Touching My Thigh

At first, I am oblivious to you.
I sit in class, taking notes like those around me.
You hover there, just above my thigh,
Waiting for your chance to touch me, in a way that no one can see
And only I can feel
And then, stealthily, I feel your touch,
You caress my thigh softly
And I sit there helplessly, unable to move,
I try to ignore your touch, but I can’t.
You divide my attention.
You are all I can think about now.
The noise of the class moves further away from us.
You have no class.
You never did.
You’re not listening,
You feel no remorse,
No shame
And how can I blame you?
You tease my thigh,
With your soft touch
Though every part of me says I should not,
I am compelled.
I touch you back.
And I wonder to myself,
I you were mine,
What would you taste like?
But you are not mine.
And you can never be,
For you are someone else’s.
At least you were, until he heartlessly left you there.
What kind of ass-wipe sticks gum under a desk anyway?