Consider this for a moment: Elevators are strangely erotic places. Perhaps you’ve never thought about it before, but I have—every time a beautiful human shares this small and intimate space with me. Let me explain further.
There is an incredible amount of potentiality about elevators. We meet people all day, every day, in the course of our busy lives. Most are introduced to us through family, friends, or co-workers. At that moment, you are basically trusting those people to vouch for this new person’s personality and that it’s going to be a positive experience for everyone.
And then there are other times when you meet a stranger, someone unknown to you, through some random method. You are standing in line at the post office and notice the person in front of you is sending a parcel to the same town as you. Or you are sitting patiently waiting for a dentist appointment, and the person next to you has the same iPhone case. Completely organic opportunities for friendship.
Elevators are something else entirely. I generally have elevators associated with hotels; that’s been my personal experience over my lifetime. I know others probably know them well from apartment or office buildings, but they all share the same basic premise: You get on, you move to a different floor, you get off.
But think about it for a second. We know exactly how it works, but how many times have you been completely caught off guard by someone beautiful walking into this space while you are on your way to your destination floor?
Your brain goes crazy. You have the briefest of milliseconds to look at them as they walk in, perhaps making eye contact, then they turn around, typically standing as far away from you as physically possible, as elevator etiquette dictates. After that initial evaluation of their face, you can take a few more milliseconds to check out their body. Either they stood in front of you, in which case, you can take a long hard look at their ass. Or they are beside you, then you have to sneak in a look at their profile as surreptitiously as possible.
Probably only a second has passed, the doors have just closed, and you are back on your way again, but in that time, you’ve calculated how much you would like to fuck this person up against those shiny stainless steel doors, am I right?
Depending on the elevator’s speed and your final destination, and assuming no other interruptions from intermediate floors, you have only a few seconds for this fantasy to play out.
Of course, the reality is, no one is going to turn around and say,
“Fuck me against this aging Otis emergency telephone panel now, please.”
But we all think it. Or at least I do—a lot.
Wouldn’t it be nice if you could just stop the elevator and do that?
And I’m not advocating fucking a complete stranger. Well, I am, I suppose, except you’ve made a million calculations in the one point three seconds you’ve been near this person, and your mind and body says,
“Yes, you should fuck this person.”
And I’m a firm believer in trusting our base-level instincts. Our subconscious is infinitely more capable of making this decision than our conscious mind. There might be fewer broken hearts in the world if we paid more attention to our gut than the rest of our bodies.
But for this to work, you both have to the same decision-making process end at a unified result. And that is probably why this never ever happens. Because even though we are all fundamentally driven by the same desires, we are all uniquely and incalculably different.
Not to mention there are no pause buttons in elevators.
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