Forearm Hair

It was The Muffin Fan who reminded me.

The picture of his hand reaching out for a guitar piqued a sliver of familiar feeling. Suddenly I remembered that same sensation from decades before when I was working.

A young woman in the midst of a manically noisy dealing room, I had to deliver a message to his desk.

Unfamiliar territory, but a man that I had noticed previously for the perfection of his clean cut features. Classically beautiful, he stood starkly different against the hullabaloo of the quest for filthy lucre.

He was on the phone and, as I stood there waiting, suddenly all was silent apart from the pulse of the blood pumping in my head.

My focus filled with just a forearm reaching across the desk for some papers as if in slow motion – the individual blonde hairs standing out against the tan.

It was so beautiful that all I could do was stare. Struck dumb, any thought of the words I was supposed to impart voided from my brain.

And, for the first time, I felt the shiver of lust ripple down my body to translate into moisture between my legs.

A seminal moment.