Those Fucking Eyes
Sharing looks on a daily basis with someone who's name you don't even know may as well be just as good as cuddling to sleep with them at night. With that said, I've been silently fucking a brown-eyed wigger from work to whom my attraction I cannot figure out. His name I don't know. His age I don't know. His height or kind of car or brand of shoe I don't know. I'm left to stare with the fact that he's a New York Yankees fan. But he stares back, so hard I think he may know more about me than I do him.
I could easily ask his name, but I don't want to know it. I don't care about his name or his age or his kind of car. I care about getting him with as few words as possible, and I know that I'm close. All throughout our shifts we share these looks that suggest everything that normal people use words to express. But there is something high and mighty in the air of the factory floor we share; we want each other, dominantly, submissively, and so much so that neither of us are ever going to speak. We spend half the day thinking about each other, yet neither of us has ever bothered to introduce ourselves. We share these glances like we've had sex a thousand times already, yet words would subtract from the sexuality of it all. So in silence, he hooks me by the eyes like bait.
And there is that one instant four times a day, just about five minutes following every break. I go back to my line and I stand a good distance from the main walkway. And right on schedule, he walks by underneath his black Yankees hat and struts his skinny body. And he looks. God damn, does he ever look. He looks right into me, and he doesn't look away. From the second I'm in his field of vision, till the moment he's forced to turn away, we look into each other. He's not checking me out, or looking at the person next to me. No, he's staring me right in the eye and telling me he likes what he sees. There is never a smile. We never once smile at each other. He just looks into me as if he's telling me that I'm his for as long as he damn pleases me to be his, and I diligently obey. He tells me that he can have any woman he wants, but he chooses to fancy me, and so I stare back as if to permit his most deviant and vile actions. His stares tell me to do things, and I do them. His stares tell me of his power, and my stares bow before him. His stares are like orgasms and my whole body tightens before letting loose in mind-boggling convulsions. I'm completely submissive to these looks and I'm turned on so hot by him because he walks by and stares me down with the most solid and dominant of looks. I try so hard not to smile, and when he turns his head and continues to the back of the warehouse, my cheeks tighten. I try so hard not to smile, to stay as sexually mysterious and untouchable as I appear, but I want him so bad, and I tell him how desperately I want him in my returning glances.
I'm so hooked on that stare. I think about it constantly. I look over my shoulder for it every time it crosses my mind, hoping to see it passing by and satisfying my addiction. I long for the second he walks by and the non-confrontational showdown begins. Commence the ripping of clothing and the tearing of hair. Unleash the most wicked and satisfying sexual pleasures. Do anything you want with me, but whatever you do, don't look away.