EYES

A FANTASY
        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 me.
        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 body.
        “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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