Touch Me

I watch him every day. He's always there about this time in the afternoon, stretched out in a hammock slung between two maple trees. His skimpy faded red shorts ride low on his narrow hips, his darkly tanned body oozes sweat and lazy lustful sex.

I lie on my bed, looking at the mirror propped up on my windowsill. I see him there, a cool reflection of the hot man in the next yard. I see my own naked leg, my arm moving as I grasp my quivering flesh in one hand.

"Touch me," I whisper.

I know he can't hear me, doesn't even know I'm here. I know making the connection is all up to me. I watch him move his big hand over his chest, his fingers lingering on first one nipple, then the other. My own hand mirrors his actions. I imagine it is his sweat I feel, his skin slick under my touch. My ass wriggles against the knotted sheets. I hear my breath coming in short pants.

"Touch me."

I flip over on my stomach, my chin just above the window sill. He has bent one leg, his knee resting against the hammock. The wide leg of his running shorts falls back and I see the swollen stained cup of thin cotton that contains his cock. I swallow. My mouth is dry. I grind my own aching cock into the bed. The springs creak and strain. My heart pounds. My eyes are fastened on the man. I can almost smell him from here- precum oozing into the thin cotton, sweat gathered like honey in his arm pits... I grunt and gasp. Cum spurts into the dirty sheets. I close my eyes and shout, no longer able to hold back.

"Touch me!"

My orgasm exhausts me.

When I raise my head and look again, he isn't there. My whole body shakes with sudden nervous spasms. I look from the open window to the mirror, seeking his reflection, at least. Nothing. I feel more alone than I have felt for some time, now. I look down at my naked flesh, smell my own cum. I long for another's smells to mingle with my own. Now I have lost even the reflection of a desirable man.

A sound at the door startles me so much I can't open my mouth. Words are stuck in my throat. Clumsily I try to wrap myself in the soiled sheets. I watch the door, mesmerized as it starts to open. I haven't had any visitors for some time. I thought everyone has forgotten me, moved on. I wonder what they will think, when they see me; if I will see the pity in their eyes.

I blink, clearing my vision. Sometimes the light plays tricks on me now. This time I seem to see the reflection of my man, but not in the mirror, not in the glass. He is standing in the doorway. I can smell the sun and the sweat and the sex. He is smiling, his eyes a hot summer blue. He comes in and closes the door behind him.

Gradually I relax my grip on the sheets. They fall away. I feel his eyes on me, touching my dry skin, licking my parched lips. Now I'm afraid to speak, to break the spell.

He is standing beside me. He takes the mirror and adjusts the angle to reflect the bed. I see us both revealed there and what I see is his vibrant macho sexuality, my pale boyish aestheticism. I hadn't seen myself that way before. I know that he has no memories of my earlier, sturdier self and I smile. He reaches down and lifts the sheet away. My cock swells, looking bigger than ever between my slender thighs.

Slowly, he pushes the waistband of his shorts down to his knees. His cock is short and fat, his balls heavy and covered with golden fuzz. I can smell the faint aroma of urine.

"Touch me," he says.