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I expected Bob to remove his hand immediately but he didn't. My eyes flew open and I saw another woman enter the store. Then his hand went lower and cupped one of my ass cheeks. I can't be sure but I think I even swayed on my feet because the feeling was so intense. This man's hand was almost on my ass and I was reeling. It slid down past my waist and grazed the top of one my jeans pockets. My excitement grew when I realized his hand wasn't stopping. At one point his hand flattened against the center of my back then moved down to my lower back. Bob put on a good show of pretending to have a conversation as his fingers glided along my shoulders and grazed the back of my neck. It didn't stay there at all but immediately began to caress my back. He came to my left side to read the page with me and put his right hand on my shoulder again. I opened the book we had been discussing earlier and feigned an interest in one particular section. I was in the new age section, which was slightly elevated from the rest of the store when Bob came up to join me.
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My patience was rewarded when I heard the bell above the door chime signaling that the woman had left. I roamed the small bookstore and glanced at the contents of the shelves, not willing to admit to myself that I was secretly hoping the woman would leave and Bob would approach me again. I wasn't gay and felt no attraction to this man, yet I couldn't deny the pleasant sensation I received from his touch. I was confused about my feelings and with the fact that the front of my jeans felt tighter now. Bob handed me the book and tended to the woman and they talked for a while. At this point a customer entered the store and the hand left my shoulder. After a while we both realized that the discussion had stopped and all we were doing was staring at the same page while he slowly grazed my back and shoulders with his fingers. He repeated this a few times while discussing the book, though I assure you I wasn't hearing a thing he said. He gently and slowly moved his hand down my back then up to my shoulder again. When Bob brought the third book to me and placed his hand on my shoulder it didn't stay there. Only years later when my naïveté had become slim did I understand that he had been sending me vibes. Of course, men had put their hands on my shoulder before, teachers and other authority figures, but I never felt this kind of excitement from those touches. But Bob's hand on my shoulder was sending chills though my body. I admit that in my twenty years I had no sexual experience with men aside from the usual teenage curiosities - playing strip poker with the guys or being drunk and getting naked on a dare. Whenever he would bring a book to me he would open it up so we could both read it and place his hand on my shoulder while discussing its contents. In hindsight I can guess that the man who had directed me here was aware of Bob's bisexuality and had sent me there to be seduced.īob told me all about his writing career and showed me some books he felt could help me in my own pursuits. Bob smiled and I noticed a gleam in his eye. I told him why I had come and who had recommended me to him. He introduced himself as Bob (I will omit his last name since he is a published author and married) and informed me that he was the owner. I arrived at this new bookstore within a half hour and was greeted at the door by a kind man in his early forties. I got back in my car and went sailing over the roads, the directions in my hand and the tunes blaring in my ears. The town was a long way away but I knew the drive would be nice so I didn't mind. He gave me directions to another bookstore two towns away and gave me the name of a man who could help me. I browsed and struck up a conversation with the shop owner about the writing craft and mentioned that I was interested in writing for children (stories much different than this one, I assure you). I parked my car in front of a little bookstore and ventured inside, not looking for anything in particular but that's just the kind of day it was. It would not be the only new boundaries I would cross that day. I maneuvered my beat up old car through the immaculately kept streets of the town suddenly feeling a bit out of my element within its boundaries. I pulled into the small town of Scituate, Massachusetts a town known for its picturesque quality, where the shops are small and pricey and a car costing under $30,000 is rarely seen.
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I was taking a drive on a clear summer day, the type of drive where you don't know or care where you end up as long as you have the windows down and a good song on the radio.