"Could it be true?"
Steve lay in bed, another lonely night. So many failed encounters. Even his recent promotion to managing accountant had not helped tonight.
"You talk too much," she had said, taking him by surprise with a sudden goodnight peck on the cheek.
He had waited politely for her invitation to come in, but she closed the door with a parting shot.
"I like a man who takes charge. You act too much like a woman."
Click.
Well, she acted too much like a man, Steve thought, trying to soothe the sting of her words. He had always prided himself on his respect for women, how he treated them as equals, as partners. He had been praised during his late-blooming adolescence by his female "women's lib" friends in high school. He was "the boy who always waited for permission":
"May I kiss you?"
"Okay."
"May I touch your breast?"
"Okay."
"May I put my hand down your pants?"
"Okay."
"May I put my penis in your vagina?"
"No!"
Unfortunately, his female friends from high school had all become lesbians, leaving him pathetically feminized and without companionship.
Tonight had not gone well and Steve was ready to try something different. He was good at "what-if" scenarios at work. It was part of his job.
"What if I had taken the initiative and kissed her?"
Steve's "what-if" didn't stop there. What if while he was kissing her, his fingers snaked up between her thighs? He imagined her gasping in pleasure.
No, it would have happened earlier...
What if his fingers had snaked up between her thighs during the taxi ride home? What if his fingers had snaked up between her thighs at the restaurant? On the way to the restaurant? When she had said "yes" to a dinner date? What if his fingers had snaked up between her thighs when they first met?
Slap!
No, that wasn't right. Steve rubbed his face, his imagined impropriety so real he felt the burn of her fingers across his cheek.
Defeated for a second time that night, he closed his eyes and replayed his goodbye scene on her doorstep. What if he had kissed her and his fingers had snaked up between her soft, warm thighs, sinking into moisture-soaked panties?
She gasps, fumbles for the key, barely gets inside before he attacks her in the hallway...
It is a vivid, satisfying rush, more than adequate for his own pleasure, and he soon grunts with relief as his blue balls empty their angst onto his belly.
"Attacks?" he questions as he falls asleep. "The word is so violent and disrespectful."
The bus ride to work is unremarkable. Steve stands to give his seat to a young woman. She smiles and thanks him for his chivalry. Steve smiles and nods back, imagining his fingers snaking up between her thighs...
In the short two-block walk to his office he smiles at three attractive women, but none of them smile back. He imagines taking one by the arm, pushing her into a dark alley, up against the rough brick wall for a quickie. He shakes his head. "What's that about, cowboy?" he says, as the news stories come to mind about women who were raped, and the men who were sent to prison, both lives destroyed.
The elevator fills and people squish in. The woman in front of him moves back. More people come in. She backs again and bumps into him. Instead of moving away like he usually does, he holds his ground. He moves his hand, thumb extended, brushes the pants suit covering her butt. He waits for her to object, knowing it's too crowded for a slap. Besides, the close quarters made his touch innocent enough. Instead she leans back. He leaves his thumb extended as it slowly presses the fabric deeper into her butt crack.
"Excuse me," she says, and Steve quickly lowers his thumb. But she wasn't talking to him. She gave a quick nod of her head to the man at her left as she inches her foot aside to widen her stance. She leans slowly back into Steve. She is inviting him, to touch her. Hoping she can't feel him shaking, he opens his hand, slips his fingers along her inside thigh, and rises into the heat of her crotch. The elevator rings, the door opens. It's his floor, but he's afraid to move. She steps forward, then exits with the crowd. He is frozen, waits for her to look back, but instead the elevator door closes.
Steve wanted to search the whole floor, but instead he sat at his desk and replayed every detail. He closed his eyes to remember: perfume, straight brown hair cut cute and short, five foot six, dark blue pin-striped pants suit. He held his thumb to his nose.
"One o-clock meeting," his boss said. "Don't forget."
