A note: So this may be a little autobiographical, haha.
She could feel the warmth of his hand through the thick material of her jeans; placed ever so gently but purposefully on her thigh. She was sure this was the point where she was supposed to melt a little, smile bashfully and maybe blush. Instead she felt cold and uncomfortable, tempted to cry and walk away and scratch away her skin all at once. She matched his movements, gently but purposefully picking up his hand and moving it back to his own leg. He laughed a bit, surprised but not yet put off. They kept talking, he was interesting and they had several things in common. As they chatted he slowly placed his hand back on her thigh, even higher up this time.
This time she looked him straight in the eye as she moved his hand away again.
“Keep your hands to yourself, thank you.”
He laughed again, mentioned that she was being very polite.
“I am polite but if you keep doing that I’m going to get less polite.”
He seemed to take the hint but it preyed on her mind. He was friendly, seemed kind and yet she still couldn’t get the chill out of her bones when she thought about the way he had touched her. She was a grown woman and yet she couldn’t handle the slightest of sexual contact.
She felt broken.
She knew. She had known for some time but, deep in the dark corners that she kept well-hidden, she still felt a little broken.
Maybe it was the talk of grandchildren at family meals.
Maybe it was the near constant Facebook notifications of pregnancy and marriage.
Maybe it was anxiety and alienation and all the confused societal messages and everything piled on top of self-consciousness.
She knew she was asexual. She just wasn’t sure when she was going to accept it.
Tales written from a prompt in just 10 minutes.
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