I sit on this bench at the playground and watch the vultures surround you. "HDOP" Hot Dad On Playground. My husband came up with that one, likes to declare he's it when he comes here with the kids. But he's not here today.
You are. HDOP. Standing there, needled by the three moms who have come here together. The ones who laugh just a little bit too loud and come off just a bit too desperate for any kind of male attention, let alone your attention. I call them the Ashleys. I watch you cast your eyes over the playground, hoping to catch anyone's kid in a fight, a fall, some kind of diversion.
It's like this every Tuesday. Every Tuesday we are all here at the same time and do the same thing: I sit on this bench with my black jeans and black jacket and black soul with my best Resting Bitch Face to avoid social interaction. I eavesdrop as the Ashleys spill endless boring stories about their boring lives that they are sure you are absolutely interested in hearing. They are all practically crawling around you like cats in heat. "Save me" they all seem to say.
Eventually they herd up their progeny to head for lunch. Apologies are made for having to leave you alone here, with eyes rolled toward me. Because I am not an Ashley. I'm not anyone.
They walk away, exaggerating the wobble of asses clad in yoga pants that never yoga. The lead Ashley, she's got a fantastic ass, I'll give her that.
But you never watch them go. Because every Tuesday, you walk over and sit down next to me.
I can feel my face flush as you cross in front of me, the scent of you washes through me and tightens my chest. It's the stink of that old coat you won't give up, your laundry detergent, your skin. I can smell you by just thinking about you any other time.
You plop down beside me and let out a heavy sigh.
"Bad today?" I ask, an exaggerated look of sympathy on my face.
"They were nearly climbing me! Oh! Oh! And look at what the blonde one managed to slip into my pocket!" You hand me a business card with a condom taped to the back and a bright red set of lips over the front. I know right away that condom is too small.
"Oh my god, she propositioned you with her leggings business card? That's so weird. But ballsy. And her name is actually Becky." I am deadpan.
It's all just so perfectly hilarious, we just kind of stare at each other instead of laughing. The leaves dance by us in the fall breeze. In the background, our boys are gleefully rolling in the sand, screaming. I have to pull my eyes from your gaze.
You make me feel like I'm 15. You make me feel like making bad decisions. I nervously kick my cons in the dirt under our bench.
Every Tuesday.
"How's that project you're working on?" I ask, tucking my hair behind my ear and finally looking at you again. I don't hear a word you say in return. I honestly don't even care. I sit here beside you, pressing my thighs together to calm the swelling, the aching. You've made me soak my panties just by being near you.
I think you realize I'm not paying attention. Maybe my squirming is too obvious. You look off for a moment at the blur of activity from our boys. "They'll be fine, huh?" you say, more a declaration than a question.
Then, "Hey Ry, you got this? We are going to take our walk now." Ryan is older and homeschooled. He can probably parent better than either of us at this point, anyhow. He'll be fine with my two. This won't take long.
You take my hand as we head toward the walking path and a bolt of electricity shoots up my arm and blossoms in my pussy. It's almost painful to touch you.
We slip through the bushes to the back of the brick equipment building. We are isolated by tangled overgrowth. You push me up against the wall and lean into me with a particular and unusual urgency, I can feel your cock already hardening through our clothes as you grind into my pelvis. Your face is unbearably close to mine. You look me in the eyes intensely, then graze your lips over mine without kissing me. Your breath is like fire.
"Why the fuck do you always wear jeans?"
You suddenly grab me by the waist and push me up on the tiny ledge where a window once was, now bricked up itself. The perfect height for this, forcing me out at the perfect angle. My asscheeks will hurt from the crumbly edge for days and I will love it.
You hurriedly unbutton my jeans and yank them down, taking my panties with them. I lose a shoe in the process, my pants left dangling on one leg. The sudden exposure to the cold air lights my pale skin with goosebumps. Your hands sneak up my shirt and under my bra, icy cold fingers rolling my nipples.
You unzip your pants and unleash yourself from your boxers, sliding your cock between my silky lips, pushing the head against my clit. As you lean forward, you finally kiss me, slowly, your lips so warm against mine. You wrap your arms around me and sigh, hugging me tight, breathing me in.
"It's been a long week," you whisper. You missed me. I can tell. This hug, this is new. This is good. This is scary. Maybe this is too much.
I wrap my legs and arms around you, giving you a full body squeeze as I run my fingers through your hair. I am at least glad to be your reason to relax.
