The rains occasionally pit-patters on the umbrella that you hold above your head. The wind blows through your thick black curly hair – the texture I want to run my hands through for hours. Your collared shirt peeks at me under your coat and I lick the rain off my lips wondering what it would be like to nibble your ear and kiss down your heavily cologned neck. I step a little closer so that your scent infuses my clothes for the sole purpose of lying in bed later to touch myself and be reminded of you in this moment. I promise I’m not a stalker and will never find where you live and hide in your bushes. I’ve never even thought about it once. Promise.

But, of course, I am drawn to your crotch. Of course. Greta, stop looking. It’s none of your business.

Are you a show-er or a grow-er? No matter, either way I welcome you in my mouth as I lazily run my tongue over the tip and every ridge in-between the middle of your back to your navel, savouring you like a Cyclone on a hot day. I would try not to let it drip every where, but sometimes life is more fun when it’s sticky and messy. Won’t you cum on me so I can feel your hot, wet, delicious seed drench me as you moan in pleasure? I want to rub you into me and feel the slickness go cold and dry on my skin. Would you like to have a shower with me afterwards? I like getting clean too.

Sorry, I looked at your crotch again. Damnit. Sorry.

I am stubbornly standing in the rain, holding more bags than a pack mule. The rain is slowly dampening my dress with the polkadots, yes, the one I always think makes me look like I have a disease. Steaming off my skin, the water is misting and then pooling, running into my undergarments making me shift uncomfortably to allow them to journey deeper. I cannot find any relief from the heat that is centralizing. The droplets glide down my cleavage and my nipples are now alert and waiting to direct the pedestrians safely through the intersection. I am immobilized like a dog tethered to a bike rack while my master gets a hot coffee inside. The audacity of the cafe to not leave out a water dish for my parched mouth! At least one part of me is dry.

Your shoes are shiny and you hold your briefcase in the most casual way. The rain splashes off your umbrella and creates occasional spotted patterns on the canvas. I want to connect the dots on your body. What scars and birthmarks would I find upon closer inspection? Plus, what can be so important that you’re holding that bag instead of my ass? I narrow my eyes to will you to let go of your umbrella and push these bags off my shoulders. I want to take off your coat and let the rain get you as wet as I am between my legs. My cheeks flush imagining you stroking your throbbing cock, making it ache only to press it to my cold hands to calm you down. I want to push my underwear aside and plunge you into my hot pussy right here.

Stop looking, Greta.

My black hair plasters to my head as the sky finally releases and makes me yearn to do the same. The rising waterline makes my eyeliner trivial and I am a mess for you. I shift my hips back and forth pretending to shiver from the cold, but really I’m rubbing myself against the the fabric clinging between my legs which, of course, only makes me quiver more. I’ve never been able to orgasm standing up but the torture is subconscious. I know it’s not the rain that’s making my thighs damp but I am relieved for the excuse.

Surprise! Crotch again. Fuck.

You hold tighter to the neck of your umbrella as the wind picks up and it’s getting hard to breathe. In short quick exhales, I struggle while seeing my breath disappear with the breeze without taking me with it. I am barely keeping my composure and I wish I’d forgotten something and had left the house a little later so we weren’t at this bus stop at the same time. The rain is coming off your umbrella in streams. Do you like golden showers? Do have a little bit of kink under those professional slacks? Bondage fantasies? I want you to shut up this inner monologue with your cock. I’m so thirsty. Please make me.

Your crotch. I can’t help it. Wait, who just lost her balance in a daydream and has now dumped all her shit on the dripping sidewalk? Shit.

In my periphery, I see you are looking at me now and are cautiously coming over to help me pick up my crap and dignity off the wet sidewalk. Shit shit shit. My cheek are already so flushed and I cannot imagine anymore colour finding their way there unless it was artificial. I welcome any PETA protestors to throw paint on me at this moment mistaking my faux leather bag for the real deal. Anyone?

I still cannot look into your eyes and we shuffle and cram items back into my bags. Obviously I cannot enjoy this moment of mutual stuffing – I know what needs to be done. I work the courage to slosh my eyes up to meet yours and find it in me to pour out the words:

“Thank you for your help. I accidentally looked at your crotch and your fly is undone.”

Of course, I do what any woman does in my state! I run away down the street as fast as possible pretending I lost my mind and have some hope of finding it because I haven’t been gone too long. I hope no one has picked it up and tried to unlock it or claim it as their own. Worse, they might try calling back the last person who had tried to talk some sense into me.

Don’t worry about me, though, I catch the next bus and from that day, always the bus that comes 10 minutes later for ever and ever and ever…