We got back to the hotel and he kissed me good night at my car. I thought he might ask me up but when he didn’t, I smiled and climbed into my car. Then he asked, “Could I see you again?” “Yes,” I said smiling. “That would be nice. When?” “Soon,” he said. We kissed again, I started my car and watched him disappear into the hotel as I drove away. I thought as I drove home that I should have invited him back to my apartment, but part of me knew that was a dangerous idea so I didn’t dwell on it too long. That night I relived our moment of passion in the restaurant and slept in late Saturday. I spent the remainder of the weekend reflecting on my Friday night, and preparing for the following week. Monday morning, I arrived early at the school ready to work when a woman I didn’t know greeted me. “Ms. Perry?” she said. “Yes? May I help you?” I asked. She smiled and said, “I’m Mrs. Catherine Stone.” My heart sank. Here she was, the wife of the man I had just had an illicit, tawdry affair with. With so many crushed together your sense of personal space is suppressed, a general unspoken acceptance, as we are all in the same boat, so to speak, so you bear the bodily contact, the rubbing up against you, up close and personal and you pick out the odd feel or touch, subliminally administered from an admirer, who would not normally get that close to take advantage.As you hang onto your strap your arm is heavy and when you shuffle your feet you immediately touch another persons foot, so close, you feel trapped, then you realize, he is rubbing your shoe, playing 'Footsy', and wondering if I will respond and let him venture further.As you look you realize you are surrounded by men, in front and behind, sitting to the left and right, how many are sporting, 'A Morning Woody' a need for sex with any female at hand, someone like myself, trapped amongst them, powerless to move and so warm and soft, curvaceous and sexy, a girl who might just feel the way they do, so another touch is.
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