"Whirlpool Whoopee"
My nipples stiffen in the cold morning air. I dart down snowy steps leading from my condo to the complex's communal pool. The threadbare towel I clutch around my curves does little to abate piercing wind. With frozen fingers I unlock the gate, shed the cover-up, and submerge my body in the hot tub with a satiated sigh.
"Nothing quite like it," a deep voice says from the steam. I yelp, not only from the hot shock to my system, but also at the shattered illusion of solitude. In my haste to enter the water, I hadn't seen my neighbor soaking silently in the corner. I'd assumed that, at 5 a.m., I would have the tub to myself, allowing me the privacy of pleasuring myself.
Not to fulfill an exhibitionist fetish, but rather to scratch an itch that's been nagging all night. Or rather, all month. My boyfriend is into hardcore gaming. "Come to bed," is my mantra that goes unheard through noise canceling headphones as he slashes alien zombies on an oversized monitor. The initial thrill of living with Tony has curdled after a year, and so I spend Saturday nights paging through tabloids and sipping cheap wine while his eyes remain transfixed by the computer's blinding lights.
But last night, I took a proactive approach. I slid black stockings up my long, trim legs, fastened them with a garter belt over a lace thong, bound my B-cup breasts with a strappy contraption, and finished the look with patent leather stilettos. Emerging from the bedroom like Gisele Bundchen on a runway, I strode to his command center and swiveled the chair. His headphones ripped from the jack and he protested, "What the hell!" When he observed my ensemble, however, his pale, round face lit with desire.
"Fuck, babe, you look amazing!" he groaned, a thick pulse rising in his mesh shorts. Electric blue guts continued to spew from avatars behind him, along with sporadic commentary from other gamers. Despite the off-putting soundtrack, I was positively wet with need. We hadn't had sex in nearly a month, so I straddled his slumped posture, pressing against layers of fabric upon his hardening shaft. When he tugged my auburn curls to expose my neck for his tasting, I shuddered. I nearly came then, but peeled myself off, grabbed his hand and said, "Come to bed."
Tony, however, turned his oily black head at the computer and grimaced, "Babe, I promise I will after this round. I already paid to join." Had I been holding an object, I would have hurled it at his precious screen, consequences damned. I stormed into the bedroom with a slammed door instead, a dramatic gesture that was not perceived as he'd already resumed his virtual rampage under a headset.
With the computer occupied, I couldn't even watch porn to pleasure myself.
Patience
, I scolded, and passed an agonizing hour fantasizing about his deft, tech fingers clicking upon my body instead of the Frito Lay greased keyboard. At some point, I dozed off, tangled in lingerie and linens. When Tony finally re-entered the bedroom near daybreak, and immediately flopped into a snoring slumber, I slunk from bed, shed the stockings and garter belt, and grabbed the pool keys, hell bent on climbing to climax atop one of the hot tub's full throttle jets.
My neighbor, however, serves as an impediment to my private pleasure plans. In response to his comment, I mumble, "Yeah," not keen on pre-dawn conversation, and settle myself into the opposite corner. We simmer in silence.
Just wait him out
, I coach.
He won't last much longer.
He's old
—though every adult seems old when you're 25. Mid-40's, I'd conjectured from his greying temples and crinkled eyes, barely visible in the dim, decorative lanterns. He's old enough to have a bratty skateboarding son that never cleans up after his Pekingese; yet young enough to have a healthy sex life, as evidenced by the well-heeled girlfriend that visits every other weekend while the son stays with his mother. Why is it that, when you're not getting laid, it seems that everyone and their mother
is
?
He rises out of the water.
Surprisingly well-defined
, I note, though we've encountered one another in the fitness center several times, nodding greetings under earbuds. My hands are too busy to wave goodbye, already snaking along my inner thighs as the prospect of his departure. Instead of reaching for his towel, however, he steps out of the water and asks, "Mind if I crank the jets?"
