The sound of nylon rubbing against nylon is both subtle and distinct. But thinking of the sound coming from a woman’s legs encased in nylon stockings and that sound can be electrifying.
Marcus sat hunched forward playing with his Blackberry. The company had made it standard issue for all employees, but he found he didn’t use it much. He had a computer at work and a computer at home. He always said that two places in his life were more than enough to remain in contact with the rest of the world and if he wasn’t in either of those two places, he was busy elsewhere and didn’t want to be disturbed. But, and it was an odd but, he still carried the device around with him. He hardly looked at email and seldom used the cell phone, but he had discovered one curiosity in the device that had piqued his interest, a word spelling game based on a grid of letters.
He was in the midst of thinking of various letter combinations to make the longest word possible when he heard that sound of nylon. Without looking up from his Blackberry or turning his head, he moved his eyes to the area of the floor in front of the next easy chair. He was just in time to see two black nylon legs uncross, pause, then re-cross left over right. Marcus looked back at the screen of his Blackberry.
Marcus held the device in his left hand while using his right index finger to touch the screen. He examined the entire grid, looking at the available letters while running through the various words he could spell. He looked, reached out, then hesitated. Marcus examined the grid again. He punched out the letters and spelled the word positively, then touched the submit button. He raised an eyebrow. The screen showed a score of 92, the highest he had ever seen. The screen cleared and waited for him to hit a button to proceed to the next level.
Marcus reached to the left and picked up his cup of coffee, an in-house china mug, from a small table. He turned and as he sipped, his eyes focused on a pair of black high heel shoes. He paused, then sipped again, figuring his coffee would hide what he was doing, that is, staring at the legs of the woman seated in the next chair.
Marcus held the mug to his lips as he stared downwards as if he was looking at the floor. He studied the shoes. The colour was black, not shiny as cheaper brands, but a well-kept black leather. They were high heels but not too high, rather a stylish and subtly sexy heel which evoked a certain classiness, a certain elegance. Marcus looked up to sweep his eyes over the room but wanted to glance at the woman. She was reading, engrossed in her book and not paying the slightest bit of attention to what was going on in the coffee shop.
Setting down his mug, Marcus turned back to his Blackberry and touched the screen to start the next level of his word game. He took a moment to study the grid of letters, working out the various words he could construct, then touched the letters “t-a-x-e-s” one after another and hit submit. The score appeared on the screen as movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He didn’t move his head but flicked his eyes to his left. He saw the woman reaching out to her own china mug sitting on the same small table separating the two of them.
This was a more upscale coffee shop with comfortable armchairs in one section where one could lounge and read. Some people came in for a coffee while some came in for either a snack or lunch armed with a book or a newspaper. All enjoyed the ambiance and even if the prices were a little higher than other places, it was a relaxing spot away from home, a soothing break in a hectic day.
Marcus felt like he had needed a mid-afternoon pick me up and thought a coffee and a date square would go a long way to rejuvenate him and squash his peckishness. He didn’t have a book and couldn’t find a newspaper in the shop, so he played this computerized word game. It wasn’t the best use of his time but it gave him an intellectual challenge and amused him. Besides, he now had a new aspect to the game: use his Blackberry to camouflage his surreptitious checking out of the woman sitting next to him.
Leaning back in the armchair, Marcus put his elbows on each of the arm rests and held the Blackberry in front of him just below eye level. He looked at the screen, then turned his eyes to the woman. She was his age, attractive, and well dressed. There was a certain air about her, a certain class. This was somebody who had an education, worked for a living, and had a self-confidence that came from being independent. Marcus studied her face. The woman concentrated on her book and seemed oblivious to all else.
The woman reached out for her mug. Marcus looked back at his Blackberry. In his peripheral vision, he could see the woman picking up her mug and taking a sip. She paused and looked around the room. Marcus knew she glanced at him. He touched the screen of his Blackberry although his word game had timed out and was asking him to hit a button to play again. He didn’t bother; he wanted to go back to looking at the woman. Marcus struggled not to look at her but to wait until she went back to reading her book.
Marcus saw the woman put down her mug and turn back to her book. He waited a moment, then shifted his eyes without turning his head. She was reading again.
Marcus looked down at the woman’s shoes. He stared at the high heels, feeling that typical reaction he imagined any man would feel when looking at high heels. He couldn’t say why high heels had such a sexual connotation, but they triggered desire in the back of his brain. Was it part of the culture? Was it because of the advertising industry? Had anybody ever scientifically explained why high heels were so attractive? Marcus had wondered if you showed two pictures of a woman, exactly the same but in one picture she had flats and in the other she had high heels, would all men like Marcus choose the high heels because, well, just because? Heels added a certain je ne sais quoi.
Marcus smiled, thinking of the traditional view that men were always thinking about sex. Marcus was thinking about it. He let his eyes wander up the woman’s nylon encased legs. While her dress had a respectable hemline around the knee, there was a side slit which had opened a little because of how she was seated. Marcus’s eyes stopped on the exposed bit of thigh he could see from his vantage point. His mind was beginning to wander and he could feel those telltale biological signs that somewhere, some imaginative neurons in an autonomic response to high heels and nylon clad legs were telling whatever body parts to release hormones into the blood stream. Was he like a Pavlovian dog demonstrating a response to a bell? Or in this case, could he make a homonymic joke by saying he was responding to a “belle”?
The woman coughed. Marcus looked away. He picked up his mug of coffee and finished it. The woman had stood up and was looking around. Marcus set down his mug as the woman walked toward the cash register. He slipped his Blackberry into his pocket, then stood up and followed her.
The cashier was finishing up with another customer. The woman took up position behind this person to wait for her turn. Marcus came up and stood behind the woman. The cashier set down a small bag on the counter and announced, “That’s one regular coffee and a bran muffin. Anything else?” The customer hunted in his pockets for money.
Marcus waited patiently behind the woman. He looked at the back of her head. He absentmindedly stared at her hair. It was a soft red colour. He wasn’t really thinking of anything in particular when he noticed a certain smell and questioned if it was perfume. Marcus leaned forward and quietly sniffed at the back of the woman’s head. He could smell something emanating from the woman, but couldn’t tell if it was perfume or merely shampoo. It was subtle, but it was there. This seemed like another part of the sexual response. Marcus smiled as he wondered what the ladies would think if they knew he responded to them with his sense of smell.
Marcus looked up. It took a moment to decipher what he was looking at. Behind the cashier, up on the wall, there was a mirror, a fairly substantial mirror hanging at an angle over the counter. It reflected the back of the cashier, the counter in front of him and the customers standing in front waiting to pay. Marcus realised the woman was looking up into the mirror. She was staring right at him. Marcus felt a little flush creep up his neck. She must have witnessed him leaning in to smell her hair. Marcus had been caught red handed, or red nosed as it were. Marcus looked at the woman and for a moment their eyes locked. The woman looked at Marcus. Marcus looked at the woman. What was she thinking?
The other customer had picked up their coffee and muffin and left. The cashier looked toward the woman and smiled. “Mrs. Baker, how are you today?”
The woman stepped up to the counter and smiled back at the cashier. “Good afternoon, Cory. I had a tea.”
The cashier punched something into the register, then looked up toward Marcus. “Will you be paying for both today, Mr. Baker?”
Marcus took a step forward already holding a few bills in one hand. “Yes, I had a regular coffee and a date square.”
Cory punched a few more buttons, then said, “That will be six twenty-three altogether.”
Marcus handed the cashier the bills. Cory fiddled in the change drawer, then went to hand some coins back to find Marcus was holding up the coffee cup used as a tip jar. Cory dropped the coins in the cup. “Thank you very much, Mr. Baker.” Cory turned to the woman and nodded. “Have a good one, Mrs. Baker.”
Marcus smiled as he put the tip jar back in its place. He took a step back and let Mrs. Baker pass, then followed her as the two of them walked to the door. Marcus put one hand on the door and pushed it open so that his wife could exit the coffee shop.
They walked across the street to their parked car. Marcus held the passenger door open and once his wife was properly seated, shut it and walked around to the driver’s side. He stood waiting for a break in the traffic. He had to let a few more cars go by, then he would have an opportunity to open the door and get in.
Marcus looked down through the windshield. He stared at his wife’s legs. Even after these years together, Marcus felt a certain passion for her. He still reacted to her in a sexual manner. Of course, weren’t all husbands supposed to be turned on by their wives? Marcus chuckled to himself.
The last car passed. Marcus opened the door, climbed into the driver’s seat, and pulled the door shut. He reached into his pocket and fished out the car keys. If he remembered correctly, both kids were leaving for a friend’s cottage after school today and that meant the house would be empty tonight. This seemed like the perfect opportunity for an intimate moment with his “belle”.