With the coronavirus pandemic forcing most of the country into self-isolation, it may feel like the world has ground to a halt, and, well, it pretty much has. But even a global crisis cannot crush the human sexual urge. And while social-distancing rules might be in place, our readers are using their downtime to get down and dirty. Read on…
Pegging For Mercy
It has been two full weeks since Governor Gavin Newsom issued the stay-at-home order for California, 14 long days of lockdown in a 600-square-foot apartment with my husband and two fat black cats. A week ago the beaches, trails and canals closed, effectively forcing us indoors for the duration…
Work from home disintegrated into furloughs within a week, and we quickly fell into a routine: ordering groceries, washing groceries, reviewing COVID stats and maps and drinking. Then more drinking. TV and board games quickly lost their appeal—yes, even Splendor—and if I had to listen to even one more cute YouTube animal video, I knew I was going to go stark raving mad!
Then it hit me—it had been two full weeks of just Rick and me, self-isolating. The likelihood of either one of us actually having the virus was by now minimal. And it had been two full weeks, 14 days, since we’d rumpled those bedsheets in any meaningful way. Now we had all the time in the world—no waking up at six and rushing to work, only to return at seven, exhausted—hell, we could fuck anytime we damn well pleased. We could fuck all day! And maybe should fuck all day, if only for the stress release. Finally, a silver lining to this hell!
Determined to seduce him, I wracked my brain for every detail of every fantasy the hubby had ever revealed. Stream of consciousness, it went something like this—trashy horror movie starlets, Larkin Poe, golden showers, Joan Jett, pegging, Hannah Ford, deep-throating blowjobs… It didn’t take long for a theme to surface: superhot talented musicians and superhot sex.
Step 1, I created a playlist of rocking faves. Step 2, I dressed the part: denim and leather, lots of black mascara. I dug his Les Paul guitar out from the back of the closet and strapped it on. It hung low on my hips, something I always found sexy as hell on women onstage. I hit play on our stereo and walked into the living room, where Rick was—you guessed it—watching YouTube vids.
