Consenting Adults (3 page)

I wanted to make this stranger hard and eager. I wanted him
to see me and lose all sense of decency, to have him stare and want what he saw
before him. I pulled the top of my cami down so my tits spilled out and I had
access to brush my palm over my nipples, mimicking Tim’s mouth in the fantasy.

The thrill of performing for strangers like that was so hot.
Men would watch with lust in their eyes. Women would watch with fascination and
maybe some desire of their own. I slid my middle finger into my pussy and
stroked in and out, tilting my hips up to deepen the penetration.

I don’t want you to come just yet. Not while we’re
heading back to the top where it’s harder for people to see. Just keep working
that pussy for a little longer. Rub your clit. Just a little longer baby.
Sitting next to you, I’m so hard just watching you please yourself, seeing you
enjoy everyone’s eyes on you.

Following his instruction, I pressed three fingers over my
clit and worked in quick circles. My hips rocked involuntarily against my hand
and my body trembled, waiting for release.

Here we come back to the bottom. The ride is slowing
down. We’re going to stop right in front of the operator. He’s going to see you
with your fingers all over your hot little pussy, so nice and wet. Let him hear
you baby, let him see you come. Go ahead.

A moan started deep in my throat and rose in pitch as I
worked myself over, faster, harder, pressing my fingers against my clit. The
orgasm erupted in shuddering waves and I cried out with the pleasure of it. I
imagined the lusty, if not surprised look, on the stranger’s face as I came to
halt in front of him, pussy exposed and slick, and Tim next to me, likely with
a raging hard-on that I desperately wanted to take care of.

I wanted him here now, to fill me up and catapult me into
another shattering orgasm.

Just as I began to slow my movements, milking the last of
the sensations from my body, movement from the closet made my heart seize and
damn near skip a beat. The door, which had been slightly ajar, now swung fully
open. Tim stepped out—naked, hard, ready.

Son of a bitch. Sneaky, clever, sexy, irresistible son of a
bitch. I grinned and spread my knees to give him the best possible view of my
pussy. The hunger in his eyes was evident. He stroked himself with one hand.

“Did you like that?” I asked.

He came to the side of the bed and leaned over, kissing me.
His tongue was eager in my mouth, thrusting forcefully, bringing to mind what I
desperately wanted from his cock.

“You’re fucking amazing. That was… that was so hot.” He
knelt beside me on the bed and thrust two fingers into my pussy, making me gasp
out of sheer pleasure. “Watching you, listening to you come like that. Fuck.”

Yes. Fuck. That was exactly what I wanted. I wrapped my hand
around his cock and brushed my thumb over the tip of him. His eyes fluttered
close and he tilted his head back.

“I want you inside me,” I whispered, bringing my knees up
toward my chest.

He positioned himself in front of me and pressed the tip of
his cock to my slick opening. I straightened my legs and he thrust full into
me, his chest against the backs of my legs. He braced his hands on either side
of my head and pressed forward, driving himself deeper into my pussy. He
stretched me, over and over again, the head of his cock brushing against the
sensitive spot inside me with each thrust.

“Oh God, yes,” I whimpered, already close to another climax.
I bit my lip and stared into Tim’s eyes as he continued to fuck me.

He thrust faster, bringing me closer to the edge, seeking
his own release in time, and I thought of how lucky I was to have a man like
him, who was so turned on by the mere sight of me, and even more turned on by
the thought of watching me fuck myself in front of strangers.

One final, animalistic thrust and a guttural moan shook our
bodies, shook the bed, sent us rocketing together in a shared climax more
intense than any we’d ever shared. I trembled in the aftermath, my muscles weak
and tingling, my heart full. Tim collapsed beside me and nuzzled against my
shoulder.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Thank
you
.” I kissed the top of his head. “Maybe
next time we’ll try with the blinds open.”

I'm one of those women you gawk at on the street for wearing
tennis shoes with her skirt suit. Worse yet, I don't even walk to work. I have
one nice pair of heels that I keep at my desk at work—black leather pumps with
a very sensible square, stacked heel. By
sensible
I mean
hardly
attractive
. Such is the curse of the Sasquatch.

That was the affectionate nickname given me in high school,
not by my enemies, but my closest friends. To this day, twenty years later, the
name still haunts me.

It's not that I have anything against cute shoes—in fact, I
love shoes!—but my size 11, triple-E width feet don't share my affection. Let
me give you a little perspective. Shoe widths are a bit like bra cup sizes. C
is pretty average. If a woman says she's a D, well, va-va-va-voom, right? Now,
envision not one E, but three. Getting the picture yet?

I've been living with these boats since I grew into them at
the age of fourteen. I wore flip-flops with a short taffeta dress to my junior
prom. Cowboy boots under my floor-length gown to my senior prom. Walking into
the office in my Asics trainers and designer skirt and blouse is the least of
my fashion crimes.

Tucking a stack of folders under my arm, I push open the
spotless glass doors at Randall Advertising & Design. We do it all here at
Randall. Need a catchy jingle? A stand-out billboard? How about a TV or radio
spot?
The pros at Randall can handle it all. We're RAD: Randall Advertising
and Design.
I love my job, but even we
pros
are prone to a bit of
cheese.

Shelly, our receptionist, is on the phone when I come in.
She waves and mouths a silent “Hi!” as I pass. The office has the expectant
buzz of Friday-ness. Most of the semi-private offices (two desks to a room) are
empty. Friday mornings usually begin in the CCA—Creative Common Area—a large,
open room with each corner devoted to some creative experience. Paints,
crayons, markers for visual arts at one station. A musical corner with a small
upright piano and an array of other instruments, most of them donated by the
company founder, George Randall, as his children—and now grandchildren—picked
up and discarded hobbies over the years. A corner for thinking, dreaming, and
brainstorming houses beanbag chairs, a recliner, pillows, and a metallic wall
which holds what must be the world's largest magnetic poetry collection.

The final corner of the room is dedicated to television and
video games. VHS tapes that actually still work, DVD movies, and an assortment
of video game consoles—from the antiquated but functioning Atari to the modern
PS3 and Xbox 360—get more use than is probably necessary to fuel our
imaginations.

The staff at RAD is pampered, to say the least, but we also
have the highest morale and employee satisfaction of any company I've ever
worked for.

At the center of the CCA sits a large round table, always
stocked with notepads, pencils, and pens. This is where the creativity sparked
in the four corners gathers to gain strength, organization, and direction
before scattering down the hall to our offices to be fanned into flames.

This morning, almost everyone is in the CCA when I enter.
Most are gathered around the center table, though a few have separated to the
four corners. Carter, my office-mate, is getting in his daily round of Duck
Hunt, and Sylvia is off creating her morning masterpiece, which looks
suspiciously like a caricature of the rest of the group huddled around the
table.

I realize they aren't gathered around the table as much as
they are gathered around Nicolette, the newest—and youngest—staff member. Her
pink-streaked blonde hair, nose ring and throwback checkered Chuck Taylors
speak to her nouveau punk attitude, but her porcelain skin and baby blue eyes
hint at the beauty one would expect from a girl named Nicolette.

She's holding her audience rapt with mosh pit stories from
the latest concert she attended. Based on her dramatic retelling, I imagine a
scene at the Sidebar, or another of Baltimore's smaller venues that tend to
attract hardcore punk bands and their wind-milling, kicking, fist-throwing
fans. My sixteen-year-old daughter, Macie, insisted on seeing a show at the
Sidebar a few months ago with her boyfriend at the time. I let her go, on the
condition that I went with them. I'd been to enough shows in my day to know
what she was in for. She ignored my warnings to stay toward the outer edge of
the crowd and nearly had her teeth knocked out by an overzealous “dancer”.
She's since decided she prefers a tamer scene.

“Who did you go see?” I ask at the first convenient pause in
Nicolette's story.

“Flogging Molly. They're a
—”

“Irish punk band. I saw them at Ram's Head last year.” I
shift my folders from one arm to the other. I should've put them on my desk
first. “I didn't realize they were in town again. Bummer. I would've taken
Macie.
”
Nicolette blinks at me.

“You listen to Flogging Molly?”

“Are you kidding? I have every CD. When they were here last
year, one of the opening bands was the Horrorpops. Have you heard them? I bet
you'd like them.” That was one of the concerts Macie and I went to together.
Every now and then she's forced to admit that her old mom has pretty good taste
in music. I'm sure it annoys her.

Nicolette shakes her head, still surprised that I know of
Flogging Molly, much less that I'd seen them in concert.

“Who knew you were so hip, Georgie Porgie?” says Frank,
resident practical joker and annoying nickname giver. I'd almost prefer
Sasquatch to Georgie Porgie. Almost. I ignore him and remain focused on
Nicolette.

“Since when did they get so rough at Flogging Molly shows?
It's always been pretty tame when I've gone, even down in the front row.”
Perhaps tame wasn't the correct word, but not so dangerous that I didn't feel
comfortable letting Macie stand up front on her own.

Her scowl deepens. “You've been more than once?”

“Sure. They don't do a lot of East Coast shows, so I've
traveled to see them before.”

She scoots off the table and shoves her hands in her
pockets. “God, what are you, a groupie? That's so lame.” She stalks past me and
down the hall.

“What's going on?” Carter joins the group, finished shooting
computer-animated ducks and clay pigeons.

“Georgia's calling Ms. Nicorette's bluff, that's all.” Frank
uses Nicolette's nickname this time, not mine.

“What? I was just asking a question.”

“She was probably making half of that stuff up to shock us
old farts. Didn't think any of us would know enough to call bullshit.
Especially not you.”

Now what is
that
supposed to mean? Does everyone
really have such a dull vision of me?

“It's the shoes, isn't it?” I blurt out, drawing blank
stares from everyone around me. My turn to retreat down the hall. As I turn, I
catch a glimpse of Sylvia's sketch and realize I've made my way into it. I can
tell by the oversized clown shoes.

I dive into my project for the day and remain planted behind
my desk for hours. Carter comes and goes, quiet all day. Late in the afternoon,
he returns from one of his many breaks—probably to shoot more ducks—and leans
against the corner of my desk.

“Stop working so hard. It's Friday. You're putting the rest
of us to shame.”

I smile. I guess my all-work-no-play reputation hasn't come
without reason. It won't hurt to divert my attention for a few minutes.

“You're in here slaving away and everyone else is buzzing
around comparing outfits for the gala next weekend.”

RAD redesigned the logo for the fifteenth anniversary of a
local charity and they invited us all to their spring fundraising event for the
unveiling. Dinner, dancing, and silent auction, rubbing elbows with the elite
of Baltimore: politicians, high-profile businesspeople, the heads of
non-profits and social agencies. Strictly black tie. I've purchased a dress
already, but the tags are still on it. Just in case. I can't very well go waltzing
in there with flip flops on. Can I?

“You're going, right?” Carter asks.

“I don't know yet. I don't have shoes.” I know how
ridiculous that must sound to anyone but me, and his wide grin confirms it. Not
his polite smile, close-lipped and impersonal. Not his genuinely warm smile,
which lifts his eyebrows and crinkles the corners of his eyes. Nope, this is
his thoroughly amused smile, broad enough to showcase his
I-had-braces-for-seven-years perfect teeth and reveal the small dimple in his
right cheek.

It occurs to me that I should be irritated with his
reaction, but I don't get the sense that he's laughing at me or teasing me.
He's heard my big-foot rant before and doesn't push the issue. Instead, he
produces a couple of granola bars from his desk drawer and offers me one. I've
worked through lunch without noticing.

He sits and rolls his chair around next to me, close enough
that our knees touch.

“What are you working on?”

I swivel the computer monitor to give him a better view of
T.
Wrecks
, the comical Tyrannosaurus Rex mascot of an auto-body repair shop.

“I'm trying to find the right balance between cartoon
caricature and monster. Especially with the animation.”

All thoughts of ball gowns and shoes leave my mind as we
focus on the screen. We sit like that, knees touching, hands brushing over the
computer mouse or keyboard, working out the problem for the rest of the
afternoon. By the time I leave for the day, T. Wrecks has evolved to near
perfection and I've all but forgotten about my feet.

***

Saturday afternoon, over a lunch of grilled cheese and
tomato soup—a childhood favorite neither my daughter nor I have outgrown—Macie
gushes over some website on her laptop.

“Mom, you have to see these shoes.”

Shoes. Everywhere I go, they taunt me.

“Jenna told me about this website where she got her shoes
for prom last year. I bet you could find something for your dress.”

Skeptical, I peek over her shoulder. The screen is full of
designer shoes, all in my daughter's very reasonable size nine. With a few
clicks, she changes the search criteria to size eleven, EEE width. I explode in
laughter when the results come up. There are actually about ten styles, but
they all have one fatal flaw in common.

“Great. I can wear orthopedic sneakers to a black tie event,
right? How will they look with my dress?”

Macie snorts and almost spits soup onto the keyboard. I
start to turn away, then stop.

“Try double E width.” I've been squeezing my feet into far
narrower shoes my entire life, so why not give it a shot? My heart leaps when
Macie clicks the keys and the screen fills with something other than old lady
sneakers.

Is this truly happening? Might I actually find what I'm
looking for?

I plop down in the chair next to my daughter. I look at her
and she looks back at me with a mix of my green eyes and her own youthful
exuberance. Though she's inherited my punk rock taste in music—and an eyebrow
ring—she still has an inner princess that shines through more often than mine.

We scroll silently down the page and I try to envision each pair
peeking out from the hem of my burgundy dress. Macie puts a few styles into the
virtual shopping cart for me to pick from when we're done. Black satin peep-toe
pumps. Strappy rhinestone heels. On the third page, I see them. The Shoes.
Macie sucks in a breath and I know she's spotted them too. She clicks on the
exact pair.

Simple, silver, T-strap stilettos. Delicate, yet bold enough
to stand out against the deep color of my dress. Without speaking, Macie puts
them in the cart and we look at the checkout screen.

“I already know which ones I want,” I say.

“Yeah. But you should get them all.”

“Macie! Absolutely not.” For all three, the total is close
to $250.

“Mom, you have to! What if the ones you really want don't
fit? You need a backup. Besides, shipping and returns are free. You can send
back the ones you don't want.”

She does have a point. How many times have I found The Shoes
only to discover They Don't Fit? Every time, it seems. I pull out my credit
card and hand it to Macie to finish the checkout process.

“Hey. You still need shoes for prom, right?”

Macie's eyes grow large and a smile twitches at the corner
of her mouth. I nod at the computer.

“Go ahead.”

“Really?”

“Hundred dollar limit, okay? Not a penny more.”

“Mom, you rock.”

At least someone thinks I do.

“Can you burn me a copy of your Horrorpops CD when you're
done?” I ask, clearing away the lunch dishes.

“It's already on your iPod.”

“I know. It's not for me. It's for someone at work.”

***

The shoes are waiting for me when I get home from work on
Tuesday. Macie is already prancing around in her glitter-encrusted platform
heels. They remind me of a disco ball. I decide to try my shoes on in reverse
order of desirability. The black ones are cute, but they pinch my pinkie toes a
little too much to be tolerable all night. Okay, no big deal. Two more to go. A
few of the straps on the rhinestone ones are tight across the instep, but not
too bad. They're a little flashy, though. More Macie's taste than mine.

Finally, the silver stilettos. The strap across the toes
hits just the right spot to contain my unwieldy little toe without being too
tight, and the adjustable ankle strap is comfortable. The T-strap down the
center sits flush against my foot. A perfect fit.

Macie grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet, whirling me
around the living room in a frantic little dance. With the two of us giggling
and spinning around in our new shoes, the moment is absolute perfection. That
is, until we bump into the rickety bookcase, which sways and sends a snow globe
tumbling off the top shelf onto my left foot.