You can play it off. You can pretend your hand just…. slipped. That’s what I could have done, claimed the passing of my knuckles against his crotch as an accident. I just grazed him, only for a second.
This was years later. Older. Greyer. Maybe fifty or sixty. At an anniversary party. We’d been in and out of conversation all night. Easy. Open. Just like normal.
But in that moment I remembered the history in the heat of his body, the density of it. And I craved it.
I looked up at him, swallowed, and made to step away, towards the bar, but he caught my wrist instead, turning the palm inwards.
“Why not get a proper feel of it?” He sniggered into my ear as my hand cupped him. “Since you like touching it so much.”
He placed his own fingers over mine and helped me to work the zipper down, and as I ventured inside the split in his trousers, he took my other hand and laid it smoothly against his neck. We might have been dancing, only he reached under my skirt, found the hole in my tights and worried at it with his thumb.
“And I’ll get a proper feel of you.”
The music was softer than moss but couples swayed around us, and we mimicked their easy rhythm filthily.
The hole grew larger. His fingers grew warmer. Grew clammy. And he grew fatter, firmer at my touch, both of us shuddering with the other’s movements. He moved his hand from between my thighs to the open neck of my blouse, feeling my breasts like a sixteen year old boy would, unknowing of their history – the children they’d sustained and the indignities of middle age they’d endured.
“Still beautiful. Still succulent. Still off limits.” he whispered into my hair and gasped as my grip tightened just enough for him to feel the sharp hit of pain before I withdrew, righted my breasts, and headed back on my original path to the bar.
“Yep, still.” I called over my shoulder, but the words were swallowed up by the first cries of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow, and a surge of well-wishers towards him.