Best Women's Erotica(41)

I thought of that palm all night as I sprawled naked between the cool, thin cotton sheets, pressing my fingers against slick folds as I imagine he might have desired. I can’t be sure who got the menu I laced that night; yet, whether or not they planned to order accordingly, it seems they got the special.

Menus are easy to access, I discovered. Whether it’s a coffee shop or a fancy restaurant, there is plenty opportunity to insert yourself into people’s lives. That’s why they became the scene of my first few experiments. You see, what my ex had unwittingly taught me by leaving that photo in public is that there is a fine line between embarrassment and eroticism. The body language of surprise is similar to the body language of sex: widened eyes, gasping, trembling, mouth dropping open, the sharp jolt of tension that passes through your chest. If approached correctly, what may have originally surprised then embarrassed you can be redirected to surprise and excite you.

The last of the restaurant rotation I left inside the seat of the piano bench at a seafood place that featured live music on Saturday nights. On top of the sheet music was a distant shot of my ass, glowing with handprints. The camera’s timer had come in handy and with every second countdown, I slapped my skin a little harder, priming myself for the perfect shot. Maybe the piano man would find it after a long night of playing, hide it from his bandmates and stop in the restroom before his drive home. Leaning against the chilly marble countertop, he would sweep his hand along his cock like playing a slide trombone, picturing his pelvis bumping against my strawberry cheeks and making my sweet cunt sing.

I toured an open house in a nearby neighborhood, posing as an interested homebuyer. Inside one of the kitchen drawers I left a new photo of me. The realtor revealed that the house was move-in ready since the previous owners had already moved into their new home. So move in I did…on a dark-haired couple who was also touring. “This may sound strange,” I said to them when they stopped to examine the kitchen sink fixtures. “But you two look great in this house. Something about it just suits you.” Later I pictured them as happy new homeowners, him wearing a paint-stained alma mater T-shirt and her in short shorts, surrounded by boxes and trying to settle into this new house. She would be putting away knives and spoons and discover a folded picture of legs in fishnets straddling a kitchen chair. “Honey, come and see this,” she would say. He would enter, stand behind her and wrap one arm around her small waist, using the other to hold out the photo for examination. “Hmm,” he would mutter as they stood in contemplation for a moment longer, until she started slowly grinding her rear into him and he pulled firmly against her waist, pressing himself harder into her. Quickly her short shorts would be down and his T-shirt would be flung and they would fuck on the kitchen counter, her hands reaching above her head to grab the shiny sink fixtures for leverage.

Sitting naked on my bedroom floor, I lathered my feet up to my calves in baby oil, leaving them slick and shining. Then I sat cross-legged, being careful not to block too much of my naked center from the camera lens. I carefully threaded a pearl necklace between my toes, beads becoming slick as they passed through. I shaped the trailing end of the necklace into a heart. Click.

I walked onto the first floor of a nearby hotel and dropped the photo, sealed in a manila envelope, at the doorstep of room 169. It seems the lucky resident got a side order of my glossy toes and plump clit with his room service. In the hotel locker room adjacent to the pool I slipped the string of pearls between my legs and rubbed along folds slicker than baby oil.

Then I needed to see my viewers: once, with the photo taped to the front of a TV on display as I watched for reactions from the next aisle over; once with it shoved under the windshield wipers of a four-door sedan with me watching from my rearview mirror; once, gripping my breast in hand while my newspaper blocked my unbuttoned blouse. I had to see who would be so lucky as to pick up the newspaper in which I had hidden my photo.

Tonight there is no newspaper kiosk. No locker room. No open house. Tonight I can only wish for a businessman in a wrinkled gray suit and the picture he might hide away. I’m meeting my brother downtown for dinner and I intend to play it straight. No camera. No pictures. No photo of my ass in a thong slipped at someone’s feet under a bathroom stall door. No shot of an ice cube clutched and melting between my knees. No hiding it under a neighboring plate.

The cab slows as it approaches the restaurant and I slide forward on the magenta leather seat, leaning in to see the tally I owe. The tires stop and I’m pulling out money, but the driver clears the meter to zero. I’m confused. “What do I owe you,” I’m asking, while catching his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Not money,” he says, and his hand is traveling from the meter to his upper thigh, gripping muscle and jeans as one big handful.