Rear Window

I remember sitting in a movie theater in the middle of a Hitchcock double feature. I think it was Rear Window. My friend from school Jenna was sitting to my right. We were 16. We were transfixed.

Then just as Jimmy Stewart was beginning to sink into voyeuristic compulsion I felt something against my left leg. It was a sensation so slow and light at first, I thought I was imagining it. I was wearing black tights and my skirt had come up above my knees when I sat down. Part of my thigh was exposed. But it was dark in there. There was a man sitting on that side of me but I hadn’t seen him because we’d come in late. I hadn’t paid any attention.

I became aware of pressure increasing against my thigh but the change in sensation was so gradual it was like a dream.

And then slowly he began stroking, gently up and down my thigh in the dark. I felt an unfamiliar mixture of fear and excitement and pleasure. I didn’t want it to stop. His fingers, nails against the fabric of my tights, slow, harder and softer, up to the hem of my skirt and then an inch underneath and then out again. His hand never ventured too high. He was being respectful. He was violating my boundaries and exploiting me in the most inappropriate way but he was a gentleman about it. I lost concentration. I was only aware of that sensation against my leg.

I suddenly felt like I’d been starved for contact for years; my flesh was screaming for it. And this stranger was satisfying me. He was responding to the hunger of my skin. He knew.

I wanted to know who was doing this to me but I couldn’t look. I was scared of him. And I was also worried if I looked and he caught me he would stop. And I didn’t want him to stop.

I hovered, uncertain and afraid and aroused, in a state of suspended consciousness for the rest of the movie. I didn’t follow the story. I couldn’t. My whole body and mind were concentrated in that little area of intense sensation. It had become his area. He’d claimed me by taking liberties. He wanted skin contact. He wanted to touch me so he did and he didn’t have to ask. I was so turned on. I imagined this stranger claiming me inch by inch without asking and me yielding, unable to resist, in the middle of a dark movie theater with Grace Kelly huge and gray and elegant above us.

The lights came up when the first feature ended. His hand was gone. I finally looked. He was short with dark hair and pale skin. Green eyes. Ordinary looking.

“Will you save my seat?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

Of course I said yes. I didn’t think about anything I just needed him there. I needed his hand back on my leg. I said yes.

Nikki Thomas was born and raised in Los Angeles. She was a straight A student who couldn’t follow the rules and spent as much time in the principal’s office as in the library. At university she opted not to join a sorority and instead filled her free time cruising Hollywood bars and parties, hooking up and getting down. Nikki is a bad girl with a heart of gold. These are her stories — consider it our Monday treat for you.