The Poetry of Initial Attraction

AS I ROUND the corner to the bar, I see you, sitting on a low stool at a table crowded by cocktails, circled by a few friends. You are sharply dressed, but somehow still looking relaxed. We look at each other at the same moment, a mutual catch of the eye, a coincidence that would only be repeated by intention. I sit at the bar and order from my favourite bartender with just an acknowledgment.

I look back, just at the moment you look up again to see if I was looking at you and again we catch each other’s eye. From that moment, you glance in my direction every few seconds, trying to determine if I am indeed looking at you, yet clearly hoping not to get caught looking. I fixate my gaze evenly in your direction and catch you every time, shyly averting your eyes when you realise I have seen you. I savor this silent flirtation, as if neither wants to admit a weakness for the other.

I know that you will soon join me at the bar, finding some excuse to leave your friends for a while. You might sit across from me, a small distance separating us, trying to look like you’ve got it all handled and that I have no effect on you. The conversation flows – thick, rich, intimate, sweet. Maybe you say something funny, charming and it makes me laugh — although to be fair, laughter comes easily to me. You laugh too, but I am clearly watching you watching me.

Your collarbone peaking out of your shirt catches my eye. I try to ignore it, but as you shift on the high bar stool, I can’t help but notice it again and again and I realise suddenly that I want to know what you look like under your clothes. I’m still listening to you (I promise, I swear!), but I find myself yearning for a better look, to slowly unbutton your shirt and push it back from your chest. My fingers are imagining what your skin feels like, the firmness of your body under my touch, stroking across the smooth until I find a rough patch. What does your chest look like below that structured ridge? All well-defined muscles across your thick chest? Hills and slopes for me to lay against, that ridge the perfect resting place to hook my fingers? Would your nipples alert to my absent-minded toying?

I want to be close enough to you to lay my lips on that sweet, tender spot where your neck meets your shoulder, wind my fingers around a curl of your hair and pull roughly.

I try to resist, but I can’t help but imagine my hands wrapping around your neck, stroking gently over that place where I can feel your heartbeat through, before squeezing. Closing my hands around my thigh, I suppress the desire to touch you this way, knowing very well that is too early, but wanting it so badly.

I realise that the conversation has trailed off and you are looking at me awaiting a response. I think the look on my face must give away that heat building between my legs, but if it does, you are far too courteous to tell me. I’m sure I laugh again, perhaps a bit nervously myself this time.

You refill my water glass and perhaps our hands sneak towards one another, a gingerly touch of the fingers, before finding a more confident intertwining. I can see the tendons straining through your wrist like the steel cables of a bridge and I’m inclined to smooth them out by smoothing out your hand. I want to touch you there, feel what that tender, smooth skin on the inside of your wrist would be like under my fingers, my lips, my teeth. I want to control the tension in your body, tightening and loosening, under my command. Instead, I tuck my tiny palm in the indentation in yours and my fingertips under the metal links of your watchband, secretly feeling for your pulse point.

Those strong arms were made to hold someone, to wrap firmly around a smaller body that would melt into the nooks and spaces, and for a moment, I yearn to feel them around me. I mentally scold myself not to lose the plot of the conversation, knowing I’m one thought away from picturing myself lying on top of you. Chest to chest, imagining your solid body as my foundation, nearly feeling your nipples ticking mine, wondering if your hips are boney and would bruise my inner thighs. Would I find beautiful, colorful ink adorning your skin or sensuous, textured scars like pathways guiding me across your body like a storybook treasure map?

I shake myself out of it, not wanting to rudely follow this train of thought and I wonder if I shook my head in real life and if you noticed. My body yearns to be against yours now, without the barriers of fabric in between, to feel that intimacy made tangible.

I want to know what your eyes look like when filled with lust; controlled and awaiting my permission. What shapes could your body be twisted into before you beg me not to break you? How far would you push to please me?

You have been gone from your friends for quite a while and you ask quietly if you will see me again.

Yes, we’ll meet here, again, tomorrow. You’ll wait for me until I arrive.


My writing is fuelled by copious amounts of coffee and the generosity of my submissive muses; if you’d like to support my creativity, make a contribution or send a tip.

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