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He had thought that maybe the carnival atmosphere might make the girls more receptive to his charms, but that had not been the case. Like every other Saturday night since puberty, Steve found himself womanless. Women found his charms, his lines, his deodorant and aftershave, in fact every thing about him, eminently resistible. Even Fat Ginny, who, rumor had it, slept with ANYONE, had turned him down with the old "Let's just be friends." line. Steve looked at the brass covered ashtray in his hand. Funny, he didn't remember winning it at any of the concession booths. In fact, he didn't remember much of anything since the cute redhead, his ninth attempt, had told him to go into Myrtle the Mystic's tent to "Get a future!" *Wow* he thought; *I must have really tied one on at the beer tent after that!* Without thinking, he began to rub the ashtray on the leg of his jeans. Smoke exploded from the ashtray, knocking him over onto his side on the bench. When he was able to right himself and. Oh, it’s not as if I would’ve stopped her earlier, but the objective here is to lessen tension—not heighten it. She understands this very well. Very well indeed. Her fingers lightly cover every millimeter of my face. No deep pressure, just feather strokes and tapping. My lips, conditioned to respond to touch, want to capture the fingers between them—to return the caress in an equally pleasurable fashion. I remind myself to be still. Accept. Take, for a change. I’m not very good at being passive. Arms are next. As she works, I recall how I once hated my upper arms, how I wouldn’t wear sleeveless tops even on sweltering summer days. She somehow senses this and asks, ‘Did I trigger a memory?’ ‘Baggage,’ I admit. ‘Good riddance.’ ‘Gotcha. This isn’t easy for you. I can tell.’ Is it that obvious? I don’tknow how to respond, so I do what I typically do in those situations: I retreat. I tiptoe away, leaving my body to enjoy her touch without the interference of my mind. Alone in my little.
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