My Innocent Indiscretion. Eva Cassel

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СКАЧАТЬ the Amsterdam station two hours later I was coveting Chad’s meager belongings, stuffed into a single, ratty backpack that looked light as a feather as he stood up and flung it over his shoulder.

      “Do you need some help?” he asked, seeing me trying to pull my beast down from the overhead luggage compartment, where it had been forcibly stuffed by a muscular Good Samaritan. I was in danger of being pinned underneath it if it fell.

      “No, no,” I started to say as he moved behind me and grabbed it anyway. We both tugged. The momentum propelled me back against him. I could feel his chest against my back. He felt hard as a brick wall. All I wanted to do was jut my ass out, like a small, furry mammal in heat, and wiggle it against his crotch. I refrained, of course, but just barely.

      I knew it was my last chance, that he’d slip into the proverbial sunset in a matter of minutes and I’d never see him again. It was the opportune time to turn around, while caged by those powerful-looking arms, and do something stupid—like kiss him. Just once. Then I’d be an angel for the rest of my married life. But I’ve never been one to do that kind of thing, and people don’t change that suddenly. So I didn’t. As scrumptious as young Chad was, I knew I couldn’t handle the guilt (my mother had wielded guilt as mercilessly as she had the wooden spoon hanging decoratively, menacingly, on the kitchen wall, and I probably came to associate the two as a package deal).

      The walk from the platform to the exterior was a blur. Chad insisted on helping me with my luggage. He knew exactly which way to go. I scrambled, completely disoriented, to keep up with him. He’d turn back every few steps with a patient, amused smile, waiting for me to catch up. Having him in front of me also let me feast my lecherous eyes for a few more minutes. His jeans were on the loose side but fitted his ass quite nicely. I instantly, effortlessly, pictured that ass naked: smooth glowing skin, tan lines, maybe two dimples where his lower back curved. Through his T-shirt I could also make out the muscles of his upper back: my favorite part on a man. I watched them ripple whenever he readjusted his backpack or changed which hand was dragging my suitcase filled with iron anvils.

      “Are you taking a tram?” He asked as we emerged from the station.

      I’d expected the postcard view of slouching, five-storey houses (leaning on one another like arthritic old friends, afraid of slipping into the canals), tulips everywhere, bicycles galore. Instead I was greeted by construction—everything ripped up, diverted by blue, pleated fences, plastered with ripped posters, stacks of bricks and cables, and general pandemonium.

      “Uh, no,” I said distractedly, looking around for a taxi stand, “I’m going to take a cab. Do you need a ride?” I heard myself ask rather eagerly; it was the least I could do after he’d helped me with my luggage. Or so I reasoned.

      “No, I’m going to walk, my hostel’s not far,” he said.

      We stood and stared at one another. He seemed to be waiting for me to say or do something specific and I was probably doing the same. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his mouth, which was twitching in and out of a knowing smile. He knew I wanted him; everybody probably wanted him.

      I sighed, longing, regrettably, to stroke his cheek and say something profound and wistful, worthy of my accumulated life experience: My dear boy, the passion we could have shared, but alas…

      “Well, thank you,” I murmured awkwardly instead, clutching the handle of my suitcase with both hands.

      His smile deepened. He nodded, more as confirmation that he understood that there would be nothing further between us.

      As he turned and walked away, glancing back once with a gut-wrenchingly sexy wink, I imagined the adventures he would surely have in this decadent, permissive city. He’d meet some Spanish tourist at his hostel. She’d be dark-haired and olive-skinned and saucy. They’d meet in the ‘café’ downstairs, lounging on smoke-infused cushions as though all time everywhere had slowed to a crawl. She’d comment on his T-shirt. He’d introduce himself. They’d lie back, their heads touching, sharing barely coherent, fragmented stories from their lives. Later that night, after sloppily feeding each other gravy-soaked, hand-cut French fries and some brightly sprinkled stale donuts, they’d stumble up the stairs, tongues plunging hungrily into mouths, fingers undoing buttons, laces and zippers. She’d grab his ass aggressively and press him against her, snarling playfully against his open mouth. He’d smile drowsily, sliding his hands up under her shirt to cup and caress her creamy soft breasts. She’d liberate his cock. He’d flip up her miniskirt and yank down her panties. She’d grab him by the wrist and make him stroke her sopping wet pussy. He’d growl, grab her by the ass, and hoist her up against the wall, wrapping her legs around him, driving his cock inside her. She’d inhale sharply, closing her eyes, and—

      “Do you need a cab?”

      A car had pulled up in front of me; the driver was leaning over the passenger seat, waving at me through the open window.

      “Yes,” I said, glancing at Chad’s retreating form one more time, and climbed into the car.

      When I was booking the hotel everyone had told me to stay away from the main tourist drag. “Just trust me on this one,” my friend Rachel had said, circling and then vehemently crossing out a whole section of town. “You’re going in August,” she’d reasoned, “it’s going to be a circus full of drunken, high, frat boys and soccer hooligans.” And perhaps if Laura and I had done the trip when we were eighteen as we had planned then all that testosterone might have been right up our alley—but not at thirty-five years old. So I booked a hotel in the more residential De Pijp neighborhood, near the famous Albert Cuyp market.

      On the website the hotel had looked clean and quietly, functionally elegant. Laura had clapped her hands excitedly like a small child when I showed it to her. I realized it had been cunningly misrepresented when I came upon a chicken-scratched piece of paper on the locked front door telling me to check in at a different hotel down the block. I dragged my suitcase down the cobbled sidewalk, dealt with a terse, indifferent teenager clearly running the family business on his school break, dragged my suitcase back to the hotel, hoisted it up two flights of the narrowest stairs I’d ever seen, and finally let myself into the room to discover that it was nothing like the picture on the website. It was cramped, neglected, mismatched and smelled of old, musty wood. Laura would be arriving the next day from London where she was visiting family; I just had to make other arrangements before then, or the trip would be ruined (we didn’t even have separate beds, the way I had ordered, just one double bed with half a foot on either side).

      So I locked the door, dragged my suitcase back to the other hotel, argued with the teenager (who snarkily muttered under his breath that I had perhaps I thought I had booked a room at the Hilton as he gave me a new set of keys—sarcasm, apparently, is one of those things not lost in translation). The Hilton it was most definitely not, but it was better. There were two single beds in this room. It was much bigger. And the view was lovely, looking out onto the back gardens. It was still horribly decorated, with no en-suite washroom, but I was too exhausted by this point to care. As I lay awake, listening to the old house speak in creaks, mysterious thumps and rattles, I remembered Chad gripping my hips, walking ahead of me through the station, smiling knowingly as we said goodbye. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d fantasized like this. I fell asleep to him parting my naked thighs with his, his mouth just about to descend on my peaked nipple.

      The next morning was moist but warm. It wasn’t cloudy, exactly, but it wasn’t clear either. A barely visible mist, as though the ground itself was exhaling its warm breath, hung over the city.

      I put on a denim skirt, a black tank top, a slouchy cardigan, and wrapped a light cotton scarf around my neck, figuring this should cover all the possible weather scenarios for the day (I had СКАЧАТЬ