Take My HandMature

"Wait a second. How about you put on those clothes first, and then we'll talk some more?" Being logical and buying time. I wasn't prepared to take his hand and be swept away on a wild, whirlwind adventure or whatever he had in mind.
Recalled to himself, he looked at the bundle and said, "Oh, yes, I will do that. Where would you have me dress?"

I lead him to the toilet parlour and waited. He would have no underwear, and I pondered this diverting fact instead of coping with the particulars of the situation at hand, and snickered at thinking of his unbridled package beneath the blue jeans so often worn by my person. Finally, something would be filling out that denim crotch that had for so long only known emptiness, darkness and gloom.

And then I thought to myself, perhaps I ought to hope he offers me his hand again, so I can take it and see where it leads. I liked having my hand held, even if no one else knew it. I even liked shaking hands with people I didn't have too high an opinion of, because I liked holding hands so much. Like a little girl. Like a kindergartner.

I listened to the soft thumping about behind the bathroom door and hoped to myself, just a little, that he would insist upon grasping my hand and sweeping me away - maybe not on a wild, whirlwind adventure (not my speed), but perhaps a shocking and profoundly moving explanation of the exciting mystery behind his presence. He dreamt of me in the night, and wandered the farthest deserts to find the dream, and all was stripped from him in the journey, all but his trusty old grocery bag.

In all honesty, I would have been just as happy if he took my hand and confessed to being a creepy stalker who'd been watching me for months. I find guys digging through my garbage and peeking in my living room window to see what I'm viewing on TV to be romantic.

The doorknob twisted, and I gave the door space to open. The clothes weren't the best fit, since the guy was more tall and lanky than the former owner. I rather missed seeing his pale flesh and little pink nipples now that they were covered up.

I forgot to mention what a nice body he had. Lean, yes, but he looked strong, wiry. His arms and legs were very long, and well shaped, and his skin was white and lovely. He had a firm little tummy dusted with, oh boy does it slaughter me to remember it, the finest patch of thin black hair. His collarbone made me hungry, his shoulders made me weep, his thighs made me cringe in the best possible way to behold them.

Now all these nice things were concealed from sight with the drab disguise of modern male attire. Now all I had to look at was his gaunt, friendly face sticking cheerily out of his collar.

"Can I show you, now?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Sure. Where are we going?" I was willing to play along. He wasn't a big talker, and neither was I. If he had something to "show" me, I'd have a look. One doesn't come across many people who have anything to show. If it turned out to be nothing but an elaborate ploy to flash me, I wouldn't complain. I might laugh, but I wouldn't complain.

"Outside," he said, and waited for me to lead him off.

The End

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