“Should I leave the mask on? Or, does it feel like really cheesy porn ‘the burglar and the virgin’ from the sixties.” he queried, a little trepidatious.
“I don’t give a shit. I figure we’re going to be sharing all sorts of other bodily fluids over the next hour or so, but if you want to impede the use of an important orifice and one of your five senses, it is totally the fuck up to you.” she said emphatically. “But we are fucking our way to red and sore before this is over, you with me.”
“Uh hunh.” he replied.
Just then she pushed him backwards onto the bed hurried unbuckling his belt and pulling down his skinny jeans and rumpled boxers. Were they tinted slightly pink? Well, that’s what comes from doing his own laundry, she thought. She had to pause mid-removal realizing she was going to be thwarted by his Converse and took a moment to yank them both off, tossing them over her shoulder, before proceeding with the aforementioned denims. Down and off with a few tugs to get the tight over the ankles.
By the way, what is it with those fucking white socks with stripes at the tops? Why hadn’t they been discarded long ago. She wagered with herself about whether or not they still had name tags sewn in from going to camp; they sure didn’t have much stretch left. She didn’t care, he could leave them on, they weren’t pertinent
There he lay on the bed lower half naked, red fur exposed – she always liked that he was a ginger. They had known one another since the end of middle school. He lived just down the block from her, from a good Irish catholic family that always felt like dozens but was only five kids and two parents. She loved the lilt in the parent’s accent. They were from somewhere in Cork, but she never understood where. Some small town with a name with far too many consonants in search of some missing vowels.
They had become best of friends walking to and from each weekday and playing occasional sandlot ball or soccer on the weekends. They had sent one another notes through locker vents or while passing in the hall. She asked him for advice about boys; he returned the favor inquiring after girls, but never about one another. They were friends. In some fashion that would end today.
She straddled him for a moment putting her hand behind his neck and hauling him forward. They collided, chest to chest and creating a tiny smidgen of warmth and friction below. She pulled t-shirt over his head, slightly dislodging said mask as she stood up from the bed. He was pretty muscled and stomach taut for an intellectual geek, which is how his sister referred to him. What a comical sight engulfed her vision. A ginger man, disheveled hair that hadn’t seen a stylist in seven weeks, naked, red hair covering his chest and down his abs to meet his crotch in a whirlwind. His mask, without thought pulled back into place was cloth, homemade, with the smile of the Joker on the front. They had laughed while making that one, among the hundred or so they had constructed voluntarily for lack of anything else to occupy their time, to help out in the pandemic. Oh, yeah, and those fucking, droopy socks. Round and round in her head was the line from some silly Randy Newman song she had heard in her parent’s house while growing up “you can leave your hat on, yes leave your hat on.” She paused and looked. He reached out. Pushing his hand a little, she said “No, I got this!”
They had gone off to college together, Yale and then grad school in Boston, Kennedy School of Government for her and Harvard Med for him. They had decided to pool their lives and take a small two-bedroom apartment together in Cambridge. There was ample study space as they often sat across the dining room table from each other, texts, papers and Macs spread out. It was all well and good until this Corona shit locked the world down. Seven weeks, no contact outside, seeing one another every day and night, smelling each other, sharing coffee and meals – he was actually a pretty amazing cook. Strolling to the local store and remnants of the North Ave open market, masked to get food and produce like some married couple. Watching the pandemic news each evening with Lester Holt and the Today show curled together on the couch with coffee and bagels and schmear- closeness providing comfort. But, daily incarceration fanned low embered thoughts into desire.
So, in a languorous vision she slowly removed her own clothes. Dressed in a summer version of house elf attire that included a light ankle length crinkly skirt and embroidered top, like she had stepped out of a picture from Haight in the 60s, short pink socks and slip on Keds with no laces. It had been hot, starting about 11:00AM and here at four even these light things weren’t cool enough. But she took her time and he just stared oblivious to the impact it was having on his own persona.
In a kind of a reverse order to his disrobe, she reached back gathering up all her own dark auburn curls toward the crown of her head. Slipping a red rubber hair tie from around her wrist and was almost always there when not in use, she bound up her hair. It still spilled out like a fireworks explosion from the topknot and fluttered about her ears in the slight breeze coming through the open window. Then, in slow motion she eased the embroidered linen top up first, revealing her small waist. She had done well avoiding the Covid-19 nineteen with on-line versions of Zumba, yoga and tae bo. She was proud of that waist and her pert, small breasts just coming into view. She hadn’t worn a bra in nearly two months – sweet freedom. She was fairly certain he noticed, although he only did so in surreptitious glances, not wanting her to think he saw her as some physical object. That had only made this all hotter, so she was going to torture him now, in a good way, she hoped. The gauzy top now off floated lightly to the arm of the lounge chair in her bedroom. She stretched her arms, making little sighs, while feeling the slight breezes at her back. The cool air brought her nipples erect and moved him further into ready mode. She relished seeing her impact.
She reached around the back untying the strings at her waist and the skirt puddled to her ankles leaving only small cotton panties, also slightly pink, on purpose though, between her and nudity. She eased them down to mix with the skirt. For a moment she noticed in the unflinching ennui of the last seven weeks she had given up shaving her legs and had not engaged in the summer re-landscaping of her winter fur. She could have trimmed it into a little heart or an arrow pointing - this way stupid - but hadn’t had the precognition to make that happen. So, there she was in full glory, bristled legs and a crotch as fully whirlwind as his ginger. Together they should provide a lot of cushioning. To hell with it, his erection didn’t seem thwarted by such indecorous accoutrements.
“Yeah, lose the mask. It won’t suffice.” She declared. He pulled it off tweaking his ears a bit, letting out a yelp and starting to lower his flag. She licked the palm of her hand, leaning over and gave him a moistened twist back to life sliding up on his lap. While continuing to raise his temperature, she took one of his hands and guided it into her heat moving it into place for maximum effect with little effort. Next, she pulled his head forward as she arched back firmly planting his mouth on her now tight nipple – a little twinge but pain and pleasure at once added some new warmth to the mix.
He reached around and grasped the small notch at her back, just above her ass and supported her backward arc, suckling, licking and feeling sweat start to trickle down her spine. He wasn’t even certain he had brushed his teeth after lunch hoping any sour breath was covered over by the bottle of wine they’d shared with French bread, blue cheese, grapes, tomato slices and marcona almonds. She was rythming him well at this point and could feel his toes curl a bit. It was then he realized he was wearing his last socks and needed to do laundry. Socks left over from high school gym class, not certain why he kept them, certainly they had no sentimental value. He still had them on. She made certain those distracting thoughts had no curtailing effects.
His other hand was moving around and in her and he could feel her thighs squeezing and muscles tightening. They were both on some verge. He removed his hand slowly and she bucked up and moved him inside – they were connected fully now. He couldn’t remember the first time he ever fantasized such a moment- middle school maybe - the first onslaught of wet dreams. High school as she talked about other guys on the way home or looking at her all too nicely proportioned ass and legs as she ran bases or kicked a soccer ball. But he grew up with sisters who scolded him into treating women with respect. He had other girlfriends, who never made grade in comparison and even a couple of one-night flings for which he always felt guilty. However, he appreciated the education in this moment. She was moving lazily up and down, back and forth, his piston providing her a fulcrum. One hand sliding up her torso, cupping her breast, the other freed from the need to provide support sliding down her thigh and calf feeling her bristles and not really caring.
Maybe his desires had taken shape as they went off to college together. Certainly, he remembered feeling jealousy as she described failed relationships with other guys; just hard to discern the difference between love or friend jealousy. But they had spent a huge amount of time together in all the platonic ways. She helped him with Med school applications; he helped her with grad school MCATs. They spent countless hours in the library, studying at coffee shops, spending nights in bars drinking and dancing – she even taught him how to hold his own on the dancefloor.
After the first year of grad and med school she had broached the apartment share concept and he had jumped at the chance. But, nothing had happened with separate bedrooms and intense schedules until covid hit and they started spending every minute together. Maybe it was three weeks ago when he in need of a pee went into their shared bathroom not realizing she was showering. He could see her lithe outline in the door’s opaque glass. Her face was upturned into the shower head, her left hand was lathering her right breast and stomach while her right was vigorously taking care of business. He took a long look and backed out watching in awe until he quietly closed the door, certain she had not noticed him. Maybe that was the moment of change.
“Ooooh, shit.” He said through clenched teeth.
“Not yet, not yet.” She replied emphatically. She lifted up and spun around facing away from him, reconnecting them with ease. She reached down giving his balls a slight squeeze and pull easing the pressure. Maybe, she thought, it all turned the day he walked in on her in the shower. She was working herself into a pretty good lather and realized he had come in. She didn’t stop and actually picked up the pace, rubbing her soapy hands down her breasts and stomach. She knew he was watching but made no acknowledgement and as he eased out, she finished while fantasizing about him. Yeah, that’s when it shifted. That’s when she knew it would happen. Despite, it took another few weeks of quarantine to get here.
She was moving and keigeling. He was watching the rise and fall her magnificent ass while feeling the squeezing. He started thrusting harder and faster.
“Now?” he asked plaintively.
“Noooow,” she responded resoundingly.
After, she lay back against his chest and he wrapped arms about her cupping her breasts and holding her tight as he popped free into the cool air.
“Oooh,” she sighed as if losing a favorite toy. She had always loved his smarts. He was conversant in all things of interest to her – public health, public policy, politics, government. At the same time, he could explain cogently the avarice of viruses and the medical impact that put everyone at risk. She loved his passion about it. She remembered his getting flush, skin almost matching his hair, while watching protestors on the news. “It’s fine if they want to risk their own dumbass lives. I don’t really give a shit; parading around without masks and standing right next to each other. Let them wind up in some hospital on a ventilator not being able to say goodbye to their families. It’s the doctors, nurses, hospital staff, first responders who will pay the price of their selfishness. They can wander around murdering generations of unsuspecting families and children because they want to drink beer with their asshole friends. Fuuuuck!” It was a rare instance when his usually calm demeanor was out of whack. That made him more for her. It was a warm thought.
She reached down cupping his nethers in her hand. “Ready?” she enquired.
“I need a couple of minutes.” he replied.
“Give me the mask” she said. “I’m ready for a round of ‘the burglar and the virgin’.” Clearly, they would never be just friends anymore.
“Uh hunh!” was all he could muster.