It’s cooler and quieter here in the lift. As much as I purport to enjoy a good amount of heavy rock, even I have my limits. Despite the fact that this will empty me out into the street, this small – and, thankfully, empty – room is a welcome respite from the club.
I take a deep breath, eyes closed, to centre myself. When my vision clears, the buttons on the wall blend into a smudge of illuminated blue. I need the ground floor to get out. I wheel to the corner, but can’t reach any button. Maybe I’ll have to wait. I grope in my bag for something I can use to press it. Why didn’t I bring my vibrator with me, like I do on business trips?
There is a soft, but worn, ding as the doors clatter open and he staggers in. Is he drunk? No – just tired. I can tell.
Our eyes meet.
I’m used to people looking – it happens. This, however, is different. He’s looking at me. Not my chair. Not the ‘phone I’m clutching in my hand. Not the shawl I’ve got covering my knees. Me. He’s looking at me – from my electric blue hair to my heavy red boots. He’s taking all of me in, and it’s quite clear he likes what he sees.
Oh, get a grip, Amelia. There’s no indication of that. He’s just weary at the end of a club night and looking at the girl in the wheelchair. There’s every indication that he doesn’t like you at all. Or notice you. The fact that he’s holding your gaze is probably just coincidence. I mean, look at him. That scrappy grey T-shirt doesn’t suit him. Those grey joggers have a hole in the knee. He’s hardly presenting himself well to you.
What would it be like if he wanted to kiss me?
Kiss me, that is. Not fuck me. Kiss me. If he wanted to do that I’d let him. He’d have to bend down a bit, of course. Maybe he’d gently cup my chin with one of those hands and tilt my head upwards. Our lips would brush together — no, mash together — and I’d hear him breathing heavily as we kiss. I’d reach out with my tongue. I bet his feels good – tastes good, even.
And they could dance together. Do the tarantella even if I can’t move my legs. There’s always a way.
He’d thread his fingers into my hair and he’d pull a little and then we’d break the kiss and there’s a trail of saliva breaking between us and he’s taking his shirt off and I’m unhooking my bra and he’s reaching out for my heaving breasts and the lift is broken so we can’t leave and fuck me I can’t stop I’m so wet so so so wet just bend over and kiss me please oh please oh
“Please…”
I’ve said the last word out loud. I have no idea how long he’s been looking at me. However long, it’s not been long enough. My shock back to reality coincides with a dull thump from the club downstairs.
I’m on fire.
“Do you want some help?” he says, in a voice like honey. “I can press a button for you if you want.”
Without waiting for an answer, he takes two steps forwards, leans over me and presses the ground floor button. His press has some finality to it. For a second or two, my view is full of him and only him. The scrappy tee and grey joggers stretch as he leans.
I can see every curve and contour of his body…
Ding, says the lift. The doors force themselves open and a welcome rush of outside air hits me from the busy street outside. He’s standing back, clearly waiting for me to leave first. What can I say?
I settle for a nod, this time roving my view over the entirety of him. Maybe he’s blushing as hard as I am. It’s difficult to tell in this light.
I wheel out of the door, down the corridor, through the lobby and down the ramp. As I begin to wend my way home through the milieu of late night workers and early morning risers, I have the biggest smile I have ever produced plastered firmly to my very kissable face.
[Inspired by Charlie Powell's session at Eroticon Live! 2016. See, I do write things I promise to - eventually...]
