginning or as a glimpse at my private world unfolding into reality.

For her, there was no realization of what her transformation had and continued to do to me. She just needed to bend someone's ear, and perhaps, if one looked with an imaginary light of kindness, my opinion or wisdom. When she asked me to close the door to her office, both scenarios played out in my head. I was being let go for some unwarranted reason and she needed privacy to speak of this. Or, she wanted to ask me about why my eyes lit up so inappropriately when she dressed professionally, and why my thoughts became erotic, wild and relentless.

For me, it all came down to I was going to be alone with her. The reason mattered not, for I would have a chance to burn into my consciousness every detail. Imagine my thrill when it turned out I was not being terminated, and that she had chosen me for something more intimate. She needed someone to talk to about what was happening to her; about the company and maybe other stuff, but sadly, or perhaps wisely, she chose me.

From the moment I closed the door, I half listened and fully engaged. My thoughts were filled with questions, scenarios, worries, excitement, and yes, fear. I wondered how soundproof that door was? Would someone interrupt? How soft were her lips? Did they taste as good as they looked? Why did she have to sit behind her desk? It obscured my view of her heavenly legs.

You never really got to see those legs on normal days, but on these special days; with calves accentuated by unaccustomed stiletto heels and adorned in the finest of hosiery, they were the stuff of dreams. Was she wearing stockings or pantyhose? Sure, they were sheer, high-end quality and only enhanced the effect, but tiny details always made the difference.

Her story, I would recall, had sad tinges to it, so my mind asked, 'Could I stand and offer a hug?' Surely, she would see the sympathy in such a gesture, perhaps even feel better for a moment. If I did though, how could I manipulate it into a soft understanding shoulder massage? Yes, I thought, 'manipulate', I knew it was wrong, she was married, presumably happy, but she could be hiding deep secrets or desires.

I wondered if I could start it from a hug, delicately sliding my hands up her back to caress away the tension? Someone once told me a story about that; caressing a lady's back, as they danced and when the dance was over, her bra had mysteriously opened. Oh, not from a direct act, mind you, but just from the motion of his hands as they moved. Completely innocent, yet amusing, cute, which led to a relationship. Maybe that didn't have to apply here, or maybe, on some level, that was exactly what I wanted.

Would I be able to see the colour of her bra, or would I have to slowly shift my way behind her? Knowing the bra style and colour could also be extrapolated into identifying her panties as well. After all, if you went to all the effort to look as stunning as she did, they'd have to be a matched set. And yes, I was sure she had to be wearing panties; she was far too conservative to be slightly risky on a day when something important was, or had happened.

What did her hair smell like? How soft was it? How warm were her shoulders? Would she sigh if I kissed the nape of her neck?

Funny how something can quickly change from ordinary into extraordinary.

Would she strike out at an advance? Hurt me? Fire me? Would she have me arrested for sexual assault? Sadly, that last one played an important place in my life, and often became the deciding factor in rejecting any action.

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You see, I lack the conceptual understanding on when a compliment or action becomes offensive, so almost inevitably, I err on the side of don't. I ask you, in all honesty, is a kiss, caress, or comment instantly offensive, or is the initial act a grey zone, from which acceptance or rejection deems the status of further action?

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All I really knew was that, at this point, when years of fantasy had been mentally explored, simply getting rejected would ruin everything. I knew I was overthinking everything; I always did, but knowing never affected my reaction - it was always love, lust or a need deep within. If I had to label it, I would have to say it craved details, satisfaction, exploration, something new and unknown.

I knew I could not let her know she drove me crazy, so I listened, acknowledged, remembered, then forgot, and let her send me away. I reflected back on this moment often, it seemed to be my one chance in a lifetime of dreams and I just listened and walked away.

Regret is a powerful villain, it haunts and torments you everyday. What if? What if? Dammit I should know this or be able to learn it!

Let us shift now away from that moment to another. I was but eighteen at the time; inexperienced, curious, hungry and filled with wicked ideals. It was Super Bowl Sunday, and I had gotten roped into being a bartender for my dad's annual Super Bowl party. They had been going on as long as I could remember; with friends, co-workers, clients and who knows who else. Every year, I had been spared the horror of it, being too young, but this year, I was 'mature' and expected to help out. Sadly, my little brother had to come too, not because he too was mature, but because he would have been alone.

Twenty, fifty, a hundred drunks, laughing, cheering, talking too loud, too brash or with too much bravado. I didn't bother to count anything but the game clock, for when it finally ended, I would be free. I cared not for the food, guests, or conversation; I just wanted to escape, and then it happened.

One of the middle-aged salesmen came to the bar for his next round, but in addition to it, he asked that I prepare one for the wife of a client. He told me to make sure I made hers strong, and to keep them coming that way for the rest of the night because that's the way she wanted it; wink, wink, and I faltered.

My mind raced with its implications and calculations. Was this actually her request? Was he trying to get her so drunk he could have his way with her? What if I denied the request? What if I accepted it? Where did I stand on extra marital folly? It was a harsh responsibility thrown into my lap, which required an immediate choice.

I played the edge. I made the drink slightly stronger than normal, but far less than the salesman would have wanted, and I watched. I watched to whom he plied my liquid portent of inhibitions; watched how he hovered and spoke. Oh to be so fluid with words; I was envious.

My drinks for her gradually became stronger, but I lost interest in the salesman for I realized she was everything. Perhaps mid-thirties, Rubenesque, in a light summer dress even though this was January. Frumpy hosiery, slippered flats, curly, light-brown hair and full sensuous lips. She showed no sign of being drunk, or even noticing the ever increasing strength of my libations, but she laughed louder and was too far away to hear any real conversation.

At long last, the affair was over, and people began to scatter like leaves in a fall wind, but then the salesman suggested they continue at The Place. I knew of it, for I had always been a wanderer. It was a loud, high-end disco, and knowing this, I realized his plan. Dancing, drinking, he was certainly going to make his play there, but should I tell her? Should I follow and watch? There would be an element of eroticism in that, but also deep envy.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized this was my fault! I gave in at the crossroads; I had made my decision and must just let it be. Oh, how I didn't want the salesman to win, though. Perhaps, he would be too drunk to perform, I mused, he would get his nose busted by the irate husband, or she wouldn't want to go dancing.

Alas, all hopes were crushed as coats, boots and various accoutrements began to leave piles and form on bodies. I clearly heard her cheer for the disco, and then in her first sign of inebriation, she faltered putting on her boots.

She laughed and asked for help and I stood there like a sloth too slow or dim-witted to capitalize on an invitation. So, who else but the salesman, stepped in to assist and although an incredible amount of thigh appeared and squirmed, he was no more successful and she waved him off saying he was no better and far too drunk.

I was sure I smiled!

Honestly, my brain said volunteer to help, but my muscles either never heard, or ignored, the demand to move. In the end, only my eyes recorded every glorious inch of thigh and calf, as she resumed and completed the task. I knew once it was over, she would be gone, and either victim or willing participant, I had played my part.

This, however, was not the end; for as everyone was filing out the door, my dad interjected, "Could one of the parties take them home?"

This time, it was her husband who wedged in a decision before anyone else might. "Sure, we'd be happy to."

So moments later, I found myself squeezed in between a large office clerk and the Rubenesque wife in the back seat of his Dodge Monaco, while the husband, salesman and my little brother occupied the front.

With directions in hand, we began the tour. I knew it was about ten miles on dark, snow-covered streets, so it would take a while, and I struggled with asking to join them at the disco. I didn't dance, didn't drink, and hated all the loud noise, so in the end, that was easy.

Then a different thought crept in. She was drunk, cramped into a tight space and one way or another, was going to have a pass made at her, so what if I made it first! I could beat the salesman at his own game, and either reap the benefits, or place the prize on alert.

I argued with myself, giving all the reasons why I shouldn't. It would reflect poorly on my dad; car accident because husband found out when she screamed in shock; my poor brother too young to understand; arrested for sexual assault. But in the end, my choice was to do it! I reasoned she was going to be pawed at no matter what, and surely I couldn't compete with the likes of the salesman; I was a kid after all. But, I had youth, boundless energy, was sober, and more than that - I wanted to feel those legs.

I waited, working up my courage for about a mile more, when the darkness in the back seat was most encompassing, and I reached down to her booted leg. Slowly, I caressed up until the boot ended and I felt the thrill of nylon. No response.

I continued slipping delicately up her leg to her knee then moved my fingers along the side and underside to the soft flesh behind. No response.

I circled again, looking at her face fixed straight ahead seemingly unaware. My fingers slipped back over the top of the knee then ventured forth. Still, no response.

I took a quick check to see if her husband or the salesman were aware, then a review on where we were in association with home and how much time I had left, all while caressing the nylon-clad leg, just beyond the knee, but before her thigh. About halfway to everything, but not much time left.

Bolder now, I slipped my entire hand onto her knee, pushing her long, winter coat higher, as I explored the vestiges of her inner thigh. Almost halfway up and, suddenly, there was an undeniable trembling within those thighs. My mind sort of grasped at the reason for this; remembering that I was young and inexperienced; but I never stopped inching ever higher, until her strong hand grasped my wrist.

I stopped moving; frozen in fear; awaiting that verbal berating, but it never came. I tried to calculate how far I had gotten, still hoping she would give in, but, instead, she ever so slowly drew my hand up.

I remember how she never moved her head or shifted her gaze. How I made my fingers linger, caress, and still shift higher on her thigh for as long as possible, during the entire extraction. I willed my hand to be too heavy; for her desire to surrender, but all the while she continued.

From that moment on, that trembling within her thighs burned into my character and how from nothing came a sense of MORE! It became the mantra of my life; obtainable yet unquenchable.

With my hand returned to my lap, her coat, dress and perhaps dignity restored, the rest of my adventure ended. She gave me one small hug and kiss on the cheek goodnight, as she stepped out of the car to allow me into my apartment, then she was back in the car and was gone.

Why, I asked myself, did I quit? Should I not have tried again, to see if I could go any further, or if I would have been stopped right away? Why did I start in the first place? Would she recall this moment with fondness, shame, desire, or perhaps not at all? Would she chalk it up to an alcohol-induced fantasy that only took place in her mind, or would she suddenly appear at my door one day wanting coffee, wine or something more?

All I could really say is that moment filled my mind with possibilities and erased a line I never imagined could be. Marriage was no longer a commitment of fidelity; instead, it was a joining of families in a bond of love. Sure there could be agreements on forsaking all others, but the heart, mind and body inevitably wants what it wants and it could never be leashed.

One final note on this. A few years later, I heard my younger brother, yes the one from the car, had moved into their spare bedroom. I often wondered; with unrelenting jealousy; if she thought he was I and that he enjoyed the passion I once crafted. I hadn't spoken to him in almost forty years, so I could not say if any of my imagined outcomes were true; even if I could broach the subject, which I could not, and that would still haunt me!

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Returning now to the minx CFO, long after my last significant memory took place. She had left the employ of the moving industry, and our paths crossed once again. This time, I had just moved into a new apartment, and there she was. Apparently, she would be my downstairs neighbour in a three-apartment converted home.

I got to fill in so many new details, which coloured my view. Little things like her husband - middle-aged, fit, tall, probably considered handsome. He worked as a manager for one of the big shipping firms, which also meant he never got home before seven at night.

There were larger things, too, like she loved to tan in the near-seclusion of the yard, in a one-piece swimsuit, or a two-piece, shorts-and-tube-top ensemble. She had a habit of checking how well her tan was progressing, by pulling the top portion away from her breasts so she could look down and gauge the levels. It was never enough to be 'exposed'; at least, not unless you happened to be at my bedroom window, looking directly down over her shoulder.

Some might think, 'thank God,' that she always chose that spot to tan, or for the anonymity of being above and behind glass; while others might think, 'ewww, creepy.' Me, I just added those moments to my 'wow' memories.

Weekends tended to be her husband's escape. It was always friends, drinking, TV and weather-permitting barbecues. They never travelled, took vacations away from home, or seemed to have date nights, but he was okay when he wasn't drunk.

I learned early on that he liked sex; constantly talking about his purported adventures, like the time he tried to initiate a threesome with his wife's friend. His story was that while chatting at the kitchen table with his wife and her friend, he parted his wife's thighs and began eating her out.

Supposedly, this was so the friend would get excited and join in. For his part, I could see both the mentality and pseudo-macho ego thinking this was a great idea, but considering his wife, the story didn't fit the image I had of her, so I chalked it up to boastful exaggeration of semi-true facts.

Perhaps one more semi-important truthism - yeah, I know it's not a word, but it seems best to describe a truth I believe applied to a theory based on it. Anyway, in four years of being their neighbour, my ears only heard passion from her lips on four occasions. Now, it's true that they could have been passionate while I was not there, pre-occupied elsewhere, or they could have even been in another part of their apartment on said unheard occasions, but since my bedroom was directly above theirs, one would presume if he was truly as good as his boasting, I should have heard more. This led me to believe that, unless she loathed sex, she was more than likely frustrated and open to the 'right' approach.

As I had mentioned earlier, since the three apartments were in a converted home, I gained still more tidbits of colour. Once in a while, about every three months, my electrical supplier would require a meter reading which happened to be in their basement stairwell. This meant I would have to visit with her, so I might record the numbers and as I indicated previously, due to her husband's schedule, it occurred while he was not at home.

It was a simple task, but in the summer when those days occurred, I couldn't wait because of another trait of my ever-desirable CFO. In the summer, I discovered that after a long day at work, she would change out of her work attire and into a short, white robe. For the most part, I learned this happened almost every day and whether it was just a matter of timing or her habit, I presumed it had to do with their lack of air conditioning and her need to just be as casual and comfortable as possible. I never really cared, and just enjoyed the scenery.