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Our lips met and her tongue probed deep in my mouth, circling and circling. My hands smoothed the outline that I had watched across the plane. Fingers running over the fine threads of her top, feeling the contours of her skin underneath. She pressed against me and we both could feel the desire in us mounting. We walked up the corridor, every five yards kissing and reaching under each other's clothes. Fingers on skin, caring nothing for the airport video scanners or occasional passengers passing. The danger of being seen making us hotter and me harder. How we managed to get through passports, retrieve bags, and exit customs with clothes intact is something I wonder. Somehow we had touched each other fleetingly everywhere, hands probing briefly, fleetingly in every place. As we sat in the taxi to a randomly chosen hotel I could smell her wetness on my fingers from the moment just before passports where we had pressed against the wall and my fingers had slid into her jeans, sliding. The white-haired equipment man was hard at work along with one of his sons, a man of fifty or so who was called a clubhouse "boy." I introduced myself, both men squinted at me, measuring, and I said I needed a uniform and a locker."Number matter?" the father said as he stuffed towels into a oversized washing machine."Plenty of cubicles. They's coming and going fast around here," said the younger man. "Been through least a hundred." Any number," I told them, "about a forty-two I suppose." I looked around. It was like going back to the place where you were born and finding very little had changed. The smell brought back a lot of memories and some regrets.The man handed me a shirt with number sixty-seven on it and said, "You wear 'em up or long?" Knee high," I said, "thirty-six belly I think," and he got me some socks and some britches, a belt, wide waist jock strap and a hard plastic cup. Everything was new. His son found me a hat that fit and handed me a carefully folded undershirt.
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