I think it was her
eyes. Yes, I’m certain that’s what it was that attracted me to her. If you’ve ever
met a woman like her, a woman with those eyes, you’ll immediately know what I mean. She was much
prettier than I deserved, and I felt awkward and uncertain as we were casually
introduced. Her words said, “It’s nice finally getting to meet you,” but
her eyes seemed to speak louder. “I want you,” they cried out to me. I
was sure others would have heard . . . to have seen in her eyes that ravenous hunger.
At first I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but it was clear by the
way she looked at me. She wanted me!
I extended my hand automatically
to greet her, and she took it, holding it lightly, unlike what I would
have expected for a woman of the same height as I. We stood eye to eye.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” she said. Her eyes reached out seductively. “Take me,”
I distinctly heard them say. I could see it . . . she definitely needed
I fumbled for the right
words. To have said, “I hope what you’ve heard about me was all good,”
would have been trite. My mind raced. Her eyes waited as though she was
teetering on the brink of an orgasm, waiting for my response to bring her
to conclusion. “My admirers have been too generous in their praise,” I
said, hesitating and then adding, as though making the final decisive thrust,
“and my critics have been far too harsh . . . ”
“. . . in their criticism.”
She finished my sentence as though wanting me to come with her. Her eyes
danced. “I am, however,” she said teasingly, “one of those critics.”
My heart sank. Who is this
woman? On what basis had she judged me? Where was her critical review? The panic
must have shown on my face, for I did not want to lose her . . . did not want her
to think ill of my . . . of my pathetic work. I have long feared my own incompetence. Had
she discovered it? Had she exposed it?
I hurried to concede a point.
“Perhaps your criticism is just.” Her eyes narrowed as though to peer through
the darkness, to re-evaluate her judgment, to see me in a different light.
“I know what I know,” she
said and her eyes opened. An image of her laying spread eagle on a bed
flashed onto my mental screen. Those eyes called to me again, continuing
the foreplay. I had not lost her. Her desire from me was strong.
“I do what I can,” I said
feebly. It was an inadequate excuse, a throw-away response, and at that
moment I felt totally impotent. I braced myself for her rejection.
“Do you do everything badly?”
Her response was surprisingly playful. Her eyes smiled and then lowered
to my crotch, the very tip of her tongue peered briefly from between her
full red lips.
“I’ve a wet spot,” I thought,
for I had felt my shorts dampen with the tell-tale evidence of my excitement.
I was sure my pre-ejaculate had visibly soaked through my trousers.
Her eyes returned to mine,
her tongue appeared again, tracing the contour of her upper lip. “I want
to taste you,” was written in her eyes. Another sticky drop made its escape
and found refuge in my shorts. She rephrased her spoken question. “Are
there things you do well?”
“Oh yes, things I do very
well in fact.” I hoped my words would convince her, although I struggled
with my own deep sense of insecurity.
“Oh, I’ll bet there are.”
Her eyes continued as the spoken words ended. “And I would love for you
to show me,” they pleaded in silence. I imagined she was feeling the warm dampness
of her own anticipation, wanting the fullness of my presence within her
“Things I think even my
worst critic would enjoy.” I wanted to tease her, play with her. “I have
many impressive skills.” As I spoke her eyes seemed to focus inward. She
held her breath, and I imagined she was close to her climax.
“And I am known for my skill
as well.” Her respond brought a surge of warmth into my loins. “Come with
me,” her eyes begged.
She had not let go of my
hand and as her eyes fluttered, she squeezed it and was silent. Her eyes
cried out, “Yes, oh yes,” and then her grip relaxed and our hands parted.
I tried to ask with my eyes,
though uncertain if she understood, but I needed to know if it had been
as good for her as it had been for me. “It has been nice talking with you,”
were the only words that came from my mouth.
“My pleasure,” she said, her eyes
confirming my fantasy.
As she walked away, I wished silently
that I had asked this stranger her name.
Copyright 2001 Robert W. Birch
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