"Direct strokes she never gave us power to make; all our blows glance, all our hits are accidents. Our relations to others are oblique and casual."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Experience” Selected Writings
***
I hate my car. My car hates me. So, thanks to my inability to have my oil checked on time and my blatant disregard for all things automotive, I have to take the bus to work while my stupid car is at the mechanic for a week.
Now that you know that, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Carmen. I’ve always been a spoiled only child. My parents drove me to school when I was young, and at sixteen, I scored a gently used Mustang convertible. Then, when I finished grad school, my parents replaced it with a brand new Thunderbird convertible. The one I used to claim I loved.
I’d only been on tour buses with my high school choir, so public transportation was foreign to me. I live about twelve miles from the university where I’m simultaneously teaching and working towards my PhD, so I wasn’t expecting anything dramatic to happen on a half-hour bus trip. And it was only for five days, so that only amounted to about five hours. Five hours and counting.
I waited at the bus stop with two other gentlemen who were carrying briefcases. The younger man kept leering my direction. Self conscious, I held my own briefcase closer to me, hoping that it covered most of my exposed legs. I had chosen a brown tweed skirt that just skimmed the tops of my knees and a thin white button down. The heat of that early fall morning precluded the use of my jacket, which I had slung over my arm, and my apartment had been too sticky to even consider stockings. My tortoiseshell glasses kept slipping down my nose, and my brown crocodile heels were pinching my toes. I also felt little rivulets of sweat gathering in the valley of my breasts where my lacey bra was chafing my skin. I was silently cursing Henry Ford, Victoria’s Secret, and Manolo Blahnik all at once.
Finally, my bus rumbled to a stop in front of me. I breathed a sigh of relief; finally I could sit in air conditioning. I embarked on the bus. I almost burst into tears. People where standing! Everywhere! After the initial shock, I felt the butt of a briefcase nudged into my back, so I was forced to shoulder my way onto the crowded (and hot) bus. I made it back to the middle of the bus, where I tried to brace my feet apart as demurely as I could as not to fall, while I tried to hang onto my briefcase, jacket, and a hanging nylon loop in the ceiling.
The bus lurched forward, sending everyone forward a step. As I was inexperienced, I stumbled a few more steps, losing my glasses in the process. As I tried to hang on and reach for them, a large male hand reached down and plucked them from the dirty floor just before the man in front of me trampled on them. I followed the large hand up muscular arm that was covered in dark hair. At the elbow, the man had rolled up his flannel shirtsleeve. Beyond that, his bicep rippled. And then a broad shoulder. And then a firm, strong jaw, dotted with a days beard growth. And a gentle grin. And a Roman nose. And blue BLUE eyes. Smiling blue eyes. His hair was black and wildly curly. He managed to look cool standing there next to me, even in flannel.
Blue Eyes chuckled and pushed my glasses into a free pocket of my briefcase. “You don’t need ‘em. I’ll see for you,” he said, his voice deep and rough, like the growl of a fenced in dog, yet with a gentle laughter that must make even the iciest heart melt. This guy was trouble.
“Thank you, sir. I think I’ll try to manage on my own.” I smiled and looked straight ahead.
The bus made a hard right and the seasoned passengers shifted with it, balancing gracefully. Once again, I stumbled. This time right into Blue Eyes. He caught me before I could fall into the elderly woman seated to my right. His hands seemed even larger, his palms touching the soft roundness of my hips and his fingers clutching gently at my narrow hip bones. At his touch, my torso hummed. For the barest of moments, my back pressed into his chest. Even then, I could feel the hard plane of his belly and firm curve of his pectorals. I almost forgot to breath. As soon as it happened, he released me. As soon as I was clutching the nylon strap again, he bent to my ear, “On your own, huh?” he whispered then laughed again. I blushed a deep fuchsia.
The bus started to empty over the next few blocks. I chose a seat and Blue Eyes sat next to me. I modestly placed my briefcase in my lap to hide my exposed knees from view.
Blue Eyes leaned close to me again. He smelled of some sort of clean deodorant soap. Like the woods, only soapier. I looked at him, his face was only inches from mine. He smiled again. It was a broad, toothy smile that spoke of kindness rather than of lechery. I was still wary. “No need to cover ‘em up, darlin’. Your shape will be forever burned into my mind.”
Before I could reply, he reached across me and over my head to tug the stop signal. He was up and off of the bus before I could work up any considerable anger.
After I finally disembarked, I stewed the rest of the day. By the time I was ready to return home, I was ready with a few choice phrases to blast the groper with. He wasn’t on the bus, however.
I huffed all the way through my solitary dinner and through the senseless movie on TV that evening. By the time I was in my office, grading undergrad papers on As You Like It, I had begun to wonder about Blue Eyes. What sort of work did he do that he was in the city dressed like a lumberjack. I snorted at the image of him manually sawing down trees in the park. Of him bent over, rivers of sweat pouring down his back. Enough to make him remove the hot flannel… I had to shake my head to clear the image. I looked at the paper I was grading. I had written, “Nice work. Your commentary on Oliver and Orlando is shirtless.” I blushed and hurriedly scratched out my mistake. I laid my pen down and stood.
I needed a shower. Something to relax me and help me get over my trying experience. That was it, I though, it had nothing to do with the man. It was just the newness of the bus. Tomorrow would be better. After my shower, I felt refreshed, if not relaxed. I climbed into my heirloom four poster, trying not to concentrate on my still screaming nerves, especially the bunch packed into my loins. Finally I gave over to temptation and reached for the vibrator in my bedside table drawer. I put it on the lowest setting and caressed my taut nipples until I was ready to burst. I moved the toy down my belly gently, teasing my sensitive skin until I was covered in gooseflesh. I placed the tip of the toy against the moist opening to my cunt. I moaned aloud at the instant pleasure. Images began to run through my head. I was bent over a counter, pounded from behind. I worked the tool faster over my hot spot. The man was faceless. He was pulling and pinching my nipples. I was pounding into him as fast as he was into me. The vibrator was pounding into my pussy with the same intense speed. My mind had the man rub my clit, so I rubbed mine with my free hand. My hips started bucking uncontrollably to the images in my head. Finally the man’s face came into view. It was Blue Eyes. As I realized this, I started to come. I dripped hot and wet all over my vibrator and working fingers. I turned the tool off, still shaking from my orgasm. I was breathless again. I fell asleep with it still in my hand.
***
The next morning I chose my wardrobe carefully. I wore a simple black skirt suit and a lacy white slip top underneath the short, slim one-button blazer. The skirt was slim fitting and hit about mid thigh. I knew I’d garner some glances at school, but I as looking for one target in particular: Blue Eyes. I’ve never wanted a man the way I wanted him, and I don’t even know why. I’ve known plenty of handsome men, and my type was usually bookish, well-educated philosopher types. But… this was new. I was eager getting onto the bus that day. Only to be disappointed. He was no where to be seen.
The same went for the return trip, and the rest of the week. By Friday afternoon, I’d given up hope. Friday I wore snug jeans and red button down shirt. I added a slim black corduroy blazer to fend off the chill that was settling in. I allowed my long, brunette hair to tumble down over my shoulders, but kept my glasses.
I was finally used to the jostling and jarring of the bus… and to shouldering through crowds to get on and off. I stayed on the bus beyond my stop because I was traveling to the mechanics to pick up my car. It was nearing five o’clock when I disembarked from the bus for the final time. I rushed into the mechanic’s office, hoping I wasn’t too late. The garage door had already been pulled. I breathed a sigh of relief when I opened the door and saw a figure seated at the desk. His head poked out above the top of the comfy looking desk chair. The figure was talking on the phone, the cord was pulled taught around the chair. Unsure of whether I should interrupt, I cleared my throat and backed up. The figure didn’t turn, but raised one finger. I looked around the office. It was remarkably neat, the walls lined with awards for excellence and with framed photographs of people and cars. Shelves held file folders, manuals, and various bric-a-brac. A cabinet hung ajar. I could see that it held numerous sets of keys. The desk held a phone and some papers. I listened as he finished his muffled conversation.
“I know. I made the payment. It’s mine now,” he paused. “Yeah… I’ll be over later to celebrate. I just got one more customer here to pick ‘is car up. Later, Buddy.” The mechanic turned the chair to face me. His blue eyes widened in shock. I stumbled backwards into the glass wall that separated the office from the garage.
“You” I said at almost a whisper.
He recovered first. His left eyebrow lifted, “And you” he replied. “You’re the 2004 Merlot Thunderbird Convertible? V8 with SST and seventeen inch wheels?!”
