I thought about Him all day.
That day in his office replayed in my head as I ate lunch, talked to clients, checked on my sister. Each time, I thought about his large, strong hands massaging my shoulders, kneading the tension away and replacing it with a more carnal tension; I thought of the how even his office chair felt erotic, as I became aware of the lower part of my body. I thought of how his breath was labored as he described his last sexual encounter. I pretended not to notice his erection.
He asked, brazenly so, "Have you ever had multiple orgasms?"
My face felt hot as I mustered up a nervous chuckle. I didn't answer. I avoided the question by sliding my freshly-pedicured feet from my pointy Anne Klein mules and pretended to massage them. At the time, I thought this action was simply defensive -- a way to counter his boldness, a way for me to gain control of the situation. "My feet are killing me," I lied. His erection remained.
Days after the incident, I realized I consciously invited him into my intimacy.
He took my feet into his hands, taking the place of my hands. His hands felt so good; I felt daring, sexual. He admired my toe polish color, and then offered up an anecdote I can't quite recall now. He touched my ankles, I flinched. "Give me your other foot," he said.
The mere act of lifting my leg to him made me squirm. He massaged. Suddenly he let my left foot go and excused himself. Where he went, I don't know. But I took it as my cue to get myself together.
When he returned, he looked flustered, as though he'd been caught in the act of committing unbridled sin. I was ready to leave. I hugged him (wtf!!) and thanked him for letting me look over his portfolio.
On my way home, whizzing north on Lake Shore Drive, I laughed at the cliché of what had just happened. I laughed at my wild imagination. I laughed at myself. I laughed at the sensations below my navel. And I, too, needed to excuse myself.