Eye To I

I saw a beautiful and moving sight.

Ever since then, I have been watching. More and more I have been observing, looking, seeing. Eyeing. And now my life has been changed beyond recognition.

I was sitting in a coffee lounge, in an airport, enduring one of those interminable waits before being allowed to go and wait somewhere else. Directly opposite my table, no more than fifteen feet away, was a row of high stools between a comb of narrow counters. A couple of women were sitting on the stools nearest to me, or rather one was sitting, and the other had got up and gone round the counter to her companion. The seated woman had fair hair with a wave to it, pulled back in a loose, blue skrunchie. She was wearing a blue, T-shirt with a "v" neck, beige slacks, and sandals. She was in her thirties, I would have said, and I noticed three things about her face. Firstly, her cheeks were round; secondly, her chin was small and pointed; lastly, her eyes were small, and seemed to be two little points of far-away blue fire.

Her companion also was fair, but her hair was more wiry, and was held back severely by an Alice-band. She had on a burgundy top, and trousers of a darker beige, with pockets here and there. My impression was that she was plainer than the first woman, with a uniformly dull complexion. But she was striking in her own way, with rather full lips, and a high forehead. She hid her eyes behind a pair of spectacles.

The first woman, Ms Blue to me now, had tipped her head backwards, and was staring up at the ceiling. The second, Ms Burgundy, was standing at about forty-five degrees to her full face, and had bent forward, bringing their faces close. She was looking intently into Ms Blue's face. She said something, which I could not hear above the hubbub of the coffee lounge, and rummaged in her friend's handbag, which was on the counter. She took out a minuscule bottle, with a dropper-top, studied the label for a few moments, and then shook it. She unscrewed the top, gently rested the heel of her hand against her friend's cheek, and deftly let three droplets fall into each eye. Ms Blue sat as still as a monument, gaze fixed on the ceiling, trustful, being ministered to.

A third woman came up, older, and Ms Burgundy stepped away from her friend, who relaxed, and the three started to chat, now looking as unremarkable as any of the other people in the coffee lounge, or in the whole airport, if it came to that. I drained my americano, picked up my bags, and moved on.

Since then, as I say, I have been scanning, sighting, reconnoitring. I have seen some wonderful and unusual things, but none so exciting, so absorbing, so – yes – erotic as the Blue / Burgundy episode.

So now I carry an eye-dropper everywhere I go. If I see a lone woman I approach her.

"Hello. My name is Sylvia. You have very beautiful eyes. I have some special eye-drops here which will make them feel fresh. Would you trust me to put them in for you?"

At this point, very many of them hurry away, or tell me to go and spit in my shoe. But a surprising number of them actually acquiesce, and that makes it worthwhile. Maybe they look at me, check out my smart suit, my bag, the name-badge I have made – "Sylvia. Ocular Consultant" with a logo based on the hieroglyph of the Eye of Horus – and see me as someone professional, official. I do nothing to disabuse them of this.

"Now, sit up straight. Tilt your head back. I'll put my hand behind your head, you'll be all right. Look straight up. Now then ... one ... two ... three. Now the other eye ... one ... two ... three. Now look at me."

That's when I look into their eyes. I stand there, one hand behind the head of a trusting woman, whose gaze is locked with mine. How long will she stay like that? I just stand there. Sometimes, after a minute, a woman struggles upright, thanks me very much, and bustles off. On other occasions I bend down towards the woman whose head I am holding, and kiss her.

I have had my face slapped several times. I have once been escorted by security guards from the place where I was plying this free, innocent trade. I made sure, after that, that I stuck by and large to places to which the public have free and unrestricted access. Sometimes a woman is too surprised to react, and her surprise means that she allows herself to be kissed. When I let her up, her face is red, she mumbles thanks to me, and hurries away. Sometimes she looks round at me, as if she really can't believe that it has happened.

But there are golden moments too. A particular woman relaxes, her eyes close, and she responds to my kiss. That woman is the one to whom I give my business card, and say that I do house calls.

Once I dared to approach a group of laughing, joking friends in a railway station concourse. They were loud, blousy women, but seemed game. I sat down beside one of them and went through my routine while the others watched. When I dared to kiss her, there were calls of "Whoooooo!" from the others. Encouraged, I slid my arms round her back, and we stayed at it. The others were laughing and shouting.

"Haw doll! I'm gonnae get me some o' that!"

"You jist haud on, Karen. Ah'm next!"

"We'll ha'e tae hire her for wee Jenny's hen-nicht!"

By the time I left them, each with one of my cards, each having been kissed, my lips were tired and the taste of second-hand wine was in my mouth. I could smell six kinds of cheap perfume. I straightened my jacket, which had slipped over one shoulder, and went home. It had been great, but it was enough for one day! I can only suppose that they must have sobered up later, as I never did get to go to "wee Jenny's hen-nicht". They did not phone me. A pity, I thought.

There came a day I was in a shopping Mall, and my pitch was not meeting with much success. Women were hurrying by, ignoring me, not responding to my "Hello, my name is Sylvia..." I had noticed one woman, tall and dark, going into several shops, and walking past me in either direction but always a little too far away for me to approach her. But now suddenly I saw her walking towards me. Casually, she looked this way and that, as if briefly checking out the window display on either side, although I knew she had been past several times. She seemed to be trying to give the impression that she was not walking directly up to me.

"Excuse me, madam, do you have a moment? My name is Sylvia..."

She gave an "oh!" of surprise, as if by addressing her I had stopped her colliding with me.

"...you have very beautiful eyes. I have some special eye-drops here which will make them feel fresh. Would you trust me to put them in for you?"

She smiled. "Yes. Why not. I'd love to try them."

"Now, just stand straight, and relax. Tilt your head back. I'll put my hand behind your head, you'll be all right. Look straight up. Now then ... one ... two ... three. Now the other eye ... one ... two ... three. Now look at me."

She looked at me, her gaze steady, one eyebrow slightly raised, and smiled. I waited for what I had always felt was the right amount of time, but as I bent towards her, her eyes were already closing. I felt the softness of her lips on mine. I tasted a sweet lip-gloss I had never come across before. I felt the warmth of a contented sigh, as she let out breath through her nostrils. Then there was the delightful slither of an invading tongue, as she subtly took over the kiss. Suddenly she had placed one hand behind my head, and was tracing little figures of eight on my neck with one fingertip. She moved her body close against mine.

I do not know how long we held this kiss, but I became aware of noises around me. Faltering footfalls as someone side-stepped us, an occasional gurgling laugh from a group of teenage boys, and one "Well really – in public!" We came apart.

"Have ... er ... one of my cards," I said, fumbling in my bag, while she stood there, her arms folded, that sardonic eyebrow still a little raised. "I do house calls. Just phone me."

She took my card. In fact she took my hand in a kind of sliding caress, and I let go of the card.

"I shall be in touch," she said, and turned to leave. I watched her walk the length of the mall, imagining that I could pick out every click of her heels from the hubbub of footfalls. Then I picked up my bag and went home. There was no more I could possibly do that day.

The next day, I got ready to go out. I packed my bag, straightened my lapel-badge, checked out my hair and makeup a dozen times, but something held me back from opening my front door. Something had changed, something I could not quite place or define. I told myself not to be daft, and reached for the door handle. The phone rang. I paused in mid-reach, turned, and went over to the phone.

"Hello?"

"We met yesterday," said a voice. "You kissed me. You gave me your card."

I knew immediately who it was. I felt as though I had known before I picked the phone up.

"You want me to do a house call?" I asked.

"No." A pause.

"What then? What can I do for you?" I felt so tense at that moment.

"I want to make a house-call myself. I'm not far away. Stay there, and I'll come straight over."

"I'm not sure ..." I stammered. "I don't do... I mean...OK, yes, if you like. I mean, I'd be happy to give you a private consultation here, if that's what you like."

There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. "Don't go away!"

I was breaking all the rules I had set in my mind, by agreeing to this. I had no idea what she had meant by not being far away, but I spent a frantic few minutes tidying my lounge and hall, clearing things away, making the two rooms seem as though at a pinch they could be somewhere a freelance specialist held casual consultations. I sprayed some air freshener about, and had only just put it away when the doorbell rang. I went to open the door, and she was standing there. She put her head to one side and looked at me, as if she could tell that I was glowing from my domestic activities, and a little from embarrassment also. I invited her in, showing her the way to my lounge. She looked around the room.

"Now," I began. "Perhaps you would like to sit and relax. A chair, or the settee? May I get you a cup of coffee first?"

She shook her head. "You don't understand, Sylvia. This session isn't for me, it's for you. You have probably spent so much time recently telling other women that they have beautiful eyes, that you haven't had time to notice your own. They're hazel, aren't they?"

She put an index finger under my chin, and tilted my head upwards.

"Yes, they are indeed," she said. "A little on the grey side of hazel. Perhaps a little bloodshot today – have you been getting enough sleep? But they are beautiful nonetheless. Yes, I can see they are. They deserve to be looked at, and treated gently."

She took my hand and led me to my own settee.

"Sit down. Put your feet up and lie back. Kick those shoes off and put your head on this cushion. There – that's right."

I heard her rummaging in my bag. Then I felt the cool heel of her hand resting against my face, and there was a delicate scent in my nostrils, an expensive perfume.

"Look straight up. Now then ... one ... two ... three. Now the other eye ... one ... two ... three. Now look at me."

I did as I was told. There was no sardonically-raised eyebrow, her gaze was steady and kind. Was there a hint of mockery about her smile? I couldn't tell, but then I didn't care. I could stand being looked at like that for the rest of my life, if I had to. But I closed my eyes, and I sensed that her face was coming closer to mine.

Those lips, those lips. Mine tingled at the slight friction of an oh-so-tender kiss. I felt her hand on my cheek, then felt it brush away some strands of hair and come to rest where her thumb could gently caress my earlobe. Her kiss became more insistent, and her tongue probed, seeking mine, finding it, engaging it. She was kneeling by the side of the settee. I was lying there immobile, transported.

It may have been moments or minutes later, when the hand that was caressing my ear moved away, and her fingers traced a shallow U around my neck, under my chin. Then one single finger bisected the base of the U, in a line going down my throat. The back of one fingernail – it sent a shudder of delight and almost fear through me, as if I felt it would turn to a stiletto and bury itself in my neck. I abandoned myself to it, and it traced its straight track to the top of my breastbone. Here it was joined by more fingers, as my visitor slipped her hand into the top of my blouse. All the time she kept up this insistent kissing. With amazing ease, those fingers loosened the shoulder-straps of my bra, and slid on inside the cups. One finger again traced clockwise circles around the nipple of my right breast. I counted the circles – six – and then the finger moved over to my left breast. Six more, then back to the right, teasing, lifting, almost pinching when joined by another finger. My nipples felt so tender, and yet these fingers touched them to only to the point of where pleasure might pass into discomfort. I was aware of nothing in the world except the kiss and the circling fingers against my nipples. And a fire that was growing in me.

I had no idea how my blouse had become unfastened in the mean time, but suddenly I became aware that my stomach was beginning to chill. As that awareness grew, my visitor's hand seemed to react to it, and I felt the warmth of her palm on my lower ribs, as she moved it downwards. That finger found my navel, and again the circling touch began. I had no idea how erogenous the skin surrounding that natural dip in my tummy could be. But the hand and the finger did not stay too long before continuing to journey southwards over my bodily map. They toyed briefly with the waistband of my skirt, then went on. Silently calling myself a cheap tramp, I simply opened my legs as wide as a could, placing one foot on the floor, and draping the other over the top of the settee. I hadn't known I was capable of that! My visitor's fingers slipped inside the edge of my panties and – oh! – that circling began again, but this time up and down the outside of my vagina.

The circling, the stroking, the probing, the pinching, the seeking, and the wonderful finding! And all the time those insistent lips would not leave mine, stifling every cry and moan I wanted to give, hardly allowing me to breathe. One finger found its inevitable way inside me, to my utter delight, whilst a thumb took up the circling around and on my clitoris. Again just to the right side of that boundary between pleasure and pain. When I eventually came, it was like a dam bursting. I arched my back, wrenched my mouth from my visitor's, and gave a gasp that emptied all the air from my lungs, before collapsing back on the settee.

Did I faint? Or did I fall asleep or lose a moment of time? The closing of the front door made me open my eyes suddenly. I was lying there, clothes awry. My visitor was nowhere to be seen, but there was a small rectangle of cardboard lying on my rumpled skirt. I picked it up, and got up, hurrying to the front door, straightening my clothes as I went. When I opened it I was still tucking my blouse into the waist of my skirt. I looked up and down the street. There was no sign of her.

When I had shut the door and gone back into the lounge, I looked at the piece of card in my hand.

"Eye-to-I" it said, with a name beneath it, an address, a phone number, and an email identity. I turned it over, and found that there was a written message on the back. I read it. Then I went for my reading glasses and read it again, and a third time.

Oh my!