One of my friends told me about 'doing it' once on a table, again on a balcony in full view of others, another time in a motel room on the ground floor with the drapes open, and other adventurous places.
My Puritan heart shivered. My reaction was horror. I am NOT a circus performer -- I DON'T want an audience. Where she experienced the thrill of forbidden behavior indulged, I had a surge of critique-phobia, a sense of disdain for the woman's well-being.
Friday, I was driving home at nearly midnight when suddenly THE OBSERVER popped into the other seat.
"Don't do that!" he said in agitation. I was, at this point, unsure of his identity, (and remain so to this day). I was not feeling romantic toward him, nor flirting. I was not even ready for interaction. I licked my lips, a nervous habit.
In a sharper tone, he restated, "I asked you not to do that!"
"What? How can I NOT do 'it' if I don't know what 'it' is?"
We had a non-conversation.
"I don't believe you don't know how provocative it is!"
Nervously, I licked my lips, unable or unwilling to respond.
Leaning over, he stuck his tongue in my ear. It was unbelievably distracting. I leaned away. "What do you think you're doing? Do you want us to crash?"
"I'm not pulling over here. The shoulder isn't wide enough. Why don't you just get out?"
Turning my head away, I again licked my lips.
"I saw that! It's a clear invitation."
"It's a nervous habit and has nothing intimate to do with you. You're bringing it on with your irrational behavior."
"You mean my pheromones are getting to you!" he chortled, pleased.
Biting my lower lip to keep my tongue in my mouth, I frowned. "Your conceit is unwarranted and unbearable."
He changed the scene abruptly. The Beamer and dark, twisting road lined by metal guiderails was gone. In its place was a fifth or sixth floor balcony exiting from a lavish dining room. The table was laid with silver and a two plate roast beef candlelit dinner. As he leaned me far over the balcony in his enthusiastic embrace, I bent at the knees and ducked under his arm, dashing back into the room.
"Quicksilver!" he chortled again, even more pleased.
With a long-armed lunge, he caught my pony tail and twirled me back into his arms. Walking me backward until I felt the edge of the table against my thighs, he easily lifted me onto the table top, moving me forward until my head neared the far side.
How romantic! I thought. Mashed potatoes in my hair! Just what every seduction needs.
Climbing atop the table, he pinned my upper body with his chest, freeing his hands to undo my pony tail as he crooned, "Baby, why don't you let your hair hang down, oh, oh, oooh-oh/Let it hang right down 'til it touches the ground, oh, oh-oh-oh-oh."
"Getting the gravy all over the rug, oh, oh-oh-oh-oh," I finished, turning my cheek sideways to avoid his seeking lips.
"Ouch!" I shouted, struggling.
Startled, he released me. "What's wrong?"
Oh, nothing, you insensitive lout! shouted my mind, but my lips said, "The gravy's still HOT."
"At least something is," he acknowledged, licking my cheek, then lowering his head, rocking me back onto the table top.
Personally, I'm glad it was nearly midnight and the road was deserted. I was atop the final hill, not the table, gliding down toward my mailbox instead of a climax, when I "returned" to the driver's seat, several miles down the road. Fortunately, the Beamer's been mine long enough that he knows the way home alone by now.
I'm just not sure he understands the concept of a "lane of traffic".
When I read this piece to my friend and reached the "circus performer" line, she told me that a couple DID pass the window and stop to watch for a bit. It invigorated her! I honestly CAN'T IMAGINE having that reaction... When I'd finished reading the entire entry, she was unsure of MY sanity... Sincerely. I felt embarrassed for having shared. What a fantasy!