(Stef)
It's the same route I take every day, and I'm reading one of the usual journals. Today's fascinating material includes "Cache-coherency for acceleration coprocessors." Stirring stuff. But, at the same time, I glance at the other commuters around me. Maybe I'm biased, but so many seem to be women. And, maybe I'm biased, but so many seem so very appealing. I'm happily married, understand, but I'm male, too, and can't help but look. My wife's OK with that. "Look but don't touch," she says, knowing full well that if I lose interest in women then she has a problem.
So I look, and I imagine. Really, I always know what's real and what exists only in my mind, even if I don't say it very well. So, I read a breathless but impractical research paper, taking in the ladies around me from the corner of my eye.
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I've seen this woman quite a few times, when our schedules overlap. A very handsome woman, she conveys a deliciously mixed set of impressions. Her face is built from strong, clear lines, but without the thickness of male features. She draws her hair back severely. Still, that ponytail would brush her shoulders if she let it down, and six or eight earrings glisten on each side. She wears business casual slacks and white blouse, tailored conservatively but not what a man would wear: collar a little too broad, buttons on the woman's side, and fitted to curves a man wouldn't have. Everything about her lies just on the womanly side of androgyny: face, hair, clothes, and figure.
Figure? Did I mention the smallest breasts I've ever seen on a grown woman? That subtle, unusual curve seems impossible not to stare at, but I restrain myself – barely. A swell, a softness, and the clear outlines of a bra under the darted fit of her shirt.
She gets up and leaves a few stops before mine. My eyes track her strong stride, curved hip, and deep thighs as she leaves the bus. I'll see her again in a week or two, or won't. But, once she's gone, an imagined scene unfolds before my mind's eye, one in which all the usual steps of getting to know each other can be dispensed with.
Stef. I imagine her name is Stef. Not Stefanie, too many syllables. Not Steffi, diminutives don't fit the strong, polished image she projects. The consonants lack girliness, but Stef is no way a man's name, not in English. That almost-androgyny again, it has a real appeal.
The fantasy fast-forwards through all the preliminaries, and I find us approaching her apartment. It's a smallish, neatly-kept building in a residential area, with maybe eight apartment units. I follow her full, mobile hips up a flight of stairs and wait while Stef unlocks the door. Sunlight fills the space through a window-wall that opens onto a small porch. Everything's done in whites and light blues, as neat and precise as Stef herself. Couches and low tables define this as a social space; some shelves hold a few books, quite a few CDs, and a stereo. Stef steps in and, before doing anything else, reaches for a control on the table near the entry. Soft jazz creates a comfortable background.
Stef wore sneakers for the walk home, with office shoes in her bag. She kicks them off into a closet near the door, then hangs her blazer and bag. I take the hint and kick my shoes off, too. I watch as she turns toward the galley kitchen: crisp white blouse, pale grey slacks taut across her hip and thigh but looser below, ironed to creases. The low, white socks add a softer touch, not quite at odds with her polished business clothes. She turns when she reaches the kitchen, reaches up to a cabinet, and pulls down two wine glasses. One or two more buttons on her blouse have been undone, so it opens a bit as she reaches – I see a quick flash of toned skin and black bra, which flickers as she pours a large glass for each of us. With one hand, she offers a glass; with the other, she undoes a few more buttons. Her shirt opens and closes itself as she moves, giving more than a glimpse of dark bra and defined abs. That roundness just below her waist is just part of how a woman's abs define her shape.
She picks up her own glass, takes my hand, and leads to the bedroom. Like the other room, this one's bright, spare, and neat. The bed continues the white and sky-blue theme. Shelves off to the side hold a flat TV, small by today's standards, some yoga videos, and an exercise mat. (Come to think of it, the living room lacked a TV. I'm not sure what that means, but I like it.) She sets her wine glass on the night stand, moves to the room's wide central space, and turns to me. She looks directly at me and smiles as she unbuttons her cuffs. I start to unbutton my shirt, too, but she swats my hand gently and says, "No, I want to do that," she says. "If a guy undresses too soon, I don't get a chance to play. Be patient."
I sit on the bed and watch as she undresses. She lifts one foot, balances easily, and slides the sock off. Same on the other side, then she sets them on a chair near the door. Still looking at me, she reaches around to the side of her slacks, undoes a button, then a zipper. A thumb on each side, she pushes them down til they fall the rest of the way by themselves. She steps gracefully out of the heap, then kneels to pick them up. She moves easily, with feline grace. She folds the pants once and drapes them over the chair. The elastic comes off her ponytail, and she shakes her hair loose. Dark waves cover her ear and brush her shoulder.
Stef turns to me again with that sweet smile. The bottom button of her blouse is still done, but it opens widely above that. White shirt-tails skirt her thighs. Black panties match her bra. With the open blouse, I see more of the bra, too. Straps are narrow since they don't need to carry weight, and a band an inch or two long connects the cups. They adorn and conceal, but she really doesn't need them otherwise.
