Chats in the Stairwell

Slowly, I'd stroked his bare sides. They'd been clammy and nervous, but they felt good; Scott was not the sort of man who allowed himself to develop a spare tire. He'd gasped, his belly jerking back; poor man was ticklish. I'd smiled up at him, now in a proprietary way, and tipped my head back against the wall, my mouth slightly open. I'd dared him to come kiss me again.

I'd felt his fingers on my cheek twitch as my hands met at his sweaty spine, and then he'd been all over me, his head tipped far to the side in order to clear our noses. One of us had moaned; I remembered being embarrassed at the realization that it was me. Shit, the guy was an excellent kisser; he'd had an exceptionally agile tongue, and the only thought in my flaming brain had been to wonder how good he must be at cunnilingus. I'd been sending him loud telepathic messages: Go for my tits! Reach under there and grab me! There couldn't have been much more than twenty minutes left, and whatever analytical part of my mind remained had been concerned about the sweaty state of our clothes.

It had taken a few minutes of frantic smooching, but eventually he'd gotten the message. I'd felt his hands move hesitantly down to my waistband, touching my hips briefly, and as my eyes had fluttered open I could see he was staring nervously at me as we kissed. Poor guy; he hadn't wanted to offend me. I'd encouraged him by reaching far down his back, my fingertips creeping barely into his shorts and past the elastic of his underwear, and then he'd finally reached up under my shirt. I'd moaned with approval, hoping he interpreted it that way. Distantly, I'd started to wonder whether it would do less damage to just take my shirt off, thus avoiding any more unsightly sweat stains.

He'd pulled off after five solid minutes of groping, the lighter kind without much undue attention to erogenous zones. I'd been careful there, remembering he was married; I'd sensed he didn't need me grabbing his dick, but I was nearly single and didn't much care. I made my decision, pushing him slightly backward and then smiling flirtatiously as I whipped the belly shirt over my head and leaned back against the wall in my bra. I can't say I'd been expecting to get any that day, so it was just a sensible white number with minimal lace. As I'd stared at him looking down at my body, I'd wondered whether I'd brought anything sexier to the workshop, and whether it was clean.

For tomorrow.

He'd gulped awkwardly a few more times, starting to realize what was going on and what all this meant, and I'd cursed to myself; I'd gone too far, too fast. His hands had returned to my back, but I'd noticed he was careful now to avoid my bra strap. I'd smiled encouragingly and held him, sensing it was over. "Well," I'd said slowly into his chest, "how's that for an experiment?" He'd chuckled, his lips moving in my hair, and grunted a little.

"I'd say your hypothesis is sound," he'd said, regaining control of himself as he turned to look up the stairs. I'd taken the opportunity to shift against him, testing whether he had an erection; that had been me, gathering my own kind of data. Personal-use stuff; back then I'd been sensitive about my abilities with men, and I'd craved feedback. Against my hip I'd felt it, a very firm lump down there where his dick should be. "Two Nebraskans can definitely get it on in the stairwell."

"Hmm," I'd replied, leaning back. My mind had been racing. "Can they, though? I mean, we've been here, what, ten minutes?" I'd made a show of checking my watch; there'd still been time, barely, to get Scott's armpits in front of some A/C, and I'd patted his chest softly to get him to back off. "They're old. I can't imagine they could get here, get laid, and get back up there in ten minutes." My shirt was lying in a dusty corner, a poor shot from me. In fairness, though, I'd been distracted when I threw it.

"Well." He'd stepped back to watch me dress and as he scanned my belly I'd sensed him make his own decision. "So, uh, maybe further experimentation?"

I'd smiled ecstatically once my shirt was over my face, then resumed my cool expression as I pushed my head through the neckhole. "Why, Scott," I'd purred, adjusting myself. "It almost sounds as though you enjoyed yourself down here."

"Maybe a little bit," he'd admitted with a shy smile, fanning his shirt away from himself where it stuck to his abs. "Fucking nasty down here, though. I might need to bring a change of clothes next time."

"You might," I'd agreed, sauntering past him.

* * *

Now I was up, bleary, after a bad night's sleep. My coffee wasn't ready fast enough, and I was cranky; I was used to rising with the sun, not before it. There was very little cream left for the coffee, and I messed up with the sugar; it scattered over the counter, and I'd been annoyed to have to clean it up. Damn, but I was rattled. Breakfast was a slice of cantaloupe and some toast.

Leon had wanted to FaceTime last night, but I'd begged off because there was just too much to do. He'd settled for some listless phone sex instead, but my heart just wasn't in it. I could tell he got off in less than six minutes, though, and that was the point. Although truthfully, the man was stuck on an oil rig in the North Sea. A cartoon stick figure of me would have gotten him off in the same amount of time.

But I felt like a fraud as I spat sweet nothings into my phone, for in the end I'd made my decision: I'd shaved myself. For another man. I told myself it was just grooming, but I knew better. It was seduction, sort of; in the end, I just really wanted Scott Herrick to see me in yoga pants. We were eight years on from the stairwell chats, and I had no idea whether we'd even still be interested in each other, but that didn't matter. I wanted him to look at my butt, and the yoga pants were the obvious choice.

I'd taken care with my hair and makeup this morning: nothing could be done about the length, but I used extra conditioner for the split ends, a pair of jaunty, wavy ponytails in the back; some eyebrow trimming, a dark winy lipstick. I was proud of my skills with eye makeup, and I'd spent a few extra minutes in the mirror making sure my wings were just so. Now the car was warming up, the travel mug was getting filled, and things were barely starting to come together.

In my old-school way, I'd printed out driving directions the night before. I disliked my phone talking to me as I drove, preferring my New Wave played very, very loudly. The directions said the workshop was nearly two hours away, near the mountains. My plan involved the conference, then an extra night to stage for a short backpacking trip the next night, home on Sunday. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for Monday morning with my AP crew. It had seemed a great, relaxing plan before I'd been expecting to see Scott Herrick. And it was still great, but the relaxation was gone.

I was very anxious about seeing him again, I concluded. As I raced toward the freeway, Limahl blasting from my speakers, I realized I had absolutely no idea at all what to expect. Was he expecting anything? He clearly remembered me; the stairwell had been pretty great, but then I hadn't remembered his name right away. I certainly hadn't looked at the email list and made the connection he had. So why was he all I'd been thinking about since Tuesday? My Wednesday workout had been an absolute killer, no quarter given, and even as I'd watched my sweat drip steadily onto the mat, I'd been wondering about him.

And I still was, even as I missed my exit and headed east down the wrong road. "Shit on a stick," I muttered to myself, disgusted, as I realized the first chance to turn around was some three miles ahead. I started doing some math in my head, remembering the extra time I'd spent on my eyes, and cleaning the sugar, and it all added up to a painful conclusion.

I reached over for my phone and punched up the Stairwell contact.

I MIGHT BE LATE, I typed. FUCKING TRAFFIC. MAKE SURE YOU SAVE ME A SEAT.

Send.

And then I waited, preoccupied with not crashing as I sped toward the next exit. The speakers were all Erasure now, and I couldn't help but sing along. The music was so loud I missed Scott's text until I thought to check, now back on the right road several minutes later.

OF COURSE I'LL SAVE YOU A SEAT. HOW DO YOU TAKE YOUR COFFEE?

I smiled tightly. CREAM AND SUGAR, LOTS OF BOTH. THX! I'd lied a tad; I wouldn't be late, not really. The conference started at nine, and I'd planned to get there for 8:30. The big issue was that I'd wanted to beat Scott, had wanted to be sitting there with a big smile on my face as he walked in.

So much for that plan. It hardly mattered, though. And when the instructions said I was within ten miles of my destination, another text came through. It warned of parking problems at the hotel. THE BEST SEATS ARE ALREADY TAKEN, BUT I'LL DO MY BEST FOR US.

He was there already. NOW I'M JUST LOOKING FOR BREAKFAST. I felt a twinge. I'd thought they'd only provide lunch. MOSTLY BAGELS, IT SEEMS, Scott prattled on. I thought about it.

IF THERE'S YOGURT, GRAB ME ONE PRETTY PLEASE.

I'LL KEEP AN EYE OUT.

I was flying, no more than a few minutes out. There was a strange excitement in my mind, and I realized it was because I had a guy getting me food and coffee. That was nice. The exit for the hotel was coming up soon.

* * *

I'd gotten him breakfast eight years before, the positions reversed: I'd been waiting in the classroom for him. There'd been a shuttle that took us hotel people to and from the college, while he'd been on his own schedule. He'd come calmly in, as usual sweeping his eyes across all the early arrivals; we'd still had around twenty minutes before the instructor was due, and Scott liked being early. He'd scowled at the cereal I'd brought him from the hotel.

"Thanks, Shannon, but I'm good." He'd put the little box carefully in his army backpack. "I had a pop-tart on the way."

"Breakfast of champions." I'd been finishing the last of my granola, and now I glanced slyly over at him as he sat. He'd brought an extra bag today, and I'd nodded down at it. "Change of clothes?" I'd whispered with a grin.

He'd returned the grin and shrugged. "What can I say?" He'd begun sucking down the coffee I'd gotten him, black, no sugar. I'd arched an eyebrow.

"What?" I'd persisted, still very low. "Were you planning on needing a change of clothes today? Whatever for?" He'd lifted his head, then, and gazed right at me, slowly working his eyes up my body: the last day of a weeklong hotel stay had put me in running shorts and a t-shirt. My legs had been stretched boldly out right next to him, freshly shaved. I'd been unable to find a nicer bra, but if I'd needed to I figured I could make up for it by simply taking it off. Men like hot bras, but they like naked better.

He'd glanced furtively around for a second. "Want to get an early start?" he'd whispered. "You know, another chat?"

I blinked once, not expecting such boldness. In truth, I'd had a nervous night because I'd expected it to be a nervous morning. After our stairwell chat the day before, we'd gone back to fairly platonic note-passing before he'd beaten a hasty retreat back home when the conference ended at 4:00. I'd spent my evening watching gameshows and looking forward to an awkward Friday. Instead, he'd just offered to get it on. Again. I hadn't wasted any time standing up. "I'll leave first and meet you down there." I'd left quickly but calmly on the pretext of taking my breakfast trash from the room. I even offered to take the New York fattie's spent coffee cup.

It'd been impossible to open the stairwell door quietly, though I tried. The fluorescence was just like it had been on Thursday; it really had seemed as though no time really passed down there, like it always looked precisely the same no matter what time or season it was. I'd skipped down the stairs, checked to make sure the dusty chain still secured the basement door, and leaned against the same spot as before. the chilly damp making goosebumps rise. On impulse I'd stepped out of my sandals, whipped my shirt off and dropped the shorts, standing there in a very practical pair of mismatched underwear, my last clean set. This time, I'd been more careful about where I'd put the clothes, but clothing removal was a good decision; my armpits were already dampening.

I'd jumped when the door had rattled open above me, though I couldn't see it around the corner of the stairs. I'd shivered, and not just because it was chilly. I'd kept my eyes straight ahead at where Scott should appear, our faint footprints in the dust the only evidence from yesterday. There'd been a pause before I'd heard his feet coming quickly down the stairs, and I'd not had any time for a final pep-talk to myself before he'd come flying around the corner to see me just about naked.

I'd had nothing to be ashamed of, body-wise: even then I was reasonably athletic, doing kickboxing three times a week, and at 26 it's easy for a woman to look good anyway. So I hadn't slouched nor looked furtively down, but instead had stood proudly waiting. The reason for the pause was clear as soon as he appeared, his t-shirt balled up in his hand, showing me his hairy chest. He'd stopped and looked down at his shirt. "Shit," he'd said, annoyed. "I thought I'd be ahead of the game."

I'd laughed quietly, still echoing. "What? I'm just picking up where we left off." I'd touched my panties and muttered, "Almost." He'd smirked and resumed walking toward me. "Good morning, Scott," I'd said sexily, leaving the wall in order to meet him.

Whatever our relationship had become at that point, there was no doubt I'd been escalating things. Even though I'd probably have shown Scott even more if we'd gone to a beach or a swimming pool, a woman's underwear over her bare body is, no question, over the line. He had looked fine shirtless, without a whole lot of jiggly bits, even though he hadn't been very cut either. But my hands had already known from the day before that I'd like his body, so there'd been no surprise there.

We'd met and embraced in the center of the landing, and since there's always something exciting about touching naked flesh, I felt my nipples tightening inside the plain ivory-colored bra. He'd been much less shy that morning, running his fingers up and down my back, tugging at my bra strap, and eventually descending to cradle my ass through the panties. But by then we'd already been in liplock, hungrier than Thursday, his surging lips not at all tentative. If he'd done any thinking the night before, about his life or about me or about his wife or about us, he must have decided he liked kissing me just fine.

I'd been good with that.

Things had become messy and breathless almost immediately, saliva smearing all over ourselves as we tried to suck each others' faces off. The stairwell had echoed with lewd smacks and licks and moans. He'd been, as I'd noticed the day before, an outstanding kisser, experimental and various and exciting and generous. His mouth had been everywhere, trailing itself across my cheeks, my jaw, my ears, my neck; he'd slid his tongue down to leave a trail of saliva across the tops of my pale little breasts, me holding him there with a locked arm.

I'd jammed a bare leg between his, and then I'd sent my other hand straight down the back of his shorts; I'd felt my watchband scratch him as it passed through, but he certainly didn't mind. I'd smiled, my mouth wide open, as I'd grabbed his ass, and he'd gone crazy, panting as he'd pulled down my bra cup and attacked the first nipple he could find.

This had to be the best AP workshop ever.

Things had obviously gotten well out of hand, but we'd both been aware that the day was young: this meant we needed to button ourselves up and leave this dank cave soon in order to get to class, and that there was always lunch to look forward to. I'd grasped Scott by the ears and pushed him away from my shallow cleavage, grinning wickedly at him; by that time, I'd plainly been able to feel his hard-on against my thigh. Frantic, I'd humped his leg a few times, bellydancer style. "Another first-rate experiment," I'd said as coolly as I could with my nipple hanging out in the open.

He'd backed off and looked me up and down, admiring me with a frankness I'd found electrifying. I'd just kept on grinning, debating whether or not to remove my bra; there'd seemed little point in leaving it on by that time, and I could tell Scott would certainly be amenable. His mouth had gaped open, and he'd gulped as he'd reached down to adjust himself in his cargo shorts.

"Getting uncomfortable down there?" I'd asked cheekily. He'd grinned back, eyeing my exposed boob.

"Not for long," he'd muttered, glancing at his watch. "I figure we've got about seven minutes or so, which is five minutes more than I'll need at this point."

"Well now!" This had just crossed the next line, an even further one than bra removal. "Just what are you asking for, sir?" Unable to stop myself, I'd taken two steps toward him; he'd backed us into view from the doors at the top of the stairwell, but neither of us cared. I'd reached out a saucy hand and grabbed his penis through the shorts, rubbing it roughly, my eyes boring into his. "Something you want done?"

"Shit," he'd growled, reaching over once again to finger my breasts. He'd pulled down the other bra cup, feasting his eyes on my hard nipples. We'd gotten close again, my leg once more between his, and I'd leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"If you want," I'd said recklessly, "we can let this experiment reach its... climax... later." I'd nibbled on his earlobe. "You can have me for lunch, if you want." A cheesy line, but who cared at that point; I'd been jacking the guy's dick in my hand from over his clothes, and I'd seriously been considering digging that hand into the front of his shorts.

"Only if you have me first," he'd replied with an ear-lick of his own, and I'd moaned despite myself. We'd spent a few more seconds groping and gasping, sharing hot stares before he'd blinked and come back down to earth. "Shit, Boyle. We need to get back up there."

I'd groaned in frustration, but he was right. We'd both known how it would look if the two of us arrived late, together, sweaty, and flushed. That was not a walk of shame either of us felt like taking. "Promise me," I'd said a little fiercely, looking him in the eyes, "that we'll have another chat over lunch." Feeling cheesy again, I'd tugged at his dick. "A long chat."

He'd burst out laughing, and with one more kiss we'd gotten ourselves together, freshened up my lipstick, and headed toward the bathrooms for cleanups. We'd gotten ourselves back, separately, with five minutes to spare before the instructor got started, beaming at us over his bushy beard.

"Good morning, guys!" he'd boomed. "Welcome to Friday!" We'd slowly dug out our binders, getting ourselves ready for notes taken and passed, and the instructor had smiled affably. "Y'all have been a great group. I'd like us to do the course critique during lunch, then we can sit around and gab after that over dessert. It's something I like to do on the last day: a long group lunch, lots of good cheer, and maybe some good reflection on the coursework. That'll save us some time later; I'll have you out of here by 3:30. Sound good?"

A chorus of enthusiasm had erupted, for everyone likes dessert. I put my pen down and angrily shoved my binder toward Scott, just as he did the same thing. His mouth had been a tight line. "Fuck," said his penciled block script.

"Shit," said my simultaneous cursive. We hadn't been happy.

* * *

So our lunch rendezvous, whatever it would have been, had descended into our imaginations. After a few years I hadn't even thought about it anymore; it had become just another mid-20s fling in a half-decade of flings, punctuated by occasional steady boyfriends. Scott and I had emailed fitfully for a few months, but it hadn't lasted.