The Weekly Mindfuck: The Public Touch

I have this thing. It's not something I talk about a lot, perhaps because it seems so trivial. They're little bits of memory, almost fragments, but I sometimes find myself reminiscing on them more than any sex I've had afterward. It's probably because it drives me crazy—it's a tease of sorts, though that's never its intention. 

It's not because I relish cuddly, cutesy moments (though yes, at times, I do). This is a different beast altogether, one that's subconscious for both parties—or it would be, if I didn't find myself turning over the moment in my head days later. 

It happens when we're out. Usually we're drunk, but not always. It's at a club sometimes, on the dance floor. Sometime's were at a show, and he's standing behind me in the sea of sun-drenched people. Other times it happens under the table of a bar or the front seat of his car. The location rarely matters. I can think of no better word than caress, though it's infinitely more loaded than that. 

I can't describe the moment in sentences, because they're far too small for that. The touches are choppy—you don't know they're happening until after they've ended, though I've had a few lucky moments when they were so stimulating I could do nothing but groan. They always go down in public, but it's not necessarily indecent. Illicit, yes. A turn on, yes. But it's not sex in a dark corner or a hand in my underwear under the table—it's far more subtle. 

A hand squeezing my thigh in the bucket seat. A caress across and up my stomach, moving my shirt up ever so slight. A caress down and back up my leg in the middle of grinding, and one on by back when I bend over ever so slightly. One inch of fingertips under the belt of my jeans, a lingering kiss on my shoulder blade. A hand on my lower back—just barely too low—that glides up to squeeze the base of my neck. 

It's not a grope. It's not illegal. It's not always even sexual. But no matter where it happens or what time of day it is, it gives me goosebumps and makes me bite the inside of my cheek, reminding myself that there are things I cannot do in public, no matter how intoxicated I am. It's incredibly effective, too.  

After all, you know what they say: The best foreplay starts long before you get home. 

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