Sex & Sox

My passions: Sex and the Boston Red Sox!


Friday, December 17, 2004

Is this the same Burger Barn as LAST week?

(Title referencing a radio commercial for condoms)



Lester B. Pearson International Airport, Toronto. On August 9th, 2003, at approximately 11 am, I arrived here on a small inbound flight direct from Bradley International Airport in Hartford. My mother had dropped me off at Bradley, carry-on bag over my shoulder and good-luck danish in hand, wearing a long, demure jean skirt and a fitted red sweater, my hair pulled back into a carelessly wispy chignon. "Be aware of your personal space, sweetie," she'd told me, tears standing in her eyes as though she didn't know she was going to pick me up at the same place in nine days, "Remember, eighteen inches all around!"

This was one of those things that endeared her to me so: her paranoia, something I've come to recognize as a distinctly American trait (my boyfriend still rolls his eyes at me when I get up out of bed to go make sure the front door is locked: "This is Canada, people don't do that here," he says, and I now believe willful naivety to be a Canadian trait). I was surprised she didn't pull a plastic whistle out of her pocket and make sure I wore it around my neck in case someone attacked me; she was already fretting over the fact that I had to leave my pepper spray in the car.

"I'll be fine, Mommy," I told her, as she squished me tight against her, "Plus, he'll take care of me. He knows karate."

She let me go, appraising me closely, and said, "True... just... be careful." I knew she was looking at me with the eyes of a mother who knows her daughter is a woman, acknowledging that her little girl is going to be getting thoroughly fucked before they see each other again, and her 'careful' didn't include just physical harm, but emotional as well.

An hour later, I was on the tiny fifteen-seater airplane, sitting beside a college psychology professor whose company I enjoyed immensely. When I told him I wanted to study anthropology, he laughed, showing his straight, clean white teeth, making the laugh lines of fifty years crease around his eyes, and replied, "What a ... floofy subject!"

Floofy? Anthropology was floofy and... Psychology was concrete?

I laughed along with him, smiling, and finished off my dixie cup of black coffee. "Excuse me," I purred, and he let me brush past him. I made my way to the lavatory -- the 'washroom', if we're being Canadian -- and, once there, the transformation began. The sweater came off, revealing a skin-tight white t-shirt with a scoop neck and drawstring sides tightened to reveal a few inches of pale flesh, the word "SINNER" scrawled in glittering gold letters across my meagre bosom. I unclipped my hair, letting it fall in elaborately curled disarray around my shoulders, sweeping my bangs to one side as I leaned towards the mirror and fastened my favourite hoop earrings. Then, clumsily manuevering around and banging against the door, I removed my jean skirt, pulling it down over my knee-high boots and straightening out my black latex skirt.

When I came out of the lav and made my way back to my seat, women glanced over at me with slight frowns. My professor grinned up at me appreciatively and, making room for me to pass, said, "Well, I'd bet your mother didn't know you were wearing THAT."

I still wonder what his psychology training told about me then. I still wonder if he knew I'd taken off my panties.

When I got off the plane, I rushed through the terminal, trying to walk as quickly as possible to get to him... my boyfriend. My blood was rushing, and I'm sure I was a sight, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, disregarding everything around me because I was set on my destination. It had been a month since we'd seen each other, a month of whispered late-night phone calls and promises gasped between moans as we spoke to each other in that strange dialect of separated lovers that is both overly poetic and sharply precise. ("Oh, love, I would slide my palms down your chest, feeling your muscles under them -- I love how you're built -- as my lips caressed and my tongue flicked your neck, pressing my pussy against your leg... god... you make me crazy... I don't know if I can keep teasing... I just want you to grab my ass, turn me over, and fuck me hard.")

When we got out into the parking garage, I noticed he had backed his truck into the spot. He threw my suitcase in the back, opened my door, and pushed me back against the side of the truck. His eyes were glazed and his smile matched mine; I arched my hips and he slid one hand up under my skirt before crouching and moving his mouth where his fingers explored.

This was the first time I had sex in Canada, my man's truck in a parking garage, his arms holding me up so he could slide into me, or stretched out in the front seat as he bent over me, the two of us laughing at it, the illicit and half-public display of 'affection'. When we decided that we really wanted to get back to his place, and he started driving, I teased him with mouth and hands on the highway.

Sometime during that stay (I'm almost positive it was the same day, but who knows), we turned on the television and watched the Red Sox on Fox. And we started talking about sex in baseball parks. "We'll be groupies... kinda," he said, fingers rested possessively against my ass, "We'll follow the Red Sox from park to park, eventually hitting all of the AL ones, and have sex in each one."

"What about when they play NL teams?"

"We'll do that, too. We should be able to get all of the parks after awhile."

So, this begs the question of whether or not we've had sex in the Skydome. We haven't, but we've scouted it out -- the place is just about empty, and it's really clean. It's a stadium we're likely to go to at least twice a year, so we've got plenty of time to figure out where our needs are best suited; I'd rather not be in a bathroom, and instead be somewhere that I can see the field, but the ushers were strangely reluctant to let people into the higher levels of the stadium (or at least, to let a hand-holding couple up there).

Insofar as sex in other public places... no, we haven't really. There's been plenty of illicit touching, in a park, but that was fairly late at night and no one was around. We've fucked in the forest before, getting bug bitten and scratched by fallen twigs, which was likely the most spiritual sex I've ever had but not the most erotic. My big goal is a church, behind the altar. I get the feeling that one will require quite a bit of maneuvering.

Any stories?

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