THE THEATER MIRROR, Boston's LIVE Theater Guide


"HANDSOME IS . . . ."

Copyright 1996 by the author, Larry Stark


He called! Omigod, he just called! He's coming. He's actually COMING! He'll be here in an hour. He'll be HERE in an HOUR!

I don't believe this. I'm not this sort of girl! I mean woman. Hell no, GIRL this time! Damn it, I'm so tizzied by it all. And now that he's actually COMING, the unpublished novelist in me wants to record the whole damned thing. For posterity? Hell, just so I don't wake up tomorrow thinking this is all a dream!

Okay, facts time:

Early this afternoon, in the midst of scheduling editing conferences for the new acquisition, a whole ripple of giggling erupted from the outer office, and so I slipped myself back into those high-heeled power-pumps of mine and went stomping out to see what was going on. I think I run the office with human understanding -- equal applications of carrot and stick wherever necessary, but decorum and discipline wherever humanly possible.

There were three women standing in a circle around Dolly's desk. She's the receptionist who's getting married next month. They were all chattering and commenting and snickering, and between their heads all I could see was Dolly, slumped sensuously back in her swivel chair, softly moaning rhythmically, with transports of ecstacy rippling across her thrown-back face, her head slowly twisting back and forth, savoring sensation.

"What the hell is going on!" I whispered to Robin, as I came up to her. She just made room for me in the semicircle, and pointed.

Kneeling in front of Dolly was a tall, whip-thin young man with a wickedly pointy beard who had her stockinged left foot in his two hands.

"Dolly's fiance sent her a foot-massage!" Robin explained, never taking her eyes from the event. "Said she deserved something relaxing after last week-end with his folks. It's really something, isn't it!"

And it was, certainly, something! I watched him move from the left to the right, cupping, handling, crushing, stroking, twisting, bending her foot, her heel, each separate toe quickly, efficiently, slowly, while Dolly slowly writhed as though in the throes of the ultimate sensual experience.

"Ooooohh," she sighed, softly, "You make all the muscles in my foot feel wonnn-derful!"

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," he said, expertly. "They're not in your foot. They're up here...in your calf." And his hands slipped swiftly up behind each knee, grasping, kneading the tensed, bunched muscles there, squeezing up and down each leg for a few more minutes, while Dolly collapsed into a little puddle of melting butter.

After a bit he paused and sat back against his heels. "There," he finished. "Relax you, does it?" He poured a few drops of rose-water on his hands and caressed the sweet smell over Dolly's stockinged feet.

"Oh, that could go on for ages!" Dolly sighed. "You wannna do the thighs too?"

"No," he snickered. "We just do feet -- except on special contract."

"Well thank you. Donnie's just about the most thoughtful man alive!" She glanced around the admiring circle as though slipping back into life after a sexy dream. "Hey, while he's hear you all ought to try it! It's a gas!"

Everyone laughed, but suddenly I found myself saying "You know, I think I'd like to try it too!"

That nonplussed everybody. I don't really rule the roost with an iron hand, but there were quick glances that implied maybe the office manager had a soft, human spot or two after all.

"You're gonna love it!" Dolly crowed, slipping into her stiletto stilts and standing. "Oh, they feel like two new feet! Here, take my chair. C'mon, girls, let's get one quick coffee, and leave her to heaven!"

The young man hadn't moved as I slid into the chair and toed my pumps off my feet. He sat back looking up for a moment. "I'll have to charge you the full rate," he said. "She's signed up for one a week for a month, and so it's a little cheaper... "

"From the look on Dolly's face, whatever you charge will be worth it!"

And it was! His hands took command, clasped firmly on each side, his thumbs caressing the high instep of my foot, probing, while the knuckles of each hand bunched under and around, flexing.

"Only don't tickle! I can't stand being tickled."

"I never tickle," he said, commandingly. "This is tickling." One finger lightly flicked twice against the arch of my foot, and I gasped and jerked in a spasm that shook my whole body. "But this is massage..."

And he was right. The firm, soothing attention of his hands turned not to the surface, but the inner secrets of my flesh, my bones, my joints, my tendons. He screwed firmly at each heel, making me aware how supple, how almost prehensile it could be. He found all the linkages in my ankles, caressed the tendons solidly, and worked full-handed pinches into the depths of each calf. His hands took complete possession of me, finding subtle depths of feeling I'd never known existed, releasing a warm flood of sensation, relaxation, and comfort I had never realized could be tapped by such little expert pressures. Dolly was right. I didn't want it to stop. His hands possessed me totally, and I sighed, feeling them caress and manipulate and direct me, sinking softly into responses, wishing it would never end, wondering why such sensation had to stop at the knees...

"There we are," he said at last, pricking my bubble. "My hands are a little tired. I usually get a few minutes rest between massages." The rose-water was suddenly cool and fragrant.

"Your hands are magnificent!" I insisted. "How much must I pay you for that unearthly experience? Please, come down to my office and I'll write you a check." Dolly was right. After his ministrations, my shoes felt like clumsy leather echoes of his expert fingers. "Do you only do feet? Surely such professional ministrations would command a tidy sum more generally applied."

"Oh, we make special private contracts," he said, coming behind me into the office. He was taller than me by almost a foot, and quietly spoken. "But only feet in the workplace."

"Pity," I said, sitting at my desk, writing the check to the name on his business-card: Relaxations, Inc. "There's a spot in my neck and right shoulder I'd love to have you deal with."

When he touched me, I dropped the pen. My whole body trembled. His fingers were delicate, exploratory, tender and yet totally in command. They found and dealt with the crick. "Oh yes!" I moaned. "Those hands are magnificent. They could do anything to me. Anything!"

Then suddenly I was standing, swayed backward. "Anything! Everything!" I grasped each one in my own hand, swooning, clasped his palms against each eager, swollen breast. "Oh yes! Do me! Take me! Make love to me? Please!"

I twisted toward him, my own hands pleading on his chest, more thoughtlessly abandoned to pure desire than I had ever been before.

He looked stricken, frightened. "But I can't!" he protested. "Not here. Someone might come in!"

"I'll lock the door!"

"No," he said, shaking his head decisively. "Someone might hear. Besides, you don't need to make love. All you really need is an orgasm."

His left hand at my shoulder gathered me toward him, while his right yanked the tail of my satin blouse from my waistband. I felt his quick fingers knife down, flat over my tummy, right down deep into my panty-girdle, across the damp squirm of hair, until they found me, felt me, took possession of me. The knuckles of two agile fingers rasped down along my eager slit caressing, demanding, insisting.

"Here," he said, his other hand pulling my mouth up into his, "this should muffle the noise."

And it was over in minutes, or hours. I melted. I groaned into his open, engulfing mouth, I flushed and shuddered, opening and responding to his touch, his insistent, commanding touch.

"There," he said at last, reaching for a handkerchief as I slumped back onto the chair, blinking at the speed of it all. "That should do it, I think."

"And how much do you charge for this little service?" I said, turning, trying to control my breathing, bending once again to the check.

"Ten dollars per," he said, just a smug little grin faintly in his voice. "You determine how many."

I hesitated, then added thirty dollars to his fee. "But I still want you, you know. I want all of you."

"In special cases, we do make house-calls." He smiled. "Will you be home alone tonight?"

I nodded. "My address and phone are on the check."

"Well then, perhaps we can do business together. Good afternoon."

I sat trembling at my desk for a full minute after he'd gone. This isn't me, I thought! I've never been the quickie type before! What the hell's gotten into me?

I headed for the Ladies' to splash a little cold water on my wrists, but just as I got to the door stuffed my blouse swiftly back into my skirt! As I passed her, I called over my shoulder, "Dolly, your young man certainly has your best interests at heart!"

And now he's called! I don't think I really expected it, but just as I was finishing a t-v dinner the phone rang.

"I can come at nine, if you're free."

"I'll be waiting."

"It would save time if you were barefoot."

"Of course."

"I mean, all over. See you then."

That's how he is! Self-assured, completely in control. Just like those hands. So here I sit, in my sexiest robe, confessing to my secretest diary the silliest, addle-headedest...

There's the doorbell!!!!! (Click here to read "Part Two")

1,652 words

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