Every summer I try to take a vacation. Okay, vacation might be over-selling it. It typically amounts to nothing more than a week off work. But that usually means a day at the movies, a trip to the beach, and a couple afternoon ball games with thousand calorie nachos and beer in plastic cups. Well, this year, none of the usual distractions were available.
Yes, COVID fucked up my summer. I know that's not unique to me, but it doesn't make it suck any less. I thought about skipping it altogether -- just banking the time or taking it at Christmas instead. But as the summer wore on, the need to get away from staring at a screen 10 hours a day grew overwhelming. Whatever I did -- or didn't do on vacation was irrelevant, as long as it wasn't that. So, I requested the time. And on the first Monday in August, I settled in to my first -- and hopefully last -- pandemic vacation.
....
Day one was a bust. I slept in, that was nice. But once I was up, I couldn't quite muster the energy to do anything. I spent most of the day on the couch, watching television. And by the time I'd followed that up with some Call of Duty, the useful part of the day was shot. I made myself a plate of spaghetti and settled into a movie, promising myself I'd do better tomorrow.
....
I slept in again Tuesday morning. The television temped me on my way to the bathroom, its 65-inch deep black screen attempting to suck me in. "Not today Satan," I muttered, purposefully shoving the remote to the back of the shelf, "I've got stuff to do." What that was I had no idea. But it wasn't watching TV.
Freshly showered I wandered into the kitchen to start some coffee. The sun streamed in through the blinds, casting ribbons of white light over the dark countertop. I drew them open and popped the latch on the window, easing it upward. A gust of cool fresh air blew in, surprising me.
Monday had been so hot and humid I assumed the rest of the week would be similar. It was August after all. But I was strangely excited to be wrong. Throwing on a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt I dumped my coffee into a thermos, strapped my camera bag over my shoulder, grabbed my mask from the hook by the door and headed out for a walk.
Fifteen minutes later I picked up the new trail the city had recently paved along the river. It was a lively scene: cyclists, joggers, dog walkers, retirees out for a stroll. Apparently, the adage was true -- if you build it, they will come.
Dodging the obstacles, I raised the camera and took a look around. There was a great blue heron in the reeds on the far bank, pecking at something in the water. Nearby a snapping turtle paddled toward a smooth sunny log protruding from the middle of the river. And a little way upstream two fishermen in an aluminum sport boat drifted along with their lines in the water, unaware of the red-tailed hawk circling above them.
I snapped a few pictures of each, catching a brilliant lens flare on the last shot of the heron. I turned to catch the dog playing frisbee with some kids near the boat launch when my camera chirped twice and shut itself down. I should have checked the battery before I left.
Finding the nearest bench I took a seat and set the bag beside me, rummaging around inside for the spare battery. The sun filtered through the leaves of the old-growth trees, making it difficult to distinguish accessories from shadows. Leaning over for a closer look a flash of light caught my eyes. I looked up, squinting, trying to figure out what it was and where it came from.
The boat was well into the shade of some overhanging elms. But I couldn't see anything else that might have caused it. Turning back toward the bag it hit me again. Shielding my eyes, I lifted my head. Across the river, up the hill and between a gap in the trees, something caught my attention. A figure? A woman?
Locating the battery, I snapped it into the chamber and lifted the camera, zooming the telephoto lens all the way in. Filling the frame was a leggy blonde in a bright blue bikini, standing on the roof of her back porch shaking out what appeared to be a reflective silver blanket. I lowered the camera, glancing quickly side to side. It seemed no one else noticed. I returned to the view.
When she was satisfied with the blanket, the woman stretched out on the shiny fabric, resting her head below the sill of the open window to what I assumed was her bedroom. She was young, early twenties maybe, with large eyes and smooth skin soaking up the sun. She shimmied, settling in, then lifted a pair of sunglasses from somewhere to cover her eyes.
Bachelor life in the age of COVID is...complicated. It had been some time since I'd seen this much of a real live woman up close. My face warmed, breath deepened. I shifted on the bench, straightening my back and accidently tapped my finger on the shutter.
The iris clicked and I froze, my eyes darting left and right. No one turned, or scowled, or demanded to know what I was looking at. I lowered the camera and the view screen lit up, displaying the image of the scantily clad beauty in stunning 42-megapixel resolution. The swell of her chest, dip of her abdomen, the rise of a thigh and fall of a calf all captured in the still warm mid-morning light.
Enthralled as I was, I felt bit...dirty. I was intruding on a private moment, watching without permission. Sure, she was outside, but she was in her yard, on her roof, certainly not expecting someone peeking through the trees.
And yet.
I returned to the viewfinder. The bright blue bikini was gone. Gracing the upper left third instead was a healthy pair of gently rounded breasts, perky pointed nipples protruding from dark areolas. I jumped in my seat, nearly dropping the camera, my audible gasp mercifully covered by the bark of the frisbee-catching dog.
Eyes glued to the scene I watched as she reached back through the window again, back arched, boobs thrust upward, retrieving a small bottle from the ledge. Flipping the lid, she squeezed a generous glob of cream into her palms, rubbed them together briefly, and began applying it to her skin.
Her hands swirled over her chest and shoulders, fingers curling around her breasts, lifting and squeezing before letting them settle over her ribs. My cock flexed firmly against the fabric of my shorts as she worked her way down, across her tummy to circle her hips before skimming the contours of her thighs and ending in the freshly waxed valley between her legs. She caressed her pussy just a moment before relaxing her arms at her sides and easing her neck to a comfortable position.
I sat still, my cock at attention, her glistening nude body burned on my retinas. A million thoughts blurred my mind, all grossly inappropriate for a man my age to have about a woman likely 15 years my junior. The discomfort returned. Fighting the flood of hormones, I finally turned away, lowering the camera.
I set in my lap to cover my hard-on. Slouching I threw an arm over the back of the bench and filled my lungs with the fresh summer air. The dog zipped past me chasing the frisbee, followed by an older couple on bicycles. I looked up between the trees, to the spot I'd been fixated on moments earlier. I could make out the house and the roof, and a section that seemed to contrast with the shingles. But the details of the spot were indistinguishable.
As my penis relaxed, I raised the camera once more, intending to delete the picture I'd snapped of the blonde in her bikini. Only when I started reviewing the images did I realize I'd taken a dozen more. The supple breasts, taught tummy, slender legs, inviting pussy, all stored there in high definition. It was official. I was a creepy old man.
