Beautiful Day Under Her Skirt
I HAD FOLLOWED HER all day long, my eyes riveted on the seams along
her calves, my sex hard in my hand in my trousers packer. She wore a
straight black skirt, slit at the back of her thighs, one hand above
her knee. I dreamed of her, a predator with a red mouth, pumps
gloaming in crystal chandeliers. I followed her into the streets; her
heels rang out. I followed her into a bar where she stroked her
knees, write under the block nylon. She drank very hot coffee, eyes
daring lonely males. I followed her into stores. Under white light
spots, I put my fingers on the skirts she had tried on. She may have
turned around once or twice. I hid my face in my coat collar. Maybe
she knew I was following her. Surely she dedicated to me this black
legs exhibition. At the end of the day she bought high-heeled boots. I
remained on the sidewalk looking at the movement other legs slipping
her nylons into shoes before the crouching salesgirl, whose flesh-
colored thighs stretched her skirt for me. She walked around a little
in her boots, straightening the seam of her stockings, looking at
herself in the mirror, then she looked in my direction, as if wanting
my approval. I looked away immediately, disturbed by her smile. I let
her come out of the store, carrying her shoe box, then I walked fast
behind her. I had a hard-on.
I was in the alley, ten behind her, when I was about to come in
my hand.
She turned around, placed her fingers on the imprint of my
sex in my trousers. She said, with her familiar voice: Come on. We're
going home.