Charlotte at the Track

"Lemme see you pee," my voice was shaky and I twisted her breast onetime through her shirt. She complied. She urinated on the dirt; I went to my knees, licking her acrid, wet vagina and I came in the puddle she made by our feet. She helped me up when I was done. We walked back to the cabin and didn't touch each other; we didn't speak or look at each other.

"Get up, babe," she said in the morning, in a tone unlike that which she usually aroused me. "Don't you have a race today?"

She knew that I did, but she could tell that something had changed from yesterday. (Me without a grunt that night, her responding without any moans—a basic silence other than the sound of our friction and the wind: When we got inside I watched her take off her panties and there was a wet spot in the front—"Piss and come"-I thought, then we fucked and fell asleep).

I woke up feeling listless. I immediately didn't feel like going to the track. I felt like going home. I sat up in bed. I looked around the room, noticing the dresser and the nightstand before I noticed the sunlit window or her half-naked body. She turned away from me without smiling.

"I'll make you some eggs," she said, throwing a robe over her exposed breasts.

When I got to the kitchen I affected a "thank you" and sat down to breakfast.

"There are some packs of hot-chocolate left," she said as she walked back into the bedroom where she got dressed. I ate my food and then followed her. When I got into the bedroom she was fully clothed; I hugged her from behind and stuck my hand down her pants; she moaned and then moved away.

"Isn't it finals, babe," she faced me, "you're gonna be late."

I was at the starting line, listening to the revving of the seven other engines, when the gate was pulled I watched the other riders speed down the decline, jump over the dunes, and I made my way down deliberately, I rolled over the dunes, I eased around the corners. After the second time that the first place rider over-lapped me, I stepped off my bike, leaving it there in the middle of the track. This was met with hisses from the crowd and the man behind the loud-speaker was shouting something about a "foul." But I walked up to the stands (every eye followed me, despite that the race was still in progress).

"Let's go home," I said to Charlotte with a smile. She was mortified.

"Go get your bike," She sighed.

When we got back to the city, there was nothing left. There were still the myriad of identical houses painted the same color, but there was nothing left otherwise. I kissed her once on the threshold of her house—she savored it, but she knew there was nothing left, too. She gave me a hundred from her purse and said:

"I'm tired, babe, I just gotta go to sleep— is this enough for you to get home?"

"Yeah, this is more than enough. Thank you." We smiled at each other.

"I'll call you," I said, which of course, signified the end.

"Okay," she responded but couldn't hide her emotions any longer. She wasn't crying, but she sounded choked up.

"Thanks, again," I said, no longer a lover but something else—less than a friend, not quite a stranger.

"Okay," she said and tried to smile, "I had a lot of fun. Bye, babe."

Obviously I never called her again, nor did she expect it. I sold my bike before my 26th birthday. I still ride my Yamaha sometimes for fun, but I never competed again.