Madame B

Ecstasy

HARD HAT

The only thing worse than walking past a building site and being jeered and catcalled at is walking past a building site and being ignored. In a world where the rules about men and women are so blurred and confusing, it's hardly surprising that the strong, silent construction worker remains such a popular fantasy figure.

The girl who told me the following tale thought that her crush on a mysterious builder was an idle day-dream. But a casual fantasy grew into a sexual obsession that dominated her thoughts night and day. And then, one evening, she crossed the line from fantasy to reality. He turned out to be all she'd imagined and more-and he allowed her to be the woman she'd always dreamed of being, too. I walked past him every day for nearly six months. At first he was just another hard hat on the construction site, another man working early hours in all kinds of weather, surrounded by overweight oafs who made jeers about the length of my skirt or the size of my tits. But there was something different about this one. Lean, not fat, he would simply watch while the others wolf-whistled. He would just stand there and look. That's all. That's all it took. His eyes would lock onto mine, and although he would continue to hold my gaze rather than check out my cleavage, I could feel his eyes burn into my back, taking in my whole body as I walked past. In the evening, when I was on my way home, he would be long gone.

I started out just hoping that he would simply be there; the two or three seconds of sexy, unsmiling eye contact he awarded me each morning brightened my day. I put him at around thirty-five, with a smooth, square jawline and curly, light brown hair that I sometimes saw if he was working without his hard yellow hat. Eventually I started to slow my walk down and added a little sashay, for his benefit as well as my own, to buy myself another few seconds in his presence. The hot summer day I first saw him working with his top off I went out and picked up a stranger who vaguely resembled him, took him home, and fucked him.

Before long, I began dressing with my hard hat in mind, carefully selecting outfits that showed the curves of my figure without displaying the flesh that attracted the attention of his colleagues. The seasons changed and the weather became cooler. When I bought my winter coat, I deliberately chose one with a belt cinched at the waist to emphasize my curvaceous breasts and hips beneath. I wore high heels to work when I'd always been a running-shoes-and-change-in-the-office kind of girl. His coworkers noticed the change: "Looking gorgeous today, darling," shouted out his fat, red-faced colleague when I strolled down the street. Another articulate fellow simply yelled out the word tits! whenever I rounded the corner. But my man remained silent, with eyes that devoured and unnerved me and yet spoke a million words. I had yet to hear his voice.

He was unknowingly in bed with me each time I had a new lover. I took home some gorgeous men that year, but I kept my eyes closed during sex, imagining my fantasy man on top of me, inside me, underneath me, all over me. Then, the following morning, I'd see him at work, blushing as I remembered all the things "we" had done the night before.

As my obsession deepened, I started to question my sanity. What did I even want with this guy? Was I going nuts, believing that there was a connection between us, something behind the silent eyes? Ironically, if he had called out something to me, the bubble would have burst. As long as he stayed silent, he could be anything. And if I was honest, I wasn't sure I wanted him to cross that line from fantasy to reality. What if that body of his, so compliant and urgent in my imagination, did not live up to my dreams? And every day as I contemplated this, the office block he worked on would be a little more polished, a little nearer completion. While part of me wanted him out of my life (as if he were really in it) so that I could get on with the serious business of actually meeting someone real, another part wanted his job to last forever. I'd come to expect this daily sexual charge, which was as much a part of my morning routine now as my latte. I would miss it when it was gone. I would miss him.

This grief-of losing something I'd never possessed-was strong enough to spur me into taking a risk. The night on which fantasy and reality collided I left the office at my usual time, six p.m., and set out on my thirty-minute walk home. It was a crisp October Friday, cold but sunny, the first of its kind that year, and the evening dusk was clear and starry. When I passed the site it looked more like a finished building than ever. There was glass in the window frames and even some lights, although swathes of crisscrossed tape indicated that it was yet to be completed. Half of the marble slab foyer was finished, but the other half was a mess of exposed brickwork and trailing wires. This would clearly be an impressive interior. For the first time, I was curious about the building for its own sake rather than for the fact that it was just the place where he worked.

I stood on my tiptoes and tried to peer in through a window. With a gloved hand, I rubbed away the grime to create a porthole in the glass. Through it I saw a strong, broad back bent over a workbench, a yellow hard hat, and a mug of coffee on the floor. I would know that back anywhere, and when he straightened up and I saw the soft tufts of his brown hair, I let out a low moan. He turned around and met my eyes. Wordlessly, he broke into a smile, displaying even white teeth. It was the first time I'd seen an expression on his face other than the set, serious look he gave me in the mornings. The creases around his mouth made him look a few years older than I'd guessed but also more beautiful, human, and vulnerable. Then he disappeared.

Feeling foolish, standing there on my tiptoes, I wasn't sure whether to stay or go. Then the main door to the building swung open, and he was there in the doorway framed by dark glass set in marble, half-silhouetted by the soft light pouring from inside. Beneath the filthy T-shirt was a well-developed torso that tapered down via a flat belly to plaster-splattered blue jeans and a pair of sturdy but battered beige work boots. I could see where the leather had worn away to expose steel toe caps beneath.

The serious face was back. Trembling, and without a word, I crossed the threshold, accepting his unspoken invitation. He took my hand and led me to the dark corner of the foyer where he had been working. It was cold inside, too, and his breath misted in the air. Walking in a trance, I followed his smoky trail, I would have followed him anywhere. A thought ran through my mind: What am I doing here? This isn't me! I'm sensible: safe. Boring, even. My instinct said, You know nothing about this man; get out now while you've still got your clothes on! But my body told me a different story, saying, You do know this man; you've fucked him every which way in your dreams, and if he doesn't make a move soon, you're going to explode.