Impact 14: of The Gaze

"This it?"

The driver's voice shook me from my thoughts. He was looking around doubtfully at the riot of activity around us.

"Home!" I answered, reaching for my purse.

My street was busy and loud. Truck horns blared behind us as he pulled my suitcase from the trunk. Men were pushing garment racks loaded with identical items, all draped in thin plastic dry cleaning bags - red dresses, cream blouses, pink tshirts. Carts piled with bundled cardboard rolls blocked my way as I tried to reach my door. A big guy with a small rolled towel around his thick neck to catch his sweat, its ends tucked fastidiously into the collar of his t-shirt, made a show of moving the rolls out of my way. He smiled broadly when I thanked him and called him sir.

Unused to being on my street midday during the week, I enjoyed seeing it so alive. But I was also relieved by the relative quiet of my building's entrance way - stickers and "scratchiti" and grime.

I searched my purse for my keys, struck by how happy I was to be here, that what I'd said to the driver was exactly right. This block, with its shouts and truck horns blaring, was home. Buffalo was my parents house... my mother's house. I hadn't been home there for years.

I got my mail and, rolling my bag over the jamb of the inner door jamb with a jerk, sidled into the stairwell and smiled at an older woman who was on her way out. I felt like I should at least recognize my neighbors by now, but I didn't know the woman who was leaving at all. Maybe she was a visitor. The daughter of the old lady on the first floor, or maybe the mother of the young couple with the newborn on the third floor. It didn't matter, I was happy to see her, happy to smell the peppery mix of spices and cooked chilies and god knows what. I was even happy to see the narrow cast iron and bluestone steps.

"Calves of steel!" I told myself as I arranged my things for the climb, once again checking the locket with a touch.

It hadn't been that long since I'd last thought of Dr. Hendren... I'd sent her a card at Christmas. Only a month ago she had sent me a University of Chicago journal with her latest paper arguing Louisa May Alcott was a trans man. And until relatively recently she had still appeared in my fantasies.

But so much had changed in the past few weeks. I felt like I was finally thinking clearly about Casey for the very first time.

When I'd been her assistant I had told myself masturbating at her desk, in her antique oak swivel chair, was an illicit thrill - that it was the danger of getting caught generally that excited me, not her specifically. But what I could see clearly now, was that what was actually exciting, was the idea of Dr. Hendren "punishing" me, forcing me to do "things".

I had never fantasized about her making me eat her pussy, had never dared to imagine that act, but that was the implicit threat, that's what I had wanted her to do.

My bag wasn't that heavy, but I was a little out of breath by the third landing. I stood there trying to catch my breath, clutching my DIY lover's eye, not sure if it was the climb up the steps with my bags, or the idea of going down on Dr. Hendren that had winded me.

I could picture it now, imagine clearly what it would have been like; her little black bush grinding against my nose as I labored on my knees, her taste strong and astringent at first, giving way to something almost creamy, hinting of the sea.

'You should be fantasizing about an elevator,' I thought, wiping my lip at the bottom of the next flight. I ended up having to drag my bag most of the way up the last two flights.

Thump!

Thump!

Thump!

"Calves of steel!" I told myself mockingly as I reached the fifth floor, sweating and out of breath. To be fair, the ceilings in the old tenement are at least twelve feet high, if not higher, it's really like climbing six or seven flights in most other buildings.

My copies of last weekend's papers were waiting for me in front of my door. That made me blink. I'd forgotten to cancel my delivery and was sure they would be stolen. I couldn't picture who in my building would have brought them up here, but something about the small kindness touched me and I started to weep.

"Don't do that!" I scolded myself, dabbing at my eyes with my fingertips.

I had hoped I was all cried out, but clearly my emotions were still raw. I unlocked my door. My apartment smelled fresh and was full of sunlight. I took a deep breath, feeling a sense of relief from a tension I wasn't even aware I'd been feeling.

'Have I been wound up all week?' I wondered, certain I had been.

I took a long breath, enjoying the familiar scent of my apartment, kicked off my shoes, threw the papers on my miniature dining room table and, leaving my bag by the door, dropped into the love seat.

I had texted Claire while the plane was still on the tarmac, letting her know I was back safe. She was in the gallery and would come to my place straight from work.

Part of me wanted to just sit there and veg until she arrived, but instead I called work and touched base with Keith, told him I needed to clean up, but offered to come in for the afternoon. He told me not to, said I could take tomorrow off too if I needed time to decompress. The prospect of spending a Friday alone in my apartment was beyond grim, however. I thanked him and told him I wanted to come in.

Besides, while I'd been too focused on my mom and my family to think much about work the past few days, I'd logged on this morning before my flight and looked at what Keith and Ben were working on. I was excited to get back.

I had almost four hours before Claire would arrive. I pushed myself up and padded into the bathroom to pee and clean up. Sitting on the toilet I considered drawing a bath, but rejected the idea. Instead I decided to see what I had in the fridge.

The night I'd left I'd been able to book the last flight to Buffalo but had had to race to the airport to catch it. Still, I'd managed to leave my apartment in good condition. The bathroom was clean and in good order, no dirty dishes in the kitchen, my bed was made. I found myself proud of that girl, and thought of how happy she had made my mother when she showed up at the hospital to help.

The fridge was stocked with spoiled greens and wilted vegetables I'd intended to have last weekend. I threw out a bunch of stuff, made a quick survey of what was left and headed back out to do some shopping, enjoying the rare chance to move around the city in the middle of a weekday.

I took the A train to Union Square. I couldn't help thinking about the glances people gave me, the ways I looked at the strangers around me reflected in the windows of shops, the darkened glass of the subway.

Dr. Hendren had explained that in the late 1700s looking became both significant and codified. She had pointed to the ways different types of glances conveyed different emotions and messages, using the examples of literature, diarists and letters from the period. She had likened the era's fascination with looking to the underground world of pre-Stonewall homosexuals.

Eye miniatures had materialized in that pressurized environment, where even the subtlest glance could convey lust, love, surveillance, or all three. It was no wonder, she said, that an expression of devotion would come bearing a gazing eye...their moods oscillate from adoring, longing, and lusty to penetrating and eerily watchful. Others express darker, more melancholy messages: I remembered one she showed us of a man's blue eye, brow arched. She had described it as staring controllingly, as if attempting to dissuade infidelity. It had reminded me of my father's furious blue eyes.

Not long after I started working for Dr. Hendren, she had invited me to sit at her desk and grade papers, excusing herself to go run an errand. The situation had reminded me of Rebekah, who I'd still missed terribly. I'd never gotten over the terrible guilt I'd felt for masturbating in her room. But I'd never gotten over how good it had felt either. I'd desperately tried to recapture the intense orgasms I'd experienced on her bed by masturbating in places where I might get caught, like the women's locker room in the field house.

Sitting there in Dr. Hendren's office, surrounded by all her things, looking at the closed door, the shelves full of her books, my attention had fastened on a scarf on a hook. I'd gotten up to look at it. Dr. Hendren made a habit of wearing beautiful silk print scarves. The one she had hanging in her office that day was thick, with a coarse weave and an impressionistic floral print. It had smelled of Dr. Hendren's perfume, clean and bright, if slightly venomous, like the taste of a peach pit.

Standing there besides the closed doors, shadowy forms moving behind the frosted glass painted in reverse with Dr. Hendren's name and title, listening to the muffled voices of the secretaries and other women, I'd held the scarf to my face, breathing her essence and masturbating frantically, my hand jammed in my pants.

When I came my legs had buckled under the force of my orgasm. I'd fallen backwards and crashed into the side of Dr. Hendren's desk. Another professor had burst through the door and looked in on me in alarm, asked if I was OK. I had told her I was fine, that I'd tripped and tried to catch myself on the scarf, which I was still clutching. It hid my wet fingers and open fly.

I had been mortified explaining myself to Dr. Hendren when she returned, admitting that I was clumsy and apologizing for the drama. She had been gracious, saying she was glad I wasn't hurt. I told her the only thing I'd bruised was my ego, which had made her laugh.

I'd skipped dinner, going back to my room to change, felt suffocating shame as I'd undressed. My panties had been soaked. I'd sworn to myself that I would never do it again, but after that I had made a habit of wearing skirts on the days I worked for Dr. Hendren. I would slip off my panties and sit bare assed on the dark wood seat and jill as soon as she left me alone to do the grading. It was a deeply guilty pleasure that came to a stop not long after she hired Darci.

I told myself that I was just afraid of getting caught, that now either Darci or Dr Hendren could walk in at any moment. But I had taken bigger risks. I'd masturbated in that chair for months. I'd masturbated with the door wide open, while Dr. Hendren interviewed Darci for the research position at a conference table in the common space just outside the door.

They had been less than twelve feet from me, in clear view but facing away. I had watched their backs and necks as I fingered myself slowly, knowing if either of them even turned their head they would see what I was doing. I'd ignored their words and listened to the music of their voices; Hendren's lower and carefully modulated, Darci's higher, full of excitement. The orgasm, when it came, had been entirely silent, but bone splitting.

I remember Darci poking her head in to say goodbye after she and Dr. Hendren had finished. I was still sitting bare assed, in a puddle of my own making. I had never flooded the chair that way before and hadn't known what to do. I stayed there until after Dr. Hendren had to leave as well. Promising her I'd lock up, so I could wipe the seat clean with my panties. I'd jammed them into my book bag and walked back to my dorm room, conscious and ashamed of my bare damp ass catching the wind.

But that wasn't the last time I masturbated in her office. I only stopped after Darci accused me of having a crush on her.

West 4th was announced and I let the crowd move me off the train and through the station to the nearest exit. I popped up out of the ground at the north end of the station, just down the block from the Bigelow Chemists, with its nineteenth century wood and glass displays and counters. I knew they'd have what I was looking for but I was overwhelmed by the selection. I vacillated and second guessed myself until a concerned saleswoman came to my rescue.

"You've been standing here a long time," she told me, smiling brightly. "Let me help."

She wore more makeup than I could ever imagine putting on, but was beautiful and smelled amazing.

"There's just so many to choose from, Melisa," I said, reading her name tag, and admitting, "I've never done this before."

"Honey, I get it," she told me, with a look of commiseration and a weary wave at the over abundance surrounding us. "Show me what you're leaning towards. Let's start there."

Twenty minutes of hand holding and a serious discussion that ranged from cost, to molecule size, and every other possible difference between followed. Finally, after only crying a little over the choice, I said goodbye to my new friend, and headed out into the world with my purchases.

"She's going to love it, Sarah!" Melisa promised as I left.

I went from there all the way over to Kalustyan's for spices, but ended up binging on specialty rices and hot sauces and god knows what. My bill ended up being just south of two hundred dollars.

'I need to eat,' I realized as I walked back out into the heat.

So I doubled back, crossing the top of Union Square to get to Rainbow, a tiny little pita place just off the park that I'd frequented the summer I interned for Paula Schere at Pentagram. The storefront was hardly twelve feet wide and the only space in front of the counter held a Snapple cooler. I chose a sugar free peach tea and ordered a falafel with everything.

"Red AND white sauce," I told the guy, who smiled appreciatively at my panache.

From there I walked my lunch and bags of booty up Broadway to Madison Square Park.

Lunch hour was well past, so finding a shady spot on a bench looking out at Roxy Paine's polished steel trees wasn't too hard. My falafel was a little soggy but I was too hungry for dignity and leaned forward to eat it. I watched the squirrels while I ate. They chased each other back and forth across the lawn, fighting over a boundary line between territories only they could perceive.

I found myself wondering what the little rodents made of the strange lightning-like sculpture that arced over their contested ground. Claire had said the piece was titled "Conjoined," explaining that the two trees were different species, that Paine often "mashed up" imagery of industrial structures with the natural world. The meaning was lost on me, but I loved looking at it, wondering at it.

'You don't have to have a point to have a point,' I thought.

I hoped to see the squirrels try and climb one of the stainless steel trunks, but they never did. Reluctantly giving up my shady perch. I crossed the tangled intersection of Broadway and 5Th Ave where they crash and fork above The Flatiron Building and joined the crowds heading to Eataly.

I fought past the tourists, who stopped without warning to gawp and gawk at piles of turnips and shelves stacked with canned fish as if they were religious relics or art installations. If I'd been disciplined, and held myself to only buying produce, my bill would have been a magnitude cheaper, but I bought jars of oil and artichoke hearts, a flight of cheeses, fresh pasta and bread as well. I really got dinged for the cheeses, spending nearly as much on them as I did at Kalustyan's.

'Fuck it,' I thought as I caught the crosstown bus. 'life is short.'

I decided to make one last stop at the Chelsea market, not with any agenda, just thinking I might find some treats.

My first stop was on impulse. A disastrously named bar called "The Tippler" was just opening. I decided to nip in for a drink despite its terrible name. I had the place entirely to myself and ordered a Manhattan from a handsome bartender about my age named Bo. He proceeded to chat me up, which was fun. He wanted to know what I was doing day-drinking on a Thursday. I told him I was shopping for my girlfriend. He seemed to like the idea, so did I. Besides Melisa at Bigelow, I had never talked to anyone about Claire as my girlfriend before.

It was exciting. I couldn't help but wonder if it was true.

Bo plied me with a second Manhattan on the house, which was unnecessary, but appreciated. I might have bragged a little about Claire over that second drink... and shown him pictures.

"Damn!"

"Right?!" I laughed, a little too hard.

It was heady talking openly about Claire that way, I couldn't help it. And Bo wasn't some nice gay boy I was bonding with, I could tell I was working him up. Even though I wasn't telling him anything explicit or showing him anything particularly sexy, I knew he was picturing us together, maybe just us kissing, or maybe me eating Claire's pussy. I could see it in his eyes that he was fantasizing about us, and liked that he was. He was turned on thinking about us, to the point that he wanted me to see. As he handed me my bill he made sure I could see the erection tenting his black slacks. I tipped him well.

Tipsy shopping, as it turns out, is almost as dangerous as hungry shopping. I dropped a few hundred more in the Market. I got shortcakes from the nicely-named Sarabeth's, and Devonshire clotted cream and ice cream from the Milk Bar, and strawberries from the fruit monger - and apple cider doughnuts, just in case.

I knew Claire would arrive with wine, but got a white and the nicest bottle of champagne I could find, as well as an aged port. And finally I bought myself a sexy little gingham apron at a posh little kitchen shop.

"You're too adorable!" The sales girl told me when I tried it on.

I cabbed back home with my loot piled up next to me on the seat. Making the five story climb with everything I'd bought turned out to be even more challenging than with my suitcase. I ended up having to rest twice, mostly because all the bags were cutting into my hands, but I made it.

'"City girl!" I announced in triumph at the top of the steps.

By the time Claire buzzed an hour later I had the table set, and dinner almost done. I checked to be sure nothing would burn and went into the living room to light the candles. Looking at myself in the mirror one last time, I waited for her to climb the stairs. I freshened my lipstick, sucking in my lips and pursing them. I studied myself, loving the wet shine of the red. Closing one eye at a time, I checked my lashes for clumps of mascara or smudges on my eyelids.

My cheeks were flush from the heat of the oven but there was nothing to be done about that. I smoothed my little apron and pushed at my hair nervously. I had curled and brushed it till it shined in waves like a 60s starlet.

I had worried all the way home that the color red I'd chosen with Melisa's help was too subtle, but now my hair looked so RED.

I turned away from the mirror and went to wait by the door. My face was heating up, no longer from the stove. I was afraid she might not like the color, that she would think I looked silly. I took a deep breath fighting back my doubts and smoothed my thigh-highs up my legs. Turning my feet edgewise, I checked my shoes for scuffs or spatters or smudges. The black leather shone, the pointy toes and stiletto heels looked like weapons. I pressed my palms against the door and leaned my length against it, enjoying how cool the fireproof steel felt. My back and ass felt hot.

'Will she want to spank me?" I wondered, remembering how long my ass had been bruised and tender after the last time.

Pressing my ear against the door I hear her clicking brightly up the bluestone steps to my floor and across the penny tile. Claire taps the steel with her nail.

Tick! Tick! Tick!

It's as if she knows, not only that I was right behind the door, but exactly where I am pressing my head. The three sharp little taps seem centered on my ear drum. My heart is thundering. My breast feels inflated with hot air I can't exhale. As I push myself away from the door and reach for the doorknob, the apron scrapes my nipples which are painfully hard. I'm biting my lip as I open it.