by Harold Mancock
(09/01/10)
I see him there, sitting in the comfy chair across from me. The smell of the library, dusty and old, is masked by his cologne. He is wearing a lot. I can't place the smell, its just man -- strong and masculine. Quietly I breath in his fragrance, hoping he doesn't notice.
The words on the book in front of me become a blur as I bask in his aura. He is reading some speculative fiction novel by the looks of the cover. His thin fingers grasp the binding tightly as he is fully enthralled in the story.
I am fully enthralled in him.
He is wearing gym shorts, they hang loosely on his thighs and from my position I can see almost all the way up, almost. Finding more comfort by laying back against the chair his manhood bulges convexly like a walnut shell -- bumpy and teardrop shaped. His stomach stretches flat. My eyes focus harder on this mysterious basket that the silky fabric of his shorts hugs.
Breaking from the place between his legs, my eyes travel the rest of him, vaguely aware of that my own blood is gathering below my stomach -- muscles beginning to tighten. He wears a T-shirt, loose and fluffy, and as if he senses my stare, his hand reaches underneath the shirt and satisfies an itch which gives a small glimpse of the trail of hair leading downward.
I glance at his face, still inside the novel, he hasn't noticed me. His hair is jet black -- almost blue -- and rests loosely on his hard-cut jawline. His faint green eyes are excited as they read the contents of the book, his lips pursed and relaxed. I imagine them on me, their soft texture rubbing against my neck. Suddenly I
realize I'm stiffening. I adjust myself in the chair to hide it. He glances up at me, my movement breaking his concentration. He gives me a half grin and I return it as he returns to his book.
I try to read, but my heart is moving too fast -- the blood converging in one spot. I try to think of something else, purposefully moving my mind away from the man sitting in front of me, but his smell still consumes our area and it makes me think that he has trapped me in a bubble of his scent. As though he were some mythical beast luring me in with smell like the Sirens did with their enchanting sound.
Against my better judgment, my eyes find their way to the silk-covered basket. It rests comfortably, the outline of its spire seems more apparent to me, and then I think I see it move. I focus harder, unsure if I imagined the movement. I glance again at his eyes, they move back and forth across the page.
My gaze returns to the walnut casing and there can be no mistaking the banana shape slowly growing underneath the silk. I can hear myself breathing -- panting almost. He flexes a muscle and the banana lunges upward then droops down again. I'm filled with an urge to touch it -- to touch myself. It rises and falls again, my gaze burning a warmth that spreads over my face.
It's dancing for me, I think. It rises and falls, rises and falls. Rises and then stays there. I look up and he's staring at me, smirking. I break eye contact, blushing hard, but out of the corner of my eye I can still see the dance, so I venture a look back at him. He smiles again, checks for onlookers, and then puts a hand on his shorts rubbing slightly.
I am fully aroused now; he sees it and licks his lips. I see him look around the library. There are several people reading, a librarian immersed in her computer, and us -- sitting in a corner enclosed in a bubble of man scent and pheromones.
He stands up, book in place as cover, gives me a wink and walks toward the bathroom. As he opens the door and walks in, he turns back to me. I stand up to join him.
