As I was on my knees next to him kissing him in a fit of
post-panic second-wind lust, his hand went up my skirt and inside the back of
my underpants. “Hmm, let’s see, how’s your ass doing?”
“Yes. Yesyesyes,” is how it was doing. This time I wasn’t
self-conscious, just gave over to the sensation of it and tried not to exclaim
too loudly, but jeez, goodness, he was hitting the spot. Let us now praise the
summer of my ass.
He told me to face away from him and sit in his lap so I
maneuvered myself behind the passenger’s seat and did so. Car sex with a guy is
just as awkward as I’d imagined it would be, but also just as hot. I sat down
and pushed his cock into my pussy and groaned and sighed. It was hard to get a
good angle to push back against him but I stopped caring about that for a
little while because oh my goodness his finger was in my ass, further and
further in and oh the catharsis of it, the absolute happiness. He pushed into
me hard and I bent all the way over and braced myself against the passenger’s
seat, hugging it, almost bent in half. Jesus Christ, I was thirsty and sweaty
and tear-stained and newly divorced but this? This was exactly right. Sometimes
I’m awesome at life in spite of myself.
I pulled away to take a breath and my head got pushed down
to him again—more of him being too big, pushing the limits if what my throat
could handle, making me feel full and debased and whoreish and scared and
wonderful.
He put the seats down so that I could lay down on my belly
the way I like, held my shoulders down and fucked me, the car bouncing
cartoonishly, the whole world back-and-forth, sweat and fireflies and hazy
suburban stars.
Afterwards it was too hot to cuddle much so we lay back and
chatted. His hand wandered over to my boob and it felt so good that I almost
reached down to finish myself off again (I did that when I got home. Twice.)
(Note to Steampunk Guy: More good old-fashioned feeling-up, please. If it’s not
too much trouble.) but he was getting his clothes back on. He helped me find my
very damp underpants and I wriggled back in to them and lay back down. My
sweaty hair was hanging off the end of the pulled-down seats. I was all flushed
and content like I’d just been in the ocean. I asked for one more hug and he
laid on top of me and smushed me instead-perfect.
Then we drove around. This was a town he used to live in. He
drove me past his old barracks and told me about the family of ducks that used
to live behind his old apartment. When we stopped at a convenience store for
water and Junior Mints, I realized I was having trouble walking and that my
hair was a spectacular mess.
I told him the story of why I’m protective of my voice, but
it didn’t hold much power in that moment. Now that I knew I was capable of
fighting back, of a well-placed “Fuck you,” I had a little more faith in myself
and the trauma of all those years ago seemed like the tiny part of my life that
it is. Thanks pal.
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