Vulnerable Strangers

Sitting in the airport is always a welcome experience. So much happening, so many people with different thoughts, struggles—all heading to different destinations. Some travel for work, others for vacation, some to visit family. But there are those who travel for reasons more... deviant. Affairs, kinks, fantasies—things they can’t speak about openly, masking their true purpose, often labeling it “for work.”

I understand this. I’ve been that person. My spouse has been that person too. We’ve both worn masks—separate lives within the same house, all without uttering a single truth about the things we hide. He has

his secrets, and I have mine. But I know everything he’s never said. I would never let him know that I get off on those unspoken truths. It works—for now. But we’ve each had our dark moments, our histories shaped by shadows we can’t outrun.

We all want something, don’t we? “We’re only human,” I tell others, but what I mean is that human are complicated, messy things. We all do what we do for our own reasons, driven by needs we may not fully understand ourselves. No two people are alike, and yet we all crave the same things—connection, attention, love, the feeling of being wanted. It's the fixations, the obsessions, that take us deeper. And once you’re hooked—once you’re lost to it—it’s hard to come back.

Today, I sit in this airport for a different reason. It’s Christmas—traveling home, navigating the crowded terminals, and all the holiday chaos that comes with it. Frustrating. But it’s also a gift to myself. In the midst of the noise, I am the predator, quietly watching, waiting. For my prey.

I move through the terminal as if I belong here—confident, purposeful, each step measured. There’s a secret in my posture, a quiet thrill in how I hold myself, one that no one else sees. But I know it. I’m looking for the spark. The hint of recognition. The subtle pull. It’s all part of the game—something I know all too well. A little game, really. Cat and mouse. And I’ve played this game before.

There’s something exhilarating about being unnoticed, just another face in the crowd.

Yet, I notice her. Sitting there, alone. She’s the type who looks approachable. There’s an openness about her—an invitation to engage. People like her are so easy to talk to, so unguarded in public spaces. In this quiet moment, I can already see the game unfolding.

I’m not obvious in my approach. There’s no need to be. It’s the little things that matter: the way her eyes flick toward me for a split second, just enough to acknowledge me without committing to the glance. The polite smile that follows when I make eye contact. People don't realize, but those things are perfect for creating just enough familiarity to lower their guard, just enough for them to think they know you, even if it's only for a fleeting moment.

I wait for the opportunity—more instinctive than planned—and take my chance. As I walk by her seat, I allow my body to brush against hers, just lightly, just enough for her to feel it. At the same time, I gather information. There’s no awkward lunge, no aggressive move. Just an innocent proximity. I see the sharp intake of breath, the tightening of her body just for a fraction of a second. She doesn’t know what to make of it—didn’t expect it but doesn’t know how to react either.

“Oh, sorry,” I say with a little too much brightness, and she smiles, even though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s a smile practiced, a smile that tells me she’s working to ease the tension she feels inside, a tension I’ve planted without even trying.

“It’s fine,” she replies. I can feel it—the slightest flicker of wariness beneath the polite veneer. She didn’t intend to let that uncertainty leak out, but I see it. People like her hide things poorly, not out of malice, but because they’re just too open.

I continue on, and for a moment, she probably forgets it—brushing off the accidental touch as nothing more than a slight inconvenience in a crowded terminal. But I don’t forget. I also now easily locate her social accounts based on what was open on her phone.

Time passes, I know what I need about her, I circle back—again, not aggressive, I aim for a nearby seat. The excuse that it’s a crowded gate and I need to be near an outlet. I plop my belongings in the seat next to hers, I lean forward, phone cord in hand. The angle shifts just a touch. I let my shoulder brush hers again, I linger slightly as I plug my phone in. I make a purposeful adjustment in my posture, just enough to drop an unnoticed tension on the space between us. She doesn’t say anything, but there’s a subtle shift in her body that betrays her. I could almost hear her pulse quicken.

The space between us now isn’t just physical; it’s an understanding. One that hasn’t been spoken but felt. She’s still trying to pass it off as normal. But she’s already caught in the delicate web I’ve woven around her with just a few subtle interactions—so easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.

Then—there it is. Her scent. It’s just body wash. Nothing extravagant or daring. Nothing that would stand out to most people. But I’ve paid attention. It’s clean, simple—perhaps the same brand she's used for years. There’s a trace of her pheromones, just a whisper of them.

It’s private.

It’s intimate.

It's the scent of someone who isn’t trying to hide anything. Someone open and unguarded, just the way I like it. The familiar aroma of something soft, sweet, but layered with an invisible darkness—something she didn’t even realize could be revealed so easily.

I breathe it in, letting the scent settle deep in my mind. I lean back in my seat, shifting away from her, just enough to make her feel comfortable. I don’t miss the subtle reaction in her posture—the quiet fidgeting of fingers, the glint of nervousness just behind her calm front. She doesn’t know that I’ve already taken it all in—the way her mind is starting to shift a little into my hands.

Time passes, subtle pleasantries are shared. I slip away, off to the Starbucks stand. She is such an easy book to read. Profiles all public, frequent posts, she is the ideal prey. I move with purpose, confidence. I order the drink I know she likes: a white chocolate mocha. It’s easy. She’s posted a photo holding a cup on her socials—people reveal so many details like breadcrumbs on social media, without even realizing it. Where you live, what you do for work, what your interests are, where you like to go, the information is truly overwhelming. People are so eager to connect they don’t realize that sometimes information can be dangerous.

I walk back toward her, holding the cup in my hand like an offering, a casual excuse to bridge the distance between us. “Hey, they made a mistake and gave me an extra one.” I say, letting the words land with casual generosity, the kind of generosity that doesn’t ask anything in return. I know she craves connection. I’m just dangling the opportunity for her to consume.

She pauses. A flash of hesitation crosses her face. There it is again, the uncertainty—am I being genuine? Or is there something else lurking beneath the surface? She’s trying to read me, but what does she really know about me? Don’t take things from strangers. But, it’s a grey area when it’s not a man/female interaction. It’s the man or bear question-no one expects another woman to be a creep.

Her fingers brush lightly over the rim of the cup, and in that second, she’s already made her choice. Without saying it out loud, she’s confirmed the unspoken social contract I’ve carefully created between us. The nice stranger. The non-threatening gesture. The connection that satisfies more than what appears on the surface. Connection during one of the most depressing and lonely times of the year.

She hesitates again, only a moment, just enough for me to notice the pause. “You sure?” she asks, trying to be polite, but the thread of doubt is there.

“Yeah, I figured you’d like it, I’m travelling alone, and it looks like you might be as well – call it a Christmas gift from a stranger.” I say smoothly, smiling that careful smile. It’s warm, inviting, something she can’t say no to, not without looking rude. She touches the cup before taking it, and I know that she feels the weight of it in a way she won’t acknowledge.

The exchange isn’t just about the coffee. “I promise I didn’t do anything weird with it or to it.” A subtle joke and attempt to eliminate the remaining distance between us.

It’s about control. The smooth manipulation, the subtle ease with which I slip into her life and create a tiny hole in her reality. Does part of me want to lead her to a dark corner in the airport, sure. To feast on her skin, hear her moans, feel my hand around her pretty little throat as I tease her nipples. I’d like to draw a little blood, introduce her to the darker side of pleasure, but I’d never violate her or harm her for the thrill of violence. I know, I’m a little fucked up, but who doesn’t have darkness lingering within them. I’m just bold enough to tease that darkness, just a little.

“Thanks,” she says softly, the courtesy of it far too quick, too rehearsed, but it’s too late now. I’ve planted myself in her world, and when she’s alone later, when the quiet hits her and the cup is long forgotten, I’ll still be there, lurking. Her mind will replay this small moment, asking questions she didn’t realize she needed answers to. Maybe she’ll think back to the last glance she shared with me before she forgot. Maybe she won’t think anything about it or me at all. But, the truth is, I was able breach what is seen as ‘private’ with little more than proximity and awareness.

The coffee should feel heavier in her hands than it is. Because it’s not really just about the coffee, is it?

Later, on the plane, I find my seat, settle in. I glance back, and I see her clutching the same drink—a small gesture, ordinary, unremarkable. But I know—she doesn’t realize yet, the subtle crack in the armour I’ve created around her. The soft opening she’s offered me, without knowing what she’s done. I know who she is, what she likes, where she’s going, about her career, her basic fears and insecurities. All without asking questions but understanding how vulnerable information can be located online and by creating a subtle comfort with a stranger.

The world is full of ordinary faces. People whose lives are out there for the taking, available for anyone to observe, pick apart, and manipulate. But the trick, the art of it, is making them feel like they’ve invited you in. We are a society built on expecting good intentions and trusting strangers. Unfortunately, with that comes ignorance of vulnerable information. An ignorance and dismissal that anything could ever happen to you.  

…

I got off the plane, hugged my family, watched the trees pass by out the car window. Another year has come and gone, another year of me being odd.  2025 is arriving quickly and I feel like it’s going to be a delicious year.