AFRAID OF THE DARK ROOM

I insisted… “It must be fun… feeling hands everywhere, not knowing who or how is it… the abstraction of touch, of senses, inconsequential pleasure.”
Quite vexed, he went, with me, holding hands and panicking.

Therein the dark, in the darkest room, the hands, others and mine.
I searched him and found him. [Later i knew that it wasn’t him… he had escaped… what a dork!]
He was calm. Light-headed between two women. I left him relish.
More hands, Mais mãos, grasping for textures, sounds and humidities.
A pair of hands surprised me. A man, sitting, [sitting? who knew that place had seats…] that from the first touch burned my senses.
He ran my body, with both hands, absolutely synchronous. Parallel. Almost in slow motion.
He savored every curve of my shoulders, every jut of my chest, every contour of my waist, my bum, everything, with the perfect pressure.

Surprised, I mimicked him – while I was still hadn’t lost my senses – with the woman next to me. I think she liked… Because if i was enjoying it, she should be enjoying it also…
I dared a little bit more with her, because better than men, we know those little things, important details, that as much as we tell men they insist not to mind.
I puzzled myself. To touch in another woman? And in such an intimate way?

My magnificent hands man was driving me nuts!

The next thing I remember is to thank him, like a stripper after a lap dance, with a kiss on the cheek e an honest “thank you”.

My man, outside, was waiting for me. Anxious. Regretful. He saw gorgeous women getting in. Authentic runaway models, in droves.

It wasn’t hard to push him into to the dark again. I waited him. Smoking a deserved cigarette. He came back with a clean grin: “They were three”.

We got out, embraced, telling stories to each other, laughing like we’re crazy.