The Red Car

Given that I’ve lived in this house for five years, I’ve had the chance to run through this neighborhood many, many times. I’ve seen wooded lots get cleared and houses go up. I’ve had a chance to see the landscaping changes around houses. I’ve seen the same houses sell over and over again. I’ve seen spilled garbage and wrecked bikes and suspicious clothing lying in the street. And I’ve seen the people. I’ve come to know them by sight, hardly any of them by name.

One thing I’ve noticed about runners over the years, they observe their surroundings, curious people they usually are, some because of boredom, perhaps, but most are just simply curious about people. The thing that most runners don’t put into perspective though is that not only do they see others, but others see them – they are observed as much as they observe. For example, as the seasons change, so does the attire of the runner. Runners change with the weather and people notice.

For me, winter means Gortex jackets or polarfleece vests with wind pants or tights, always combined with a cap or hat of some kind. Winter mornings also mean reflective vests and small flashlights in the dark chill. But summer changes it all. Summer means the three “S” ensemble – that is: shoes, shorts, and sunglasses. Nothing else. So, summer means running nearly naked. Summer feels good. Definitely.

Since runners notice people and people notice runners, there does sometimes come a connection of sorts. Usually it’s a smile and a wave in the car as the runner meets it. Or a smile and a wave and a “good morning” as the runner passes them as they stand in their yard. But sometimes there is something psycho-kinetic. Sometimes something that feels almost special. I have had that happen from time to time – that feeling of a special connection.

There is a woman with a red sports car that lives next to a white frame house with the newest, most elaborate landscaping job in the neighborhood so far. She’s an intriguing woman. She leaves for work during the week around 7:35 each morning. I meet her almost in the same spot each day. Her smile as she waves is a curious smile. It might be a half smile, half smirk, but her eyes, even through the windshield of the car, are intensely focused on mine, seeming to look into my sunglasses for whatever she might be able to see. And her right hand, the hand always on the steering wheel, gives something of a sideways wave. Then she’s gone, past me, always leaving me to wonder about her.

She lives with a man, probably her husband. No kids that I’ve ever seen (no lawn toys around her house). One dog, a Border Collie, I think. I’ve seen her outside a few times as I ran by on weekends. Even then, she gives me the same smile, the same wave. Of course, I’ve wondered about her -- what she does for a living, which window she sleeps behind, what she wears under her dresses, her favorite food, her preference on wines, how she likes to make love, many things. Runners think of all sorts of things as they run along alone for long runs. An hour or two leaves a lot of time to think.

There was a particular weekday that I finally met the woman in the red car. I had run that morning and showered late before deciding to drive into town for a sandwich for lunch. When I drove into the Subway parking lot, I saw her car. It was her. And as fate would have it, she was in line waiting to order, so I stepped up behind her and asked myself just what might come of this chance meeting. I wondered if she’d ever seen me completely dressed. I had never seen her dressed for work like she was, I realized. She wore a nice full loose-fitting summer dress. While I wondered all this and more, I saw her eyes catch sight of us in the mirror behind the counter. She smiled that smile and turned around.

“Hi,” she said in a voice I’d never heard from so close, “You may not know me…”

“But I do,” I interrupted, “Or at least I know you and where you live. I see you occasionally.”

“When you’re running?”

“Yes.” It was my turn to smile.

We chatted and moved through the line. Finally, we both ordered tuna salad on wheat. (The karma was heavy.) When we each had our sandwiches, it was her that suggested we eat them together outside. I agreed without hesitation.

Outside we talked some more, but the eye contact told more than the discussion of houses, and jobs, and music, and restaurants. The eye contact said things that words weren’t ready for, things I felt were hers to ponder and decide about, things that were for her to follow-through on, but only if she wanted to.

We both finished eating and sat sipping water, each of us knowing that the contact was going to end, neither of us wanting to be the one to end it.

After a pause in the conversation, she said, “I need to use the restroom. Will you wait for me? Maybe walk me to my car?”

“Sure,” I agreed.

She wasn’t gone long. When she came back she stood beside me and held out her hand to give me something. Clinched in her hand was a pair of panties. She handed them to me and smiled before she said, “Would you carry these to my car for me? I’d like to show you something.”

I didn’t answer out loud. I just got up and followed her into the parking lot and toward her car.

She walked to the car deliberately. I walked a step behind her watching her and wondering. She used the automated device to disarm the alarm and unlock the doors. In one motion she opened the passenger side door and turned to me and smiled the smile I saw in the morning through the windshield.

“Please sit with me,” was all she said.

I did without any questions, settling myself into the warm leather seat as she walked around the car to the other side. In a flourish of soft summer cotton and smooth legs, she was in the car beside me. She didn’t speak as she lowered the power windows and let the breeze wash through the car. No one was near, we both knew, no one could hear or see. The lunch rush was over and the dull teenagers working in Subway were back to smoking cigarettes and planning the rest of their lives.

“I should tell you something,” she began. “My husband and I have a very active life, a full relationship, and a wonderful sex life, we both think.” She paused and smiled, taking in my non-reaction. “We both, my husband and I, enjoy ourselves sexually. And we both enjoy fantasy. We are loyal and devoted to each other completely. Loving each other and trusting each other, we have tried to expand ourselves. One way we’ve done this is fantasy, sexual fantasy. Does any of this make sense to you? Are you okay with what I’m saying? If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll stop and you can leave.”

“No,” I assured her, “I do understand completely, believe me. And to be very honest, I envy you. Very much, really.”

She smiled and considered what I had told her before she continued.

“What I’m telling you,” she finally said, “Is that you have become a part of our fantasies.”

“Me?” I honestly didn’t expect what she was saying.

“Yes, you,” she smiled even more broadly. “He and I have discussed you often, in many ways. In fact, I’ll tell him all about our lunch today. He’ll love it. But let me explain a little better. We both, he and I, would love a threesome but we don’t know how we would handle it, how it would all impact our marriage. So, being cautious, we’ve taken you into our fantasy world as our lover, our private, secret lover.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” I admitted.

She took a deep breath before she raised her right leg and let her foot settle on the console. Her eyes locked onto mine as she let the dress slide down her raised leg. With her left hand she pulled the thin fabric away from her exposing her pussy to me. Her lips were full and swollen and shining. Deliciously, shining. She let her the middle finger on her left hand glide over her pussy as she began to speak again.

“When I suck his cock, he asks me if I can feel you licking my pussy. He asks me if I can feel you licking and sucking my nipples as his cock pushes deep in my mouth. I suck it harder, pull on him, and he’ll ask me if I want you to fuck me. I have to take my mouth off his cock to answer him, but I tell him, yes. He runs his fingers into my hair and fucks my face while he asks me if I want your cock in my pussy. This pussy. This one. And I tell him I want you to fuck this pussy.”

At that very moment I was thankful for there being no history of heart disease in my family.

“And then there are times,” she went on, closing her eyes, “When he fucks me and asks me if I want to taste your cock. I’ve seen you, and told I’ve him of your ass, I’ve told him of the way your cock looks in your shorts, how I want to see it, to hold it, to suck it, to have it cum in my mouth, to cum all over it. Then he’ll just fuck me harder and tell me I’d better fuck him back or he won’t let me have you.”

Her fingers were moving hard and fast over her clit. The lips on her pussy were moving from side to side as they leaked her juices onto the back of her dress and through onto the leather seat under ass.

I sat with my cock throbbing in my clean khaki shorts. The wet spot near the zipper was growing larger and larger. Sometimes not wearing underwear has its disadvantages.

“God,” she almost whispered, “All of it makes me cum, makes me cum so hard. Like now, God, I want to cum. I’m going to. Watch me. Watch me cum while you both fuck me in my mind.”

I did and she did. And I’ve never seen anything like it. Never. She came back from where ever she went rather quickly, but her breathing wasn’t yet regular when she let the foot slide forward and downward. The dress covered her without her moving it.

“Maybe,” she said between breaths, “Maybe there will come a time for us, a real time. Would you like that? Would it be okay?”

“Silly question,” I told her, “Silly question.”

We both sat looking at each other and not speaking. Neither of us really knew what to say. Goodbye, was the only thing that fit. So, I said it first.

I climbed into the Jeep and watched her drive away. I knew that masturbating in a parking lot in the middle of the afternoon was not a good idea. I could wait until I got home, I decided easily enough. But still, I drove pretty damned fast. Lunch had confirmed at least one thing: she and I both masturbate with our left hand.