http://uslanka.net/2013/12/25/nine-pairs-of-denim-inspired-by-our-favorite-french-girls/ He asked me what I thought of the bar. I said it looked mildly obscene. He huffed a sort of laugh. He knew my humor; this was nothing new.
We slowly, gracefully, made our way to the back left corner of the room, delicately cutting in between guests. We stood, quietly watching everyone mingle.
We started chatting about nothing important. Seeing him with his hands behind his back, I put mine there as well.
I found my wrists gripping my forearms, my limbs in a familiar position. I smiled to myself.
I remembered a few of the times when my arms were like that, but bound in rope, unable to move forward.
I remembered walking around in my underwear with cigars tucked into my chest harness. I remembered going to Ava’s class and her tips on maneuvering your arms to keep them from cramping. Demo bottoming for Dov, with the ache and the rush. Murphy flying me sideways.
I brushed the delicate skin of my inner arm with my thumb. A soft flow of warmth pulsed through my body. I grinned a little wider.
I delighted in how no one knew the naughty thoughts going through my mind. No one suspected the life I lived, the adventures I’d experienced, the stories I had to tell. I’m sure, to them, I looked like just another business casual party-goer.
He talked about something. I kept up my end of the conversation, knowing full well neither one us actually cared what was said. He departed soon after, leaving me with the space to care for.
The guests mingled, and ate, and danced. I just smiled, and caressed my skin, and held my arms behind my back.
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