Without thinking she brushed the hand away. Like a fly it flitted around her butt stopping briefly, then moving on. She was deeply into a conversation with several very erudite people. Her presentation had gone well. A well-formulated discourse on Native American myths presented at this small community college, it was but a way stop on the publisher's required book tour. It had been well attended, both by whites and Native Americans, and now she was allowed to be herself speaking directly to people who were truly interested in her subject.
The reception was being held in a posh faculty lounge adjacent to the school cafeteria. Carpeted, comfortably furnished, with low lighting, it made a very pleasant place for casual conversation with this expert on Native American mythology.
Students were playing the role of butlers serving wine in plastic ware as well as canapes. They circulated frequently replenishing both food and wine.
Many in the audience had been surprised at how young their speaker was. Some, without realizing their observations to be inappropriate, commented among themselves on how attractive she was as well.
The hand, or perhaps another hand, was back. Deep in conversation she once again brushed it aside without much thought. It came back making her turn away, but not wanting to lose the thread of this conversation she made no effort to determine if this was someone being purposely fresh or just an accidental brushing of bodies in the crowded room.
She dared not move too quickly for fear of spilling her wine. She moved a foot to her right. A student insisted she take a canape. "I made these myself," she told the expert. The expert smiled and accepted the delicacy.
Wine in one hand, canape in the other, with no hands to brush away the hand exploring her butt, she gave up. He wasn't hurting anything, she rationalized. Truth was she rather liked his gentle touch and was flattered by his attention. Months on the reservations conducting research, more months writing, and now this book tour all without the male attention she craved left her in need. She had been afraid to accept the ardor of those she interviewed for fear of biasing her research. But so many of the men, the chiefs and shamans she had spoken with had aroused her basest of needs. The fine, noble cut of their faces had left her wanting to explore the extent to which their bodies might fulfill the promise they offered.
In her sleep she had seen these men, their erect stature demanding that she yield herself to them. Some, when her dreams allowed, had been naked, their assertive bearing demanding even more forcefully that she yield. She had bought a large replica of a her fantasy of a Native American penis. She used this, but it did not satisfy.
There were about a dozen people around her. There were young, handsome faces, older, thoughtful faces, and the craggy faces of local Native Americans. She began to long for that long postponed satisfaction.
The hand was back. It wasn't possible to determine whose hand it was brushing, touching, exciting her. She attempted to stay focused on the conversation, but the hand was taking its toll.
People drifted and rotated. The hand came and went. When it left, she missed its light caresses. As the crowd thinned and a student refilled her wine glass yet again, she finally was able to turn and face the owner of the hand.
