"Tension."
I laughed when my hubby gave that simple, one-word answer to Joan's question.
Joan and her husband, Bill, were friends of ours. As we sat in the bar nibbling on appetizers waiting for a table, they were arguing... again. Sometimes their arguments were esoteric, sometimes boorish, occasionally enjoyable.
The topic at hand originated when my dear, sweet Michael innocently commented that he thought waitresses who were friendly but slow to service probably received better tips than those who were better at service but unfriendly. That kind of statement was red meat to Joan and Bill. They immediately weighed in, taking opposing sides of course, as if the topic were critical to national security.
As most arguments go, the topic migrated from one point to another. Joan bumped it along challenging Michael with "so you prefer a flirty flunky to a reserved, but quality server?"
Before Michael could even say a word, Bill jumped in. "No Joan. He never said flirty. He said friendly."
Joan rolled her eyes as she mockingly said, "Yeah right. Like you guys really don't want a flirty waitress." And just like that, Joan had managed to move the debate onto yet another point which certainly put Bill and Michael on the defense.
Back and forth the three of them went, as I chose to sit this one out. I listened as the topic shifted from friendly to flirty to sexy to sex. When it arrived at 'what makes for great sex?' and Joan and Bill bantered away, Michael was quiet and pensive.
The debate came to a temporary halt when we were called to our table. As we followed the hostess, zig-zagging our way towards our table, Michael discreetly patted my ass a few times, the final time included a firm cupping of my ass. I tensed up, concerned that anyone sitting at the tables we were walking past who might be paying close enough attention to us would certainly see what he was doing.
After we were seated at our table and drinks were served, Joan looked across the table at Michael and put him on the spot. "So Michael. What do you think? What makes for great sex?"
In less than a second, I felt his hand slide over my thigh and straight to the crease in the crotch of my jeans. Although it was all under the table, I was startled and of course tensed up a bit at the sudden, intimate touch of his hand.
I don't think Joan ever sensed his delayed answer was timed with his wandering hand in my lap as he paused before answering. Finally, as his middle finger wormed against the warm denim of my jeans, the only thing between my pussy and his finger, he smiled and gave his answer.
"Tension." I laughed at his simple, one-word answer. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism to deflect the tension I was feeling because of his finger against my pussy as we sat in a public place. Perhaps it was a nervous reaction or a guilty conscience.
Joan and Bill also laughed. I tried to blend in with their reaction, although I knew they certainly were not reacting to the same stimulus that I was!
Bill echoed Michael's answer. "Tension?"
"Yeah, tension." Michael shrugged his shoulders as he spoke with a matter-of-fact tone of voice. He elaborated. "Great sex has an edge to it, an energy that is released after being pent-up. Could be risk. Could be adventure. Could be daring. Could be pushing the limits. Whatever the form, it is tension."
By the time he finished his commentary, he had deftly unbuttoned, halfway unzipped and delicately pealed open my jeans an inch or two. My hand slid over his, partly to protest, partly to permit.
