My Girl Pt. 02 - Escalation

Part 2. Escalation

Today is not going to go my way.

This frustrates me to a level beyond words, far beyond rational objections. I have spent such efforts to have this one time, this one opportunity to escape the frustrations of my current life. Was this a lot to ask? After months of spending all week working, followed by every weekend packing to move. Then a month of working while the family traveled, weekends spent with the extended family preparing for the big reunion. More work, reunion, work, moving, work, unpacking, work...

All I asked for was one unbespoken Sunday. One day that was not promised or committed for me, where those around me did not lay claim to my time and effort. I fought for it jealously, angering the other, disappointing every attempt to promise my labor towards another’s goals. Just one day! And I succeeded. After a Saturday spent at family birthdays, helping move yet again (my son this time), groceries and household repairs, I went to bed content in the knowledge of my upcoming freedom.

So of course I woke up this morning feeling like the aftermath of a commuter train disaster. My back and knees ached because I had carried all of the heaviest items up the stairs during my son’s move, though it was flattering that I had been specifically promised for this task because of my strength. Despite being older I am nonetheless far more powerful than the youth of this generation, raised as they were on video games and helicopter parents, and even when compared to my peers I have always been exceptionally strong. Still, moving items that weigh several hundred pounds up and down stairs was a chore meant for a younger, more foolish me. To compound the situation, my head was full and aching. A cough had also arisen in the night, because of course I would also wake up with a summer cold on the one day I wished to relax.

So, like the grown man I am, I have decided to sulk.

Into my office, because it seems to be the only escape I have. I fire up my computer, determined to read or browse trivial things though I am painfully aware of the work lurking in minimized windows. This helps, after a fashion, and I begin to relax. At least I am wasting time, a luxury, a ridiculous goal that I embrace wholeheartedly. I won’t be able to tolerate this for long, being who I am, but for now it provides a distraction. My mind drifts to her, as it always does when allowed to roam free. I imagine what must she look like at this moment, still lying in bed. I know she sleeps in only panties and a t-shirt, I often look in on her in the hopes that she may have kicked her blankets off. On the rare occasions she has I will spend many minutes drinking in every detail of her smooth youthful body, the curve of her sides, the small scars of harder times etched on her limbs. I begin to write, recording my thoughts as my awakened imagination spins free.

The moment is interrupted when the her great rival comes into my office, breaking my focus and bringing me crashing back to reality. She asks what I am doing, and I tell her that I have been writing. Does she ask if I am happy doing so? Does she inquire about my thoughts, what I have written, what inner paths I may have walked? No. She only asks how I have found the time. This question strikes to the heart of it, how do I find any time for myself when I allow others have such claim over it? Is this why I spend so much of my day looking inward, to an imagined life? I make an excuse to end the conversation and turn back to my screens.

I stay this way for some time. Actively avoiding work, though despite myself I check my email a few times. I attempt to recapture that fugue state where I can see her sprawled across her bed, but the interruption has scattered my thoughts completely. Soon, I hear the kids wake up, the youngest heading straight to their computers. I think their addiction is as great as mine, though we only allow them to play on weekends. I don’t hear her voice. She had a favorite cousin over last night and I’m sure they must have stayed up late talking about things that are important to girls their age. I expect her to remain abed for some hours still, so when I hear her speak from behind me my heart skips. Was that because of surprise or joy? I wonder.

She asks me to cut her hair. Not all of it of course, nowhere that can be seen by others, but she likes to have her lowest hair trimmed short beneath the longer hair above. I would not have expected this style from a girl her age, but it is certainly not the strangest haircut young people have ever favored. I do this for her from time to time, my clippers making short work of the task. I quash a brief flash of annoyance at being interrupted a second time. After all, what exactly is she interrupting? Besides, it’s her. As I follow her outside I realize that I can now enjoy in person at least a shadow of my imagined view.

She is still wearing the light t-shirt she slept in, but has thrown on a pair of shorts that she has long outgrown. Made to be thin and loose fitting, they now hug her tightly and are just enough too short that they expose the curved seam between her legs and buttocks. I can see by the small bounce of her cheeks against one another and how her shoulders lack telltale lines that she is wearing nothing beneath. Of course she isn’t, why would she have bothered on a Sunday morning? Even so, the knowledge of this tingles below the surface of my mind.

We go outside, to the front porch. Though in view of the neighbors and an odd sort of thing for them to see, I certainly prefer to do this rather than deal with a mess afterwards. She uses both hands to hold her hair up, and turns away. With her long hair out of the way I can see the sweep of her petite and graceful neck. It occurs to me that this is something I very rarely see, and is yet another way I find her entrancing.

I take my time, enjoying the feel of her skin under my hands and the smell of her shampoo as I gently trim away the stray hairs. We chat comfortably about small things, until awkwardly she asks about whether I would use these same shears to trim our dog’s fur. What a strange question, and it comes out of nowhere. My response is delayed while I try to change gears mentally. In that silence, she laughs a slightly self-conscious laugh and comments about how a dogs whiskers are super course.

The conversation strikes me as very odd, I am wondering what would have caused such a strange pair of observations when she suddenly comments about how course hair is so much like pubic hair. With that comment, my mind suddenly snaps to attention. Was this innocent, or was it a youthful awkward way of bringing the up the subject of taboo places? Then she laughs lightly, relegating all to an innocently made comment. I wonder though.

A short while later, as I finish, I notice the fine down at the base of her hairline that is normally hidden by her long hair. I brush my fingers across it, down the side and back of her neck, pretending to still be trimming. She makes no move to stop me even after several gentle passes, though it must be obvious that I am not actually cutting any hair. Reluctantly, I decide not to push my luck and bring the trimmers up to finish. They aren’t really made for removing anything so small and fine, so I ask if she would like me to shave her. She stiffens slightly and is quiet for a long moment before asking me if I think we should. I explain that it would look much nicer along her neck, more precise and smooth, if I were to do so.

She laughs again, but her tone is uncomfortable. Oh, she says, I thought you were talking about shaving somewhere else. Her words are jokingly dismissive, but I notice she did not actually turn down the possibility. Despite the laughter I wonder if she had actually been considering it.

Twice, I think to myself. Twice here in this moment her mind has wandered downward. As always either comment could have been an awkward joke, but both together? Is that evidence that the direction of her thoughts mirrored my own? Is my obsession causing me to read too much into innocent banter? I decide not to risk it, to treat it as a joke as well, commenting that shaving other places on the porch would be a lot more scandalous to our neighbors. She laughs, and agrees.

Finished, I notice her clothing is now covered in hair. I begin brushing it away with my hands, painfully aware of her thin shirt. Hair being what it is, it takes some effort to remove it and I brush vigorously, repeatedly. As I move downwards from her shoulders, she turns away to allow me to continue. When I reach the small of her back there really isn’t much left to brush, but I continue anyway, enjoying the feel of her. I allow myself to go further than I really need to, until every motion of my hand skims across the tops of her round cheeks. Amusingly, the vigorous motion makes them bounce and I am transfixed by the sight. Before I realize it I have gone so far down that I can clearly feel the cleft between them, so far that if I were to go any further I would be brushing against the back of her legs. Surprisingly she has not objected, but still uncertain of the moment I stop and ask her to turn around. She does so, and my heart skips at her enigmatic smile.

I begin brushing her shoulders from the front, despite the fact that clearly she is completely capable of doing it herself. She continues holding her hair up with both hands, her pert breasts lifting upwards. As I continue I am acutely aware of the thinness of her shirt, her bare skin beneath it, and her steady gaze on my face. I am more gentle now than I was when I was on her back, slower and softer. Down her arms, across her collar, I control the urge to change my brushing motions into caresses. I convince myself that I will be the good father, the innocent man, but I weaken. Only a little! And how can I be blamed!

Without allowing myself to think or pause I brush downward fully across her chest, not stopping short the way I have always done before. The motion grazes her breast without slowing or hesitating, allowing us to pretend that the contact was accidental. I know I have gone too far, that although brisk and businesslike I had crossed the invisible line between us. I draw my hand back and pause, but she does not object. Instead, she continues to wait as if nothing untoward had just happened.

Emboldened, I begin again. Brushing downwards, pretending there is still something to remove from her shirt, I repeatedly skim my hand down and across her chest with only the paper thin t-shirt between. She remains quiet, her face showing no reaction as she continues to hold her hair above her head. It would be possible to believe that she mistakes it for the innocent act I pretend it is, except I feel something, a change, as her nipples begin to stiffen. I allow myself to brush her chest several more times, feeling the soft buds grow harder, and soon they are clearly visible through her shirt. For a long moment I pause and stare, my hands cupping the side of her breasts, mesmerized by the sight and the feel of her under my hands, before I realize she is staring at me. I look directly into her eyes and again she chooses to say nothing.

I feel a surge of aching desire in my chest, my stomach, drawing my body towards hers. It is painful, this pull, but there is too much at stake to simply surrender to it now. Shame, ejection from the family, no longer sharing a house with her. To give in now would be disaster, and what if I am still misreading her? What if those things I attribute to shared desire are nothing more than the guilelessness of youth? What if her inaction is only surprise, not shared attraction? We are standing on the front porch, in view of everyone, with her rival on the couch just inside. Illogical as it is, I am terrified that the neighbors can somehow see into my mind, see the shameful desires contained there. I worry that despite what seems to me to be clear signals of her intent that I am allowing my hope to color my perception.

Courage fails me. Or perhaps my wiser self saves me. It is difficult to know the difference.

The moment passes and she lets her arms fall. We sweep the mess off the porch, then go inside. She heads past the couch to her room, and as she passes her rival she comments about how I took good care of her. I stumble a bit at the double entendre, before speculating aloud that the neighbors must have wondered what we were doing on the porch.

What on earth possessed me to say such a thing? What could I have been thinking to so directly comment that there was suspicion to be found, especially so soon after the other leading comment? The other gives me a deeply penetrating look, her suspicion clear, but otherwise does not react.

I realize that it is good I did not go further. It would have been foolish to take such risks without preparation, without first knowing for sure that my feelings are reciprocated. I congratulate myself on my wisdom, before realizing that I have crossed a line in my heart, made a decision I have been avoiding for months. I am no longer attempting to resist her, I am plotting to seduce her. In this, my wise mind and my youthful foolishness are in agreement. I love her, I want to be with her. I smile with the mix of fear and anticipation this realization brings.

After all, her rival works overnights this week.