The Dressing Room

“Okay. Now your pants,” he said. 

I gave a crooked grin, regretting it when he didn’t return it. 

“Is that fine?” 

“Of course,” I stuttered. 

My fingers fumbled clumsily at my belt as I swallowed the lump in my throat. Every look, every gesture I’d been making exposed my inexperience. But my pants slipped down, pooling at my ankles. Instinctively, I shielded myself. 

“Shy?” 

“Not exactly,” I muttered. 

A cheeky grin grew on his face. “I’ll need to reach the inseam.” 

I tried feigning knowledge. “Right. Of course.” I paused, and eventually gave up. “Where is that, exactly?” 

But he was already on his knees. 

Then, something in the air completely shifted, as if the room itself was holding its breath. I met his eyes. A dark sea of blue. The same as mine. But who was drowning in whose? I’d never been here before, less so physically, but emotionally. Psychologically. Never had a man been that close. Never could I imagine it. And yet, he didn’t hesitate. There was no pause. No embarrassment. No shame. He was certain in a way I had never been certain of anything. Decisive in the places I’d been careful. He moved as though this, my body, was always what he intended to consume. 

I fumbled at making sense of the “why.” Whether I feared it or craved it, was my dilemma. Was it desire I felt, or the mere shock of being unmade by impenetrable confidence? The truth blurred. It felt like both. A sickness, rather. I wondered if this was where he was most proud of himself, on his knees in this room, undoing the men who blindly consider themselves untouchable. I kept my gaze forward, but inside me a thought pressed: was self-control just an illusion? 

My hands fell away, surrendering. His presence there, in front of me, his mouth so close to the most conclusive part of my body, sent a rush through me. My briefs tightened, pulsed out of control. 

“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “That doesn’t usually happen.” 

He smiled then, the first glimmer of warmth I’d seen from him. “We’re all professionals here.” 

His knuckles brushed against the tender inside of my thigh, grazing closer, his rough skin against the place I regarded most sacred. The touch wasn’t crude, but charged, and my body betrayed me, its fight between shame and curiosity persisting, two hands pulling the same rope. “Okay.” He rose to his feet. Measured. Calm. “Stay here. I’ll grab some pieces.”

He started toward the door, then hesitated. A low chuckle slipped from him, lingering longer than it should. He looked back at me. 

“You must be a big fan, huh?” 

I followed his eyes downward, and my arousal was plain. Undeniable. Standing in defiance of everything I’d been trying to hide since entering this damned dressing room. I cupped myself, as if that could undo it, but the truth remained. My body had already answered for me.

Brandon Michael