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Last night. That was why I’d awoken so hard this morning. Last night, what I’d seen her doing… it seemed impolite to even reflect on it, but can you blame me?
I’d been telling the truth, for what it was worth. I really had waited for everybody to go home so I could retrieve my stupid towel, and I really had shouted into the locker room to check if anybody was there. I swear, I wasn’t some kind of crazy perv who just voluntarily rushed into women’s changing rooms to check them out.
But so I’d wandered to the showers, in search of said towel, and there she was. Have you ever seen The Birth of Venus, by Botticelli? It’s a famous old painting, where Venus stands, clothed only by her tumbling hair, in the open mouth of a scallop shell. The painting itself isn’t sexually explicit, but the way Venus just barely covers her naked body with long locks of hair is arousing in and of itself, the way she looks to be merely playing at modesty.
I don’t know what I’m saying, but it must be that — Catya looked like an artist’s rendition of pleasure, so hopelessly ecstatic was she. Her entire body seemed bent to the purpose of reaching orgasm, her fingers deep inside her like it was searching for buried gold. And she, like Venus, had long hair that covered her nipples.
My glimpse of Catya’s intimate time had only lasted for a moment. I’d immediately turned around, to shield both her dignity and my boner. While she searched for my towel, I touched my dick, hoping to tamp the erection down, but I was so aroused that the merest touch was enough.
I came in my pants. The sticky white substance sprayed, and I did my best to remain standing, knowing full well that Catya was behind me. I’d never experienced a nearly touchless orgasm before, but it was something else. Sweat dripped down my face, and other bodily fluids dripped down my thigh. By the time she passed me the towel, I was panting and spent, and hoping to all hell that she didn’t know what had just transpired.
But my body’s sheer delight didn’t make up for the fact that this was wrong, so, so wrong. As I’d gone to bed, I swore to myself that I would never touch her, and I’d do my best to not even think about her. My spontaneous orgasm had been the last time I would allow myself to think of her in a sexual way.
Then, of course, my subconscious had some different ideas. It helpfully provided me with a litany of images of Catya in the exact sexual way I was trying hard to not consider. Damned brain.
What could I do? I allowed that I couldn’t fight my subconscious, something over which I had no control. So… guess that meant I’d have to restrict my conscious, and with it, my actions.
So when I arose that morning, hard as a rock, I vowed that I wouldn’t jack off. Not to the thought of Catya, never again. She deserved better than me, some old horndog. And I deserved to keep my job. Was this what it felt like to be a star-crossed lover? Because Romeo and Juliet always seemed romantic, but this was awful. Crappy. The worst.
I twiddled my fingers, trying to keep them occupied such that they wouldn’t slip down to play with my cock, those little bastards. What to do, what to do…
My mum!
Sorry, er, let me seriously clarify that statement. I meant that I’d call my mum. It’d been awhile since we’d spoken, and if anything could kill my boner, it was talking to her. Perfect.
It was still early in the day, so it should’ve been about mid-afternoon for her, right around when she’d want to be taking a break from her shift. She’d worked at the Canning Town tube station since I was a little boy, and not much had changed — the trains still ran on time, sort of, and even after all the years of announcements on microphones, her voice had stayed the same. I think she was coming up on her twentieth year at the job. God, could that be right, twenty years? I suddenly felt even older than when I’d been thinking about Catya.
I grabbed my computer, pulled up Skype, and gave her a ring. We only ever video conferenced via an app, as neither she nor I could afford the cost of a long-distance cell call. Maybe someday.
One, two, three rings… just as I was beginning to think she must be busy, and I’d call back later, she answered.
“Oh, Simon, dear!” she exclaimed. “How lovely to hear from you.”
“Hey, Mum,” I replied, smiling into the camera.
I’d left the UK a few years back and hadn’t returned since. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, of course, but with immigration and money and so on, it wasn’t feasible.
