He chuckles, a sound that rumbles low through the portal and directly to my clit, bringing it out of hibernation. He smells good, inviting and warm, a little bit like a fireplace. I take an unnecessary step towards him, and I can feel between my thighs how instantly wet I am. My stomach feels warm as a tension-uncurling shiver moves through me.
Then something finally clicks. How my spine went rigid at his command.
Did I—no. That’s not it. That wasn’t what that interaction was. I did not just fucking cream my panties because some stranger was a little bit suave in front of me. Why wouldn’t I just immediately do what he told my bag to do?
But he—
Pink creeps up in my cheeks.
I cover my mouth; even as he holds my eyes and his nostrils flare, and even though I don’t know how keen a gargoyle’s sense of smell is, I knowhe knows.
My cycle is starting, already.Shit.
I don’t really know how to get out of this moment. I give him a brief little headshake, probably not doing a great job at concealing how little I want to be here. He nods and steps back a little, his large, bat-like wings flexing with the movement. They look soft, even with the stoney texture that sends cracks scattering through them like veins.
The space allows me to fully look him up and down, from the dark purplish-blue of his suit, the fact that he has a vest piece with a little gold chain leading into some hidden pocket, to the high arches of his hooves. My eyes linger low on him, on the shape of his long, thick, tapering tail that swishes gently behind him, moving gracefully with his wings.
He stoops a moment to find my bag’s handle and rolls it back toward me. I take it, smile through a feeling that I imagine is what dying is like and turn in a different direction.
Well, there’s the reason I don’t leave the house, as if I needed reminding. I hate that it’s only going to get worse throughout the work trip. I give myself a few moments standing outside the bathroom like I’m waiting to get in, willing amnesia into existence. When that doesn’t work, I give myself a little shake and get on with my flight itinerary. It's fine. It has to be.
Drifting through the TSA line, I reassure myself that at least I’ll never see him again. The world’s too big to bump into the same person twice.
An airport worker opens the little crowd control dividers, releasing the stanchion belt and directing everyone stuck in my part of the line toward various luggage scans.
“Take out everything electronic, miss,” a skeleton TSA agent tells me, just as I heft my carry-on bag into the bin.
I sigh, pull my work laptop out of the bag and lay it flat in the next bin with my suitcase, watching the one bin with my shoes disappear into the scanner. I always forget about that part. Before I worked for this company, I never had to travel so much.
The next TSA agent shuffles me through the scan and pat down, and when I come out, all ruffled, of the other end of this assembly line, thereheis again.
The gargoyle guy is, of course, immaculately put together, tail flicking as he waits for his bag as well. He’s got his eyes trained on the TSA agent going through his suitcase with unnecessary skepticism. It looks from here that someone’s about to go through my bag as well.
Figures.
“All this hurry up and wait,” I grumble out loud, sympathizing with him before I actually realize what I’m doing. I’m too used to just airing my thoughts to nothing and no one. I’ve really got to reign this in.
I attempt to exude an air of utter apathy when his eyes catch mine. It's what I do whenever I go to the office, mostly to try to cancel out the hope of being swallowed up by the floor. I’ve seen that happen to people at work, and there’s nothing like a visual image for your social anxiety to latch onto.
He doesn’t say anything at first, but there’s a faint glimmer of recognition. I guess it was only a couple minutes ago that I nearly orgasmed in front of him, just from smelling him. I mean, he can’t really know that happened, right? I wish I had the capacity to act like it didn’t happen at all, instead of trying to still recover from it.
After a beat, the gargoyle offers in a low, almost conspiratorial voice, “Do you think we’re being timed?”
There’s really nothing to be said about airports that hasn’t been said before. I can’t think of anything normal to reply with, so I chirp, “It’s training for a five-minute mile, that’s why all the terminals are so far apart.”
He doesn’t laugh, which, ouch, but fair. I’m ready to just decide my ego shouldn’t take any more hits from this stranger.
Mr. Overdressed-for-the-Airport offers me an arm to lean on as I hop around barefooted, trying to get my shoe on. Ok, that’s sweet of him. A little old fashioned, maybe.
I lean on his arm and wrestle with my slipper to get it on over my now-sweaty bare foot, and he doesn’t budge an inch the entire time. Maybe it’s just the lingering shock of that weird little shared moment further back in the airport, but I’m a little impressed by his general sturdiness. Not that that’s something to be impressed by—that’s not a quality people say they’re looking for, ever.
Maybe more is phasing me than just this gargoyle in his fucking three-piece suit who looks like he’d be easily cast to play a gentleman in a historical drama. Maybe it’s the obvious intensity of the utterly different places we are at in our lives. Maybe it’s seeing my greasy sweatshirt sleeve against the craftsmanship of his suit.
Generally, I don’t care that some people wear their best business casual clothing to fly in; I’m firmly in the comfort category. I’ve got on the sweatshirt half of a velour track suit I’ve long lost the bottom half to, leggings, and slippers that have just enough of a firm bottom that I can pretend they’re acceptable shoes.
Still, it does make me feel just a touch underdressed to be leaning on him.
“Where are you going that requires a suit this time of night?” I ask, because actually I've decided it is really weird for him to be dressed like this, now that I think about it. What are boundaries in the airport, anyway?
