I have never been the kind of person who can flirt with friends of my friends at their party. I must have turned down dozens of promising advances simply because they were too close to existing nodes of my social network. I don’t know; maybe it is the potential for augmented shame in rejection. Maybe I am just not good at reading others’ body language. Maybe, in all honesty, I just have commitment issues.
This is why I cherish the opportunities to fuck that pop up in times and places where I a complete stranger. It is hot to hear a man whisper your name when he is cumming, but it can be hotter to hear the fake name you gave him.
I was sitting by myself in a restaurant booth when he sat across me in his own. We held eye contact briefly, unafraid to acknowledge each other. It was the start of a game of flirting, traditional and cliched: I pushed my hair back, baring the skin of my neck, chest, and shoulders, all uncovered by my strapless dress. He smiled placidly, looking at me longer than he looked at the menu. I crossed my long legs, letting the fabric rise to reveal more than was needed. He shifted in his seat, angling to face me directly. The game was only interrupted by his chat with the waitress… and by a work email I could not ignore.