F is For Frottage

I have told you about the small cramped space behind the counter at work. I have talked about the accidental brushing up against each other, the electric shock of skin on skin. This way of touching without actually falling into their embrace is my way of finding comfort. I like them. I can brush past them. My physical contact is an accident. The small sexual thrill I feel can be concealed in the hurly burly of the every day. So therefore F is for Frottage and I must admit to partaking in this kind of secret pleasure.

I saw a Frottophile on a train one day. It was peak hour. I watched him pushing against the back of a young woman. She was nervous. She looked to one side. She shifted. She felt crowded but she wouldn't move away from him and he was happy to be noticed without confrontation. We are polite in situations like this. We are loathe to confront the people who trespass into our personal territory. I joke with those I work with about my similar intrusions. "Up close and personal" I tell tell them and we laugh. I wonder if they are being similarly polite, tollerating the unwanted intrusion. Making light of it. I am careful to step back and away if I sense any kind of irritation from a fellow worker. I do not linger. I am there and gone in an instant. But at times I wonder.