Move Over Sport

I chose to sit next to a cute, presumably Muslim, guy with one of those Muslim beards, on the tram this morning. Are those chin beards Muslim beards? I don't know? He had a round, handsome face and gorgeous coffee coloured skin. He was taking up ¾ of the seat when I sat down, and he seemed reluctant to move over any more than would allow half my arse to hang off the seat on the isle side.

I readjusted, you know, did the "seat wiggle" as if to give him a hint that maybe there was some inequity in the seating arrangement as it stood, but no, he didn't relinquish a millimetre. Nothing. Not a shiver, not a flinch, nothing. Not even an annoyed glance in my direction. He was the immovable object and he clearly didn't care how much room I had.

I see, I thought to myself.

I pushed my thigh gently up against his thigh and felt how solid it was, how muscular, it felt really nice. Warm and strong. I applied pressure, like we were intimate, if you know what I mean. I think I even did one of those nose scrunches, just to myself, as I felt the muscles in his thigh. And then he moved right over giving me half of the seat. I gave myself a look of satisfaction, nobody saw it, but I felt it. A smirk, I guess you'd call it. Very satisfactory it was too.