Up until that point it had all been fun, pointless flirting. A little touch here and there, on his knee, on my back. He lent me his jacket, I stole a loli-pop. But I know we could have backed down any time before then and it could have been blamed on the beer and wine.
It started honestly, you know? Almost harmlessly. We were in a massage line. I don’t remember how that started, actually; blame it on the wine or the tequila. Although the tequila might have come after the massage, I’m still fuzzy. I don’t usually get fuzzy when I drink. I just get more confident, and then also, that sweet warm feeling. I’m a happy drunk, really.
I’m not a black out drunk, or a slutty drunk- or at least I wasn’t until last night.
See, he was massaging me, and we were still flirting- it’s easy when you’re being massaged. You know, with the whole skin contact, and "Harder?" thing. But then one of those pale, warm hands slipped up my neck and wrapped itself in my hair. And pulled back.
It didn’t matter that he was old enough to be my father, or that we were in a public place, or that I was massaging a Greek Ambassador- we could have done anything and I would’ve welcomed it.
He didn’t though. His hands just skimmed down, pausing each on neck, shoulders, and mid-back but then continuing the down drift just to the band of my thin skirt. Then up, then down lower. I leaned back and his hands came around my waist, “Getting a bit familiar, aren’t you?”
I think I whispered it, but I was drunk, and really, what's a whisper after a bottle of wine? I don't know if the others noticed, or if they cared. A few tables over there was another couple that might have embarrassed me if I'd been sober- I'm sure they wouldn't have cared if we'd had our way with each other on the table.
I'm not sure if I would have either.
I can’t remember if we kissed in the bar, or if we were outside, but I remember feeling I wasn’t myself any more. I only existed against his hands, and his lips, and his body.
I remember that sweet British accent saying “lovely tits” as his hands slipped up my shirt in the middle of the side walk, pressed against him.
I remember holding hands like school children, and trying to walk in a straight line.
I remember leaning forward to say good bye and feeling his hands wrap around me in an almost plutonic hug and told me the golden rule: “Coach surfing is not a dating site.”
