That evening, in my hotel, I laid out the contents of my makeup kit on the sink. I made a mental note to get another packet of panty shields ā my juices had been flowing copiously all day as mental flashbacks to my experience in the plane lavatory kept coming back to me. Each time I opened my purse, the presence of that little tube and the accompanying card did the same. I had tried to move the tube to my cosmetic kit, but each time I did so, Iād come back a few minutes later to find it gone, transferred invisibly to my purse. That was probably better, in the long run, though. Leaving it in my hotel room might mean that a maid would pick it up, or maybe make use of it while I was in meetings the next day.
The thought of lying down and opening the tube right then and there was almost overpowering, but I had a supper date with a client in a half hour and, after the effects that afternoon, I knew that a half hour wasnāt even close to the time I would need to recover from such an experience. That morning during the plane trip, I found myself dozing the full 4 hours of the trip, floating in an afterglow that was beyond anything in my prior experience.
A promise to myself that the tube and I would get reacquainted after dinner, when the evening was mine alone, enabled me to overcome the urge to tear off my clothes, cuddle up in bed, and open the tube.
I donāt remember much of that supper. The slit in the shell macaroni was too much of a reminder of another slit, the smell of the boiled shrimp at the next table was too close to the fragrance of sex, and the slight blush on my skin after the second glass of wine was a reminder ā a pale reminder ā of the blush of excitement that had been mine in that little lavatory. While business plans were being laid, the real planning was going on in my head, and it was plans for being laid, just me and my little tube. I debated back and forth in my head whether or not to use a little bit of the gel, as I had that afternoon, or try a more copious amount and see what that experience might be like. I almost decided on using the same tiny amount (I wanted this stuff to last) when I realized that I had another choice to make, where to apply.
On my clit? Could I risk, could I even survive, such a possibility? Inner lips? Outer lips, closer to āhomeā? On the other hand, why not go with what I had done that morning? How could anyone begin to anticipate any greater, deeper sensation than I had already experienced? As I sat and talked business plans and mentally made plans for personal business, my body remembered in its own way the events of that morning. Almost as a mirror of my initial experience, I could feel a slight warming sensation at the far back of my vulva, spreading just as it had that afternoon, back and forward, then deeper within, with breasts and almost every square inch of skin warming, just slightly, in memory of what had been, in anticipation of what could be.
My concentration on the client was lost completely. I excused myself and went to the rest room. No explosions this time as was the case that afternoon with the gel, but a very pleasureable little interlude that allowed me just enough respite to make it through the rest of the meeting.
As the meeting grew to a close, my impatience grew. Mentally, I was squirming to be away from that table, out of my constricting hose, bra, clothes, and back in my room lying on my bed. Physically, each minute meant more sensations, phantom sensations of sex, would break out in unforeseen areas of my body. One minute my cheeks would burn, the next the toes on my left foot curl as if in ectasy. A nipple would slowly become engorged and uncomfortable with the constrictions of my bra. My body was like a computer infected with a virus, a virus that broke out in odd, unforeseen places at unforeseen times.
