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Gupta canes Brigitte and Marine for peeing in public.

I turned my hand over beneath yours and pressed into your fingertips; we stayed locked together until the next dance break, and then began tracing the curves of fingertips and knuckles, slipping about one another in the darkness of the orchestra section while the tap dances and duets rolled across the stage. At the first blackout, a mere hour and ten into the act, you plunged your fingers between mine, at once clasping my hand and penetrating it. The woman in front of me, with the frozen-in-time hairdo, turned around at my gasp.


Using my hand, my fingers, almost like a tool, you trace the baseball diamond of bare skin above my breasts, running around the frame created by my blouse, jacket and scarf. My fingers tingle as you run them across my collarbone, and I break off in the middle of a sentence when you let my hand go and begin to stroke just above my breasts with your own finger. The silence surprises you: until now, I've been a marvelously self-conscious actress, and it is only now that I slip and lose track of my words. Your hand stops moving, hovering above my blouse. I can feel the heat of your palm, hear your breathing, before you ask,

"Should I go on?"

There is no need to ask whether you mean to go on with your analysis of the show or with our lovemaking: they have become lost in each other, any distinguishing features stroked and talked away. In response, I arch my back and push my breasts into your palm. There is a moment, just before your hand molds to me, when your mouth goes to form a word and cannot find the proper shape to take. Seeing this, I smile, and only then does your hand relax against me. As your lips form a round growl at the softness of my flesh under the blouse and bra, your fingers curve in, closing around first the base of my breast and then sliding gently, carefully, to circle my nipple. Before my eyes close in a clench that mirrors the clench of my thighs at this new tease, I see your wrist bend up, the pianist's delicate bend that means you are playing.


When we walked into the theater - so afraid we would be late because of the miserable traffic, but, amazingly, there with 25 minutes to showtime - you wanted to steer me through the crowd to the box office. Past the producers and writer-types, past the scholars who wanted to make an appearance, past the actors who wanted to do anything just to be seen doing it: my hands full of clutch purse and coat, you smilingly fit your hand into the curve at the base of my spine, just above my ass, and taught me the choreography of walking together. After we had the tickets, your hand stayed there, gently commanding my movement while we meandered through the courtyard and lobby. We stopped to read the artist biographies outside the doors to the theater, and I arched my back, pulling the curve of my spine away from your hand momentarily. You leaned in to whisper to me as I stepped back and uncurved my back, and somehow we pressed against each other from shoulder to hip for a second before your hand rediscovered my back and I stepped forward again, suddenly conscious of the milling audience behind and around us. Your whisper still snuck into my hearing,

"Later, cherie."


Your fingers have tightened to an excruciating, pleasing pinch around my nipple, and your breath comes close to my ear, swooping down to my neck and the sensitive line of skin beneath my earlobe.

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