Cure for an Insomniac

Ever since I met Adam I’ve suffered from the worst insomnia. It’s not just a tossing and turning sort of thing; it’s waking up from dreams of him, feeling myself completely wet with thoughts of what I want to do and not being able to rest again until I fully satisfy myself. And, it’s as if he can read my thoughts.

My experience at field hockey today is sure to result in a repeat performance of my subconscious tonight. When we arrived, the other boys were already in the midst of their warm-up run. Adam gave me a stern look, told Ben to catch up, and then asked to speak to me privately.

Still in my work attire consisting of a black pencil skirt, a top with shoulder cut-outs and heels, I hurried to keep up with his long strides. He opened the door to an office adjacent to the field, small and dark with only one chair and a desk, which he sat on. Knowing that I had somehow gotten off on the wrong foot, I chose to stand in front of him rather than sit in the chair and look up at him like a scolded child.

“You’re back.”

“I am.”

There was something about his pleased, almost smug look, that took me by surprise.

“Is this going to be a regular occurrence?”

“My sister’s work is pretty demanding and I’m able to make my own hours. So, yes.”

He regarded me for a minute, his eyes meeting mine and daring not to look away. “Then you should know that this is a competitive program. These kids are working to get to the Olympics, which means you are accountable for his commitment. Be on time.” 

Ridiculous. He's 23 and I'm 33, and yet there was something about his tone that made me just nod submissively. 

“I’m glad we understand each other,” he said taking my hand for what I thought would be a professional handshake. But in contrast to his stern tone, his thumb gently stroked the inside of my wrist. I inhaled sharply, previously unaware of the erogenous zone. He smiled again mischievously. I swallowed hard, unable to fathom what was happening. 

He let go of my wrist, allowing his finger to slowly move up my arm to circle my exposed shoulder and then ever so lightly, he tucked the wayward strap of my bra into my top. 

“That’ll be all.”

I can’t be sure whether he was referring to his lecture, his remedy for my naughty strap or any hope of having that experience continue, but he immediately left to attend to the team. All I know is that I get tremors deep within me when I recall his touch and I fear that I will be useless to my client tonight due to my own preoccupation.