spring
986025924<>2001-03-24

______________

I was sitting in a Dupont Circle cafe this morning when I caught my first glimpse of spring. It wasn't a bluebird, nor the greening of the grass. It had nothing to do with baseball or college trips to Florida or the daffodils just beginning to wake from their long winter sleep in the gardens. My first glimpse of spring was a woman.

She was young, not long out of high school. No doubt she was a student at George Washington or Georgetown or Catholic or any of a number of area schools where slim, suburban-looking blondes matriculate. She walked into the coffee shop with her shoulder-length blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail. She wore no makeup. And despite the lingering crispness in the air, she wore a thin, white tank top, under which her ivory colored bra was clearly visible. She wore no jacket, no make-up and her jeans were baggy. Completing the picture was a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, much like the ones Jodie wears.

More than anything else about her, it was her tank top that reminded me of spring. During the winter months, it's easy to forget the shapes of people's bodies beneath all those layers of wool and cotton. Spring is the time when one is reminded that women have breasts, that men have round shoulders and sharply defined calf muscles. It is a prelude to the hot mugginess of a D.C. summer, when males and females alike play frisbee on the Mall in states of near-nakedness, when thin sheens of sweat cling to slopes of necks and chests.

The tank top this young woman (she was certainly no older than 20) was wearing had tiny spaghetti straps and was cut low and straight across her chest. It was nowhere near the length required to cover her midsection, which flashed white and smooth above the tops of her faded Levis'. By contrast, the jeans were a couple of sizes too large for her, so one could clearly see that her panties were light blue and made out of some satiny material.

I tried to be as surreptitious as possible as I stared at her out of the corner of my eye, today's Post laying flat on the table in front of me. I watched her as she stepped to the counter, looked over the chalkboard menu above her and placed her order. I found myself noticing all the little marks visible on her body: the light spray of freckles across her right shoulder, the two small moles just beneath her left collarbone. Baggy as her jeans were, they couldn't completely disguise the roundness of her ass, the way it rolled when she walked. Although slender, she was not waifishly thin, and her white belly curved pleasantly as it dipped downward toward her pelvis. Her breasts were not large, but they were prominently defined against her brief top. They were curved, like the rest of her was curved, with rounded undersides that swelled into the confines of her brassiere.

I closed my eyes briefly as she ordered her drink, and felt myself want her. I wanted her. I wanted her curves. I wanted to put my lips around the curve of her shoulder and taste her freckles. I wanted to skim my hand across the curve of her belly and reach down into her jeans from behind. I wanted to feel the twin curves her ass, the way her gluteal muscles moved beneath the thin fabric of her panties. I wanted to run my lips across the curve of her cheek while the curves of her torso pressed against my chest.

My penis stirred within my khakis as the parade of images passed through my mind's eye. My tongue and teeth at the back of her neck, my hands massaging her breasts under her top. My lips at her navel, my fingers beginning to tug at the buttons of her jeans in preparation for the journey southward. The way she had to smell, all floral body wash and herbal shampoo from this morning's shower. Her hands on me, her small fingers grazing my naked back. Her hair shining golden in the sunlight streaming through the window as she bent her head to take me in her mouth.

Jodie was suddenly there, in my fantasy. She cradled the girl's cheeks as if they formed a goblet, she drank deeply from the girl's small, pale lips. Their eyeglasses would clink together as they kissed and they would both laugh. I would watch from across the room as Jodie stroked her, teased her, seduced her. The smell of their arousal, the musky aroma of their wetness, would rise and mingle in the air while they coated each other's bodies with kisses. Their moans, the rustle of flesh against nude flesh, would make me take my penis in my hand and begin to stroke. Jodie's short brown hair bobbing between the girl's pale thighs. The cheeks of Jodie's ass clutched in the girl's eager fingers, her tongue working desperately in an effort to bring my girlfriend to orgasm. My heart pounding as I shot high into the air, my fluid landing on my chest, my stomach, my legs.

Or maybe it would be different. Maybe Jodie and I would work together, commanding the young woman, being stern with her, making her do things for us. She lies on the bed before us, her tank top and bra pushed up over her breasts, her jeans and panties gathered in a heap around her ankles. Josie and I, fully clothed, standing on either side of her, enjoying the flush of shame and excitement on her cheeks, ordering her to touch herself, to make herself come for us. We make love next to her while she watches, we tell her to put her fingers deep inside herself, to not climax before both of us do. Her youthful face contorts with the effort to stave off her orgasm, her teeth gnaw on her lower lip, her fingers work furiously between her tense thighs.

By the time the young woman walked out of the cafe with her purchase, I found that I was gnawing on my own lower lip. There was no way I could stand up without revealing my arousal, the tiny, telltale spot of wetness at the front of my trousers. I checked my watch. Jodie can't get home soon enough.

I know that, on many levels, my lusting after this young woman was wrong. She did not put on what she was wearing today in order that she may be ogled at and fantasized about by some strange man in a coffee shop. She is a person with her own hopes and fears, joys and worries, amibitions and anxieties and relationships. So on the one hand, I feel a twinge of guilt for having objectified her in the way I did, reduced her to nothing more than a lovely collection of alabaster curves.

On the other, I can't wait until Jodie gets home, so we can get naked and in the sack and I can tell her about my first glimpse of spring.

______________

Know when I update: