He was Clark Kent, tall and built and conservative, with glasses, sweetly attentive, a combination of youthful cocky and shy insecurity. More than ten years younger, he had lied about his age, “I thought you wouldn’t be interested if you knew how young I was.”
I had taken him home some weeks before, after a formal function, a night of drinking, dancing, flirting, and later fumbling one-night sex, hot and steamy and awkward, with bodies slamming and urgent whispered instructions punctuating other wordless sounds.
I had not spoken to him since, I was not interested, but tonight, at the event, I spotted him out of the corner of my eye, chatting by the bar, laughing with friends. The evening was lots of fun – drinks, food, laughs, enjoyable company and somewhere in there, without a word, without any contact, without even a glance, the hunger grew.
I walked past his group on my way out, his back was to me. I tapped his elbow, he turned, mid chuckle at something someone had said.
I looked up at him, he smiled, expecting chit chat, a hello at least.
“You coming?” I said.
I watched his face shift, shock registering the words, he was immediately flustered, I could almost feel his heart thumping at me, his cock hardening. I turned and walked away.
I heard him behind me, he stumbled over some words to his friends, “I have to go…” he said in there somewhere.
I strolled down the stairs. Hailed a cab.