This is the first chapter of a story with ten chapters. I've decided all ten chapters will be in the Mature category, since our heroine Sally likes older men. I hope that you like it!
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There's a Starbucks at Astor Place in downtown New York. The coffee is standard Starbucks coffee, and nothing to write home about. What's great about it for me, though, is that it has stools in the window. When you sit on one of those stools you're facing the world as it goes by. The world also faces you.
It's a great location to people watch. It's in NYU's bailiwick, and also it's close to Cooper Union. Not far away is the New School for Social Research, and Parson's, and even Cardozo Law School. All the students and professors walking around make for some excellent people viewing. It's also right at the edge of the East Village, and that's a neighborhood for young and trendy people. The result is that it's always interesting to sit and look out when at the Astor Place Starbucks.
The floor of Starbucks is raised and higher than the level of the sidewalk outside. The windows are floor to ceiling, and the stools are high. Consequently, I never sat on the stools unless I was wearing pants, of course. If you wear a short skirt, and all of my skirts are miniskirts, well, men on the sidewalk immediately on the other side of the windows might try to look up your skirt.
If you sit in the center seats, then you face the stairs to the subway through the floor to ceiling windows, and when a train arrives dozens to hundreds of people climb up those stairs, right in front of you as you sip your coffee with a splash of milk. Your legs face them and if your legs are not tightly closed then your crotch faces them! Trains arrive every three to six minutes.
I love sitting on those stools. The variety of people emerging from the subway is a cross section of humanity. People in all their different manifestations, with every woman trying to look pretty and emphasizing whatever is good about her body, to the wide variety of hairstyles, to the men climbing up the stairs staring at the buttocks of the woman in front of them, or hoping to look up their skirt climbing slowly several stairs below them. All is there for me to see and to watch!
One day I was in the subway coming down to Astor Place from way uptown where I had been visiting my doctor. I was wearing a tight V-neck sweater and a miniskirt. My sweater revealed some of my ample cleavage made special by my fabulous pushup bra. I have boobs that have natural cleavage. They don't need enhancement with a pushup bra. When you add a pushup bra to breasts like mine, however, well the effect can be startling to some men; to most men, actually.
Anyway, I was nervously jiggling a leg as I sat in a crowded train, anxiously waiting for it to leave the station. It was taking longer than usual to close the doors. I hate that. It was not intentional, but my jiggling leg attracted attention. I have nice legs to complement my excellent boobs. I guess I presented quite a site to the lecherous men standing close to me. This put me in a mood.
I exited the train at Astor Place, since my apartment is closest to that stop, even if it is a bit of a walk, deep into the East Village. I climbed the stairs and looked at the stools in the Starbucks window. A woman in the perfect spot I always covet looked as if she were getting ready to leave. What luck! If I moved fast I could get her spot with the best possible view of the passing world. The problem was that I was not wearing pants, but was clad in a tight miniskirt.
I was feeling randy, though, from all the men checking me out in the subway train, so I decided to break my rule. I quickly grabbed the seat, placing a shopping bag on it to reserve it, then went to get a coffee and a sweet roll. I returned to my seat, putting the shopping bag on the floor next to me and I got settled on the stool.
I must have sat there an hour or more watching the passing scene. I noticed quite a few men outside the window checking out my vast expanse of bare leg as they passed in front of me. The Starbucks floor was raised a bit higher than the sidewalk, so for those of us sitting in the window, we decadent coffee addicts, and in particular our legs, were very much on display. Right then my legs were one of New York's minor tourist attractions, or so it seemed to me.
This of course made me even more randy. About half of the men walking past glanced at my legs. About half of the half who checked me out slowed their pace to get a more thorough look. A few men lingered, boldly and unashamedly staring at my legs on display. I guess they felt they could shamelessly stare at my legs because they were outside, and I was inside. I'm not sure why that made it okay, but somehow it did, both in their minds and in mine.
I thought about it. My knees could part just a little. Casual like, as if I had lost my concentration, you know. It would be a great tease. Nobody could see all the way up to my panties but some of the men sure tried! Maybe in fact they did? I have thin thighs, so even a little leg spread meant they were not touching each other.
Maybe their view did in fact extend to my crotch? I'd have to check in front of a mirror once I was home. One man walked by me four times, each time slowly to take a lingering gander, trying to see up as far as he could. It was fun. I wondered if I were getting wet? It was a distinct possibility. That would change my the color of my panties from lavender to a dark purple, but not uniformly. No, definitely the color would then be splotchy. Could the man tell? I wondered.
I told Dakota what I had done when we later met for dinner at a little Vietnamese place in the East Village. Dakota and I had been friends since middle school. Dakota is part Native American (The fraction is 1/32nd, and the Native American blood is well diluted, since she is a natural blonde and even has blue eyes! Still, her Mom is proud of their heritage and gave her the name Dakota because of it.)
Dakota was aghast at first at my recounting of my behavior, but slowly she came around. As we finished the bottle of Rose de Provence wine we had ordered, we were both giggling about my teasing antics.
"What does Mark think about it?" Dakota asked. Mark is my husband. I'm 23 and Mark is a ripe old man in his 30's. He's my guy: older and wiser. He's wise to the ways of the world.
"He doesn't know and of course he never will," I said. "It's just a wee bit of harmless fun."
"Are you still starting work tomorrow?" Dakota asked.
"Yes, the temp agency sent me the details today," I said. I have a job as a temp, filling in as a secretary, sometimes as an executive secretary, rarely in IT, and even as a nurse (I have a nursing degree), as needed. Companies use a lot of temps in New York and actually the pay is not bad. "I'm to be an executive secretary tomorrow, and for the next three months, with an option for renewal," I said.
"Executive, eh? I hope your boss is handsome," Dakota said.
"Dakota! I'm a married woman!" I exclaimed in mock outrage.
"I know, Sally. Don't get your panties in a knot. I was thinking of eye candy, not sex," my friend said.
"Well okay then. Eye candy is a nice idea. Thanks for the thought," I replied.
I then became serious. "Dakota, I'm worried," I said. She could doubtless see the worry in my eyes.
"You always do well at your Temp jobs, Sally. There's nothing to worry about," Dakota said.
"It's not my job, Dakota. I'm getting the same weird headaches I got before, those two times, you know," I said.
"The tingling?" Dakota said.
"Yes, it's kind of like an MSG headache after bad Chinese food, you know? Except it's not at my forehead but it's at the back of my head," I said.
"Tylenol? Aspirin? Advil? Motrin? Excedrin? Alleve?" Dakota offered, and I shook my poor head at every suggestion she made.
"I might as well take M&Ms," I said.
"Yeah, and they melt in your mouth, I hear," Dakota said.
