Ups Gets Down

The prickling feeling was getting more painful especially right above my pubic bone, a sign of the sun doing its damaging, yet tan-inducing, thing. I could also feel little beads of perspiration appearing on my abdomen, another indicator that this 85° day in May was a good choice for lying out in my backyard--naked. A large beach towel kept the annoying little critters from scaling the grass blades to climb onto me, guaranteeing that I could have a peaceful thirty minutes in the sun.

I was nearing that time limit, based upon what I was feeling, but the warmth and the slight breeze had lulled me into a tranquility that I wanted to indulge in for just a little while longer.

These sensual adventures, though simple, were all I was left with over the past many weeks. After a marriage of 20 years, I was blindsided by my husband, Ken, who informed me that he had been hearing a call to his gay side, and needed to find his "true self." That made it difficult for me to feel an attraction to him, when I knew his ultimate desires were now for a man. In fact, he had met a man recently, a potential lover, which made me even less inclined to want a sexual intimacy with him.

Being only forty and still in my womanly prime, though, I wasn't ready to surrender my sexuality, nor was I ready to give up on my marriage. Being an unfaithful wife was not in the cards for me, either, I told myself. So Ken and I had begun talking about how to somehow make this marital relationship work within our present constraints.

All of which made me wonder why I was still beautifying my body with slow tanning and shaving my various body hair, because he had practically told me that his interests were no longer for women. Yet I felt compelled to do so nonetheless, as I guess I couldn't turn off a lifetime of perfecting my appearance.

"A few more minutes," I told myself, as the seductive sensations of warmth and tingling were difficult to resist, as was the lure of how my skin would look, evenly bronzed without those distracting tan lines.

I was startled into alertness when I heard a truck pull into our driveway, then quickly accelerate and brake, making a three point turn to maneuver the vehicle with the rear door facing our porch deck. Having my escape into the back door blocked, I hastily wrapped the beach towel around me just as this tall, hunk of a man stepped out the side door of his UPS truck.

He looked in his early forties, judging from the faint streaks of gray in his wavy black hair, which appeared a little unruly, like he had repeatedly run his fingers through a perspiring scalp to keep it from perpetually falling onto his forehead.

"Ken Dyer residence?" He called out quizzically, eying me in a way that could only be interpreted as pleasantly stunned.

After an awkward pause, I affirmed that he was at the right house.

"Your husband?" He asked.

I nodded.

"Guess you all are getting a big order of track lighting?"

Overcoming my surprising shyness, I managed to say only, "Yes."

He moved swiftly to the rear door, flung it up, gave me a quick glance back, and hopped up inside. Within a couple seconds, he stuck his head out and inquired,

"Don't suppose you could give me a hand in here? It's kind of a mess after driving up your bumpy road, which caused a package avalanche of sorts."

I froze. "Uh, sure," I eventually offered, though I was not quite sure how I had to be tapped for undoing the consequences of his probably too assertive driving. I slipped into my sandals, strode across the little lawn to stand at the back of the truck, and awaited his instructions.

"Come on up," he invited me, extending his right hand in a polite gesture of assistance.

I took his hand, and, holding my other one around the top of my towel to keep it tightened, I hoisted myself up into the truck.

"Thanks a lot," he said sincerely.

I watched him as he deftly maneuvered some boxes off of a number of long rectangular ones, which likely contained our track lighting. He worked quickly and methodically, then turned to me, bent down, hoisted one end of the track lighting bundle, and gently steered it toward me, asking,

"Can you hold this?"

Impulsively, I reached out with both hands and took hold of it. The shift of my arms and twist of my torso ironically caused an avalanche of another sort. My beach towel loosened and fell to my ankles. Unable to catch it in its freefall with both hands occupied, I could only stand there supporting the large package, bare naked before him.

The excruciating silence, that seemed to last an embarrassing eternity, was broken by his audible exhalation and the words,

"Oh my god. You're beautiful."

Which was hurriedly followed by,

"Here, let me take that from you," and he stepped carefully over some toppled boxes to relieve me of the burden, which allowed me to pull my towel back up around myself.

"I'm ashamed to admit it," he added, "but since my wife left me for another woman two years ago, I haven't had an interest in going out with anyone, let alone to even look at another woman. So maybe it's that lengthy deprivation that made me blurt that out. But I honestly do not ever recall seeing a woman as beautiful as you."

Initially, I couldn't tell if this was the most preposterous come-on line that I'd ever been presented with, or whether this handsome man standing before me in his uniform of brown short sleeve shirt, shorts, socks and work shoes was one of the most honestly vulnerable men on the planet. But curiously, that prickling of the sun earlier in the day with those beads of perspiration were now being replaced with a tingling liquifaction deep within my nether lips. And even more startling, my previous resolution to be faithful to my searching-for-himself husband seemed to lose more than a little of its resolve.

I stared at him momentarily with empathic brown eyes, then stepping my lithe frame around the fallen packages scattered on the truck's floor, I maneuvered myself so as to gracefully wrap my arms around his solid chest in a hug of both understanding, which I could deeply feel, and of desire for something more.

I felt his body, initially surprised, respond with a tight embrace back, embellished with a little rocking sway, like we were mutually soothing the other as we were, at the same time, being soothed.

His sweaty aroma blended with that of his freshly laundered shirt, slightly damp from his half- day's work. And I'm sure he inhaled my fresh scent of arousal as we each uttered those little pleasure moans that our full-bodied hug elicited.

Tilting back my head to look up into his face, his gaze found mine, and we moved magnetically into a kiss, adjusting our mouths to find the perfect union for our moistened lips.

I felt his hug grow tighter then relax as he moved his hands along my back, on either side of my backbone. When the towel dropped for the second time, I more than welcomed it. His hands, surprisingly smooth for someone who handled packages day after day, warmed my back with their frictional drag, one down to the top of a buttock as the other slid up to my shoulder blade, then reversed themselves.

I began to make those squeaky excited sounds, as we were finding openings for our tongue inside each other's mouth. I was getting a little crazed, wanting more and more from this perfect stranger. I couldn't stop myself.

Wanting to touch his back like he was touching mine, I tried to pull his shirt out from the back of his shorts. But that canvas belt he wore kept it untuckable.

Sensing my frustration, and being amused at it, he hugged me tightly again and chuckled into my mouth,

"Fucking chastity belt uniforms."

He undid the clasp and then kindly undid the snap and zipper, without interrupting our kissing, and as we pressed our bodies back into each other, the zipper edges and endpoints of his shorts added a novel new feeling to the touch, now augmented by a burgeoning erection bulging in between.

Inside the truck, being baked by the midday sun, I soon began to perspire profusely. And when I reached my hands beneath his shirt tales and started kneading his back, my palms stuck to his manly sweat, just like I noticed his hands were doing to my back. I panicked.

I perspire easily. As a tango dancer, hours into a milonga, I am embarrassed when asked by a man to dance. I find myself always apologizing for the dampness in my dress. Most leaders shrug their acceptance, which isn't greatly reassuring, but when a man replies that he loves women who sweat, I'm delighted. There's an immediate relief in me, and a sort of "sweat camaraderie," that something which society deems is to be avoided, covered up, or concealed, is perfectly natural and therefore OK. And when it's accepted as a commonplace consequence of honest work, or play, like in dancing, it is really liberating. And sometimes more.

So, when Mr. UPS told me that he loved that I'm a sweaty woman, I lost it. I mean, what were the chances that a woman who loses her husband to a man serendipitously meets a man who has lost his wife to a woman? And then, when the universe gives you such a man who not only accepts you as a sweating being, but actually relishes it, your next act is a no-brainer.

"I want to fuck you," I implored through our impassioned lips. "And now."

Without protest, he moved his hands from my back to his shorts and boxers. In a somewhat comical motion, he dragged them both, in frustratingly little jerks, down his sweaty thighs to his ankles. Then sitting on one of the boxes, he positioned his legs slightly apart and had me straddle his thighs. With his hands on my hips, he guided me to hover above his rock-hard erection. It was cut, flushed, and beckoning.

There was no trouble finding a union for those two wanting organs, and as I descended on him, I gasped, growled, and attacked him with my kisses. He shifted his knees apart a bit to lock himself into a more sturdy tripod, as I began with slow grinding of his cock, swallowing him up inside me, then partly releasing him, again and again, until he, too, was gasping.

"Your big package like this wrapping, Mr. UPS?"

"Oh yeah," he uttered.

I roughly ran my fingers through his now sweatier hair, pulling the locks tightly as I got to their ends. He kissed me harder back, letting me know where to go next.

My hands snaked their way beneath his soggy brown shirt, and, as I kissed with a ferocity, I also pinched clumps of chest hair and tugged lightly, then gradually with more tautness, until he was moaning into my throat.

For some odd reason, I felt a need to hurt this man, and, by his responses, he needed me to hurt him, too. So I pinched his nipples, gently at first then harder, with an additional twist to augment the torture. He let out a howl accompanied by upward thrusting of his cock into me.

I became unhinged. I lifted my heels and braced myself on tiptoes, giving me more leverage, then tightened my knees around his waist, and let my full weight come to bear against his pelvis. I resumed rocking my groin into him, grunting with every thrust, gulping him into me, with surprisingly more and more savagery.

I was raging--at being deprived of sex by my man, at being rejected by my man going off with another man--and I wanted to fuck this man so hard as if to punish his entire gender.

I began abusing him verbally, too. I didn't know I had this in me, but it came out as shouts of "You fucking men. You fuck us over and then strut the fuck away."

But it worked as a catharsis. I came violently. Then immediately I began to cry, wailing loudly in huge sobs, before showering him with gratitude, blubbering "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

He had let me take full advantage of his body, to work out my anger with men and my love for men. Those twisted feelings of exorcism, eroticism, and ecstasy.

I renewed my pounding of him. And with my next rapture, I screamed,

"I love you! I love you! I love you!"

I didn't know what I was saying. I didn't know what I meant, but at that moment I had a depth of feeling for this man that was unexplainable. I felt him stiffen. I felt his body quake. I felt him begin to breathe rapidly, gasping in affirmatives. I witnessed that twisted face and heard those unintelligible sounds that a man makes when he is ejaculating, coming into his own ecstatic state.

That sent me into my next coming, and another one quickly followed. I couldn't contain myself. My own ejaculate started flowing outside me around him and onto that unfortunate package beneath us. But I didn't fucking care.

My breathing, too, had accelerated. I couldn't speak. After a time, it slowed toward normal. I hugged him and began to sob anew. I started rubbing his now drenched scalp, his neck, and his shoulders, as I felt him do the same to me, combing moist fingers through my wet hair, dragging them slowly down my shoulder blades, over and over and over again.

Minutes passed. Tens of minutes. I didn't know how much time exactly, but I knew he had a route to finish and probably a package to clean off. As I felt him slowly detumesce, I tried to get myself up, and, on too-shaky legs, I sat back down again, hard, luckily on his knees.

He held my shoulders as I held his and we looked druggedly into each other's eyes. Then reality spoke. It had to. We were getting overheated.

"We better get out of this truck," he said.

"And get some water," I added.

And that's what we did.

Well, among other things!

And, as I write this now, I sincerely apologize for any delays that those of you may have experienced in receiving your package that day. And especially for the perfumed one!