I looked up and tried to fixate on that tear in the roof of her '06 Civic, imagining the material stretching and tightening in response to penetration. I tried to resist the urge to push my hips upward, and squeeze on her three fingers carefully gliding inside me. Her lips and tongue teased my labia and hood, ringing the proverbial doorbell to gain entrance. I squinted at the digital kitchen timer balanced between the sunshade and the dash...6:08, 6:07, 6:06. I could never last as long as I wanted to. I caressed her cheek, and she moaned in response, briefly looking up at me and meeting my gaze. She smiled, slipping her fingers out and inserting her tongue. I pushed back against the corner of the seat and door, trying to part my legs as wide as possible to let her in and in and in. Her fingers made their way to my mouth, eagerly received and suckled. My heels pressed against her back, the sound of her gently sucking and slurping my pussy lips made me climax completely. I touched her soft hair, trying in vain to discern its color in the darkness, but focused on her soft moans and caresses as I came.
Two minutes were left on the timer. We kissed intermittently, moving slow as turtles as bras were fastened, wet panties donned, dressing ourselves and one another with clothing that had been lying wrinkled on the floor of the backseat. I looked out the windows and didn't see anyone around. We softly giggled as we clambered over one another, slowly as not to rock the car. One last kiss was exchanged (I lingered a bit more), with comments on a future reunion -- west side of Willow park at 8pm on Saturday. I put on my mask and got out of the passenger side of the car, as if it was completely natural to do so at 11:53pm on a Thursday evening.
I walked along the sidewalk outside the condo development--every parking space was taken. I saw her car pull away slowly, then noticed slight but rhythmic movement from a car parked two ahead. As I walked by I could hear the familiar moans of pleasure; I diverted my eyes. I walked the few blocks home with a paranoid hypervigilance, and a greater sense of longing for that oxytocin-releasing cuddle time after sex. A police car passed slowly as I neared my street. They made the rounds more regularly now, especially in areas where many cars were parked. Perhaps another spot next time. Would there be a next time?
Once home, I unlocked the door and set down my bag. It was the same bag I started to carry each time--a generic tote with a bottle of water, a roach half smoked long ago, pack of ramen, and a pack of Twinkies. I chose things that one would purchase during a late-night high and would not spoil. As I crossed the threshold, the familiar chime sounded as my ankle bracelet registered my return on the sensor. I walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. As I undressed I could smell her perfume integrated with our sex. The perfume (or maybe it was just a scented lotion?) bothered me when we first started this. But when something novel and perhaps even noxious is meshed with warmth and happiness, it takes on new meaning.
The warm water felt good as I rubbed peppermint soap all over my arms, breasts, abdomen. My pussy was still sensitive from her thorough attention but the tingle of the soap made its presence felt. I stood under the water, allowing the warmth to run all over my face. Opening my mouth, the water diluted the taste I had been savoring but was fading anyway. Women must really be from Venus--as in Aphrodite. We have those emotional snares that insist on balancing the pleasures of sex. Men have it much easier in their carnal aggression that can stand on its own.
I shaved my legs, which I maintain quite smooth during the majority of the month, for the benefit of any encounter I may have. With the way things are now, who wants a scruffy lover to boot? The shaving cream clumped briefly over the ankle bracelet, which blinked its insistent presence in any environment, wet or dry.
As I toweled off in the bedroom, I switched on the radio just to hear the current statistics. The variants were still the major news of the day, with cases and deaths offered in questionable numbers. Lotteries were once all the rage to encourage compliance and an odd "patriotism," but life without "vaxcom" (vaccine compliant) consisted of a rearrangement of one's entire world. The ankle bracelet was the wearable "big brother," whose GPS monitoring capabilities could document one's whereabouts for the benefit of contact tracing. If you didn't opt for vaxcom, the bracelet became the mandate. Any contact with anyone for more than 15 minutes could put your already mangled world into greater disarray.
I switched off the radio and the light and crawled into bed, pulling the billowy duvet over my warm, naked body. If I were to look under the duvet, I would see the soft green eye of the bracelet blinking its happy surveillance. I pushed at it with my left heel, a kind of futile rebellion before going to sleep.
Work the next day began early. My employer accommodated my status by allowing me to work at home. Much of my time was spent working solo on a project, and occasionally networking online for collaborative meetings. My time was largely my own, but I made good use of the day. For lunch I would often take a walk in the park. I'd meet up with friends occasionally for a meal or coffee, though going over the 15 minute contact parameter would change my green light to yellow, that brief vibratory warning at 14:30 before turning red at 15:00. With a red light I would likely get a call asking where I was, who I was with, and why I was in that situation. For some friends it just wasn't worth the hassle, as they received the calls as well, and it could jeopardize their situations with their families. If caught lying about your whereabouts, life became even more complicated. So I took a lot of walks alone.
And that's how she and I met. In crowded outdoor areas the mask mandate was in effect for nonvaxcoms. I liked to walk along the pier at times, and donned my mask when doing so. Vaxcoms would eye me suspiciously, and visibly frown (as they did not have to wear masks at all). But I've long learned to live with it, and there were enough of us around that one didn't feel so alone in her convictions. But I digress.
She was standing at the end of the pier watching a flock of ducks in the water. A young boy and his mother were feeding them from several feet away. I noticed the little rainbow heart on her mask almost immediately. She's taller than I am, but softer in her composition, with large breasts and a smile that can be seen in her eyes. Was her hair naturally red? I don't know. We made small talk about the ducks. Her bracelet was visible on her ankle, blinking the green I knew so well. We stood more than 6 feet apart, which made the conversation even more awkward than it was in my own mind. No ring on her finger, but that rarely meant anything these days.
The boy threw a large clump of bread into the flock, and they all scattered. She turned and voiced her opinion to his mother, who blew off her comment with a wave of the hand.
"I'm sure the ducks appreciate your advocacy," I said.
