Touch of Desire

It was his hands. His paws were the one and only thing that attracted him to me that night. Everything else about him was quite unexceptional, bordering on flat out repugnant, but I burned to have his huge mitts on me. Envy is what I felt for the glass he was holding. I wanted to be fondled in its place. How dare that vessel receive his touch when I, myself was so empty. My own little world had recently disinagrated around me, and all I could think of was the pleasure his hands could give my needy body.

I was out of my element as I watched him from my stool. An awkward alien in a bar room and stranger still to intoxicants. My own glass of wine had given me a warm liquid feeling. As I stared at him over my own glasses rim, I pictured myself doing the backstroke into his arms. Save me. Comfort me. Please make me feel something other than pain. I had lost my land legs, I realized, as my legs waved below me when I slipped off my chair as he finely motioned me over.

It could have been easier had I known what I was doing. All I needed to say was simply, "touch me", and it would have saved me some valuable caressing time. He could have cradled me in the palm of his hand, or wrap me around his little finger. It didn't matter. All I wanted was his grasp.