I had been married for 33 years when Covid began to change lives, and ours was no exception. While my husband proceeded to deepen his relationship with alcohol, passing out in his lazyboy by 7 every evening, I found a new and arguably just as dangerous interest - chatting online. At first, I used it as a research tool - well, that's what I told myself; it made sense since I taught Psychology at a small community college in Florida. But soon I found myself making friends - good friends - friends with benefits.
There was a particular fellow, a Canadian, who I found to be a good match. He was intelligent, accomplished, and he had a great sense of humor; an attentive husband and father who, like myself, was missing the passion he had once enjoyed with his spouse. Steve lived in Richmond Hill, just a 2-hour drive from my hometown, a town I'd been unable to visit because of Covid.
A couple months into our tenuous relationship, we began to ask 'what-if?' What-if, after this pandemic, I returned to Ontario and we decided to meet? Would it be a friendly hug, then lunch and a few laughs? Maybe a kiss goodbye? Or would we cross that proverbial line? The virtual back and forth had been hot, and the way he whispered, the things he said he would do to me - things my husband didn't want to do. It was thrilling to think about a face-to-face being a real possibility, although I wasn't 100% sure I could go through with it.
The months ticked by, with every week or so punctuated by a late night text from him accompanied by a notably artful photograph: one delicate iridescent drop slipping from the slit in his soft pink tip, coaxed from the compression of his hand around his shaft. I never got tired of looking at it; I wanted to frame it.
And then, finally, the Canadian travel restrictions lifted, and in May of the following year, I was on my way back to Ontario, and to my familiar pattern: bunking with my childhood chum, my bestie Bea, in her lovingly restored early 1900's Four Square home on Lock Street, teaching summer session online.
And the 'what-if' became a 'now-how?'
"It's not a good idea, Shannon," Bea said, as we finished our morning coffee. "Not only are you both married, but this what's-his-name could be another Ted Bundy. You binge watch Forensic Files; haven't you learned anything?"
"I guarantee he's not a Ted Bundy," I said, rolling my eyes, "and his name is Steve Smith." I walked my coffee cup to the sink, rinsed it, and set it on the ledge under the window, "How many times do I have to tell you that?"
"Oh gee, Steve Smith, how could I forget?" She smirked and handed me her cup so I could clean it for her. "OK I'm off," she added, heading out the back door for work, leaving me to prepare for class. Then she spun around and came back.
"I almost forgot the-"
"Egg salad," I said, completing the sentence, passing her the sandwiches wrapped in an old fashioned brown paper lunch bag.
"Thanks friend," she said, "Wouldn't want to have to come back here in the middle of the day and surprise you, eh?"
She winked.
But it was she who would have been surprised.
Up until that year, my summer days at Bea's had been relatively uneventful. I'd work in the morning, then watch the clock in the late afternoon, anxious for her to get home so the fun could start: beer-infused golf mostly, followed by some bar hopping - there were three in town, including the Legion - and then dinner at home and late night TV in our separate bedrooms.
This year, however, I wasn't waiting for her; I was waiting, and breathlessly so, for him.
As soon as my 3-hour lecture on Abnormal Psych concluded, I'd lock both doors, then call Steve. We'd spend lunch time together with our pants down around our respective ankles, jacking and jilling off, and after the dust settled, arranging the tricky particulars of our impending rendezvous.
I was happy when he agreed a hotel room would be too risky and too high pressure.
There's a bed in there for God's sake!
And it couldn't be anywhere we might be recognized. So we decided to meet at a truck stop on a lonely highway northwest of Toronto. We'd have a beer and a bite to eat and see where it led - perhaps to the back of his king cab - perhaps not. But when I pitched the plan to my bestie, she shot it down, then recommended a far more creative alternative.
Bea was the accountant for the Great White Limo service headquartered in our tiny town. If I was damned and determined to go through with the meetup, she suggested I surprise Steve with a limo ride that she would arrange, and at a deep discount. No drinking and driving, and no prying eyes, and if we wanted to take it all the way to boomtown, which of course she advised against, there was plenty of room in there to get busy.
"Who's going to drive?" I asked, concerned, "Obviously, it can't be anyone who knows me, and everyone around here does."
"We got a new kid who commutes from St. Catherines," Bea said, "Remember our old chauffeur, Albert? It's his grandson. Lawrence doesn't know anyone here, and besides, it's none of his damn business what goes on in the limo. If he does ANYTHING unprofessional, I want to hear about it!"
******
The big day finally arrived, and Lawrence was at the house 15 minutes early, standing soldier-like in his black and white uniform at the side of the long white limo, clearly determined to make a good impression.
"Hi Lawrence," I said, friendly, as I approached the vehicle.
"Ms. Grove," he said, tipping his hat, the bright white of his toothy grin magnified by the contrast of his rich dark chocolate skin. He opened the side door for me and I crawled inside.
"You have the address of the truck stop, right?" I asked.
Why is my voice shaking?
"Yes mam," he said, "We should be there in about an hour."
Lawrence maneuvered his long, lanky frame into the driver's seat, rolled up the blacked out window between us, and eased from the curb. And alone with the unexpected and unwelcome anxiety, I decided to focus my attention on the space, this place, where Steve and I would very likely do something we never would have considered if Covid hadn't come along.
The limo's interior was as expected: lots of black bench seating, a massive moon roof, and a bar back-lit in blue lights. It smelled cleanish, but not enough to overcome the stale cigarette smoke that lingered in the leather and in the cobalt blue carpet that ran the length of the space - an ash burn visible in the 'L' of the Great White Limo logo.
I'm about to have sex with someone other than my husband.
Suddenly, the prospect of a real carnal encounter sounded very scary and very wrong. The limo interior began to shrink towards me, compressing me. My breath shallowed out, and my heart began to beat in triple-time.
Bea had placed a cooler on the back seat and I moved next to it; I needed a drink. Buried in ice were two six-packs of various craft beer singles, plus two bottles of pricey champagne - a thoughtful selection, but neither strong enough nor fast enough to settle my nerves. Luckily, there was tequila in the small cabinet under the bar. I tossed one back, winced and waited for the burn to pass, then chased it with a second, and shortly thereafter, I began to unwind.
Still, something was missing: music. I paired my phone with the limo's Bluetooth system and The Chairman of the Board - 'Swoonatra' - wafted through the space in surround sound.
Fools rush in where angels fear to tread
And so I come to you, my love,
My heart above my head
Though I see the danger there
If there's a chance for me,
then I don't care
Those lyrics: so apropos. It reminded me of a remark my father-in-law had made many years previous before he had passed away.
"In the old days, all you had to do to get a girl in the mood was put on one of his albums; Frank did all the work."
And damned if he wasn't right.
Look, this was simple: I wanted to feel wanted again. I needed an infusion of passion - a thrill that only newness could inspire. Steve was the ideal man for the job, and this the ideal circumstance. And it wouldn't be an affair - no - it would just be this one time - that's all - just one incredible, unforgettable fuck.
And having justified myself, I stretched out on the seat and closed my eyes.
******
"Shannon?" Steve said, surprised, squinting and bending, as he walked towards the limo in the diner parking lot.
"Watch your head Mr. Smith," Lawrence said, bowing a little.
"Hey big fella," I said, reaching for Steve's hand and pulling him next to me onto the seat.
We hugged each other tight; it felt so good, I didn't want to let go, but when we finally did, I noticed an agitation in him.
First time jitters; he'll get over it - just like I did.
"Let's toast," I said, passing him the champagne, and after a bit of a struggle, he launched the cork into the moon roof. When foam exploded from the bottle and bubbled over his hand, I bent over his lap and placed my lips on the bottle, slurping as much into my mouth as I could, giggling, expecting my faux BJ gesture to lighten the mood.
It didn't.
His hand was shaking as he raised the champagne to his lips. I placed my palm on his gray goatee and ran my thumb across his mustache to clear some bubbly, then drew my lips close to his and shut my eyes.
I wanted him to kiss me.
He didn't.
So I wrapped my fingers around the back of his neck and pulled him to me. His eyes were open, conveying his discomfort, as I briefly brushed his mouth, tasting the Taittinger on it. When I parted his lips ever so slightly, he tentatively touched the tip of his tongue to mine.
"Mmmmmmm," I moaned, snaking my tongue deep into his mouth, attempting to engage him more fully, but I sensed his subtle retreat.
And then a mistake: I should have taken more time, but I rushed it and moved a hand to his zipper. He jumped, and then put his champagne down. His fingers gripped my shoulders, and he extended his arms, widening the space between us.
"Shannon," he said, softly, "I shouldn't have come. I thought I could go through with it, but I can't."
"What?" I said, popping to the edge of the seat, "Please tell me you're joking."
He wasn't.
And despite the attempt to convince him otherwise, Steve was steadfast in his resolve not to participate in even one round of chesterfield rugby. But still not ready to give up completely on the limo fantasy, I suggested something just this side of the real thing.
"What if we do everything but?" I asked, "It wouldn't be intercourse, so it wouldn't really be sex."
And Steve responded without a hint of humor or sarcasm.
"Well, I guess that depends on what your definition of is, is."
Does he not realize, that's still funny?
I swallowed the last of my champagne and reached across him to place my glass next to his. As I did, my twin peaks swept against his chest and my flaxen curls tickled the tip of his nose.
