tagHumor & SatireStreaking Is Bad, M'kay?

Streaking Is Bad, M'kay?

byjust a thing©

Back in college, my girlfriend, Kathy, and I were able to arrange our schedules so that we had no classes Wednesday mornings.

So what do two horny 20-year-olds with an empty apartment do to kill three hours one morning each week?

Well, any number of things, actually. One of them was to invent a game of sexual chicken. How do you play? You take off all your clothes and then go outside the apartment.

How do you win? Be the one to go farthest from the apartment and return without getting caught.

I lived on the fifth floor (which was also the top floor) of a building that had no elevator. There were two flights of stairs between each floor. To get to the fourth floor, you went down a flight of eight stairs, made a U-turn, and then went down eight more stairs.

We join the game already in progress...

Kathy and I had been playing for about four or five weeks. By this time, just stepping into the hallway (where there were five other apartments) had become little more than a warm-up. Both of us had made a half-dozen trips down to the landing between the fourth and fifth floors; both of us had been down to the fourth floor and back another half-dozen times. We had both been down to the landing between the fourth and third floors, to the third floor itself, to the landing between the third and second floors, to second floor, to the landing between the second and first floors, and all the way down to the first floor. After a month of playing, neither Kathy nor I showed any sign of quitting.

Taking off her sweatpants and T-shirt and with excitement blazing in her eyes, Kathy said, "I'm going to the lobby."

"I'm ready when you are." (Easy for me to say, I had my clothes on.)

All was quiet all the way down the staircase.

When we got to the first floor, I went ahead to make sure the lobby was empty.

"All clear," I called.

Kathy peeked around the corner, and seeing the lobby was empty, she walked calmly around the corner and into the lobby. But did she just set both feet in the lobby and then turn around and race back to the apartment? Nope. Not my Kathy. She strolled around the lobby as if she were completely dressed and walking around her own bedroom. The only sign of nervousness she gave was she rarely looked away from the all-glass front doors to the building.

She crossed the lobby and stood in front of me. "Should we go back upstairs now?"

She didn't wait for an answer; she just turned around. But instead of going to the stairs, she went to the doors of the building and she stood there looking out at the world. It was ten o'clock on a Wednesday morning and the entrance to building was on a quiet side street so there wasn't much chance that someone would walk by and see her.

Still, after about ten seconds she came to me. "Look at this." She held out her hand. It was visibly trembling. "I can't hold it still."

"Too much adrenaline," I said.

"God, I love this feeling. Everything inside my body is tingling. Let's go, it's your turn."

We ran for the stairs. We were just past the landing between the second and third floors when we heard the footsteps. Footsteps somewhere above us – and coming down the stairs.

Kathy turned to face me. She smiled and, nibbling at her thumbnail, she giggled.

"Come on," I said, and raced back down the stairs.

I waited on the first floor and watched Kathy's tits bouncing as she came down the final flight of stairs. "In there," I said, pointing underneath the flight of stairs that led to the landing between the first and second floors. Kathy ducked into the hiding space and squatted in the corner. I went in behind her and squatted in front of her so she could behind me.

For the next thirty seconds of so, the two of us were as quiet as mice as we listened to the footsteps coming closer and closer.

When the footsteps were right over our heads, Kathy leaned forward and kissed me on the ear.

The footsteps kept going out into the lobby. We heard the front door open and then close. And then there was only silence on the stairs above us.

I grabbed Kathy by the hand and we raced back up to the apartment.

Then it was my turn. But my trip to the lobby was uneventful. I strolled around the lobby just like Kathy did, and I felt the same rush Kathy did. And we got back to the apartment unseen.

Getting undressed again, Kathy said, "Let's make this interesting." (As if it was boring up to now.)

The building had three wings: left, center, and right. My family and I lived in the left wing.

On her next turn, Kathy went down to the lobby, once again passing the all-glass front doors, and into the right wing where she pressed her bush against the far wall of the first floor in the right wing. Total distance from my front door: maybe one hundred fifty feet.

"Let's see you top that!" she said laughing as we both sprinted back to my apartment. (I can still see her twenty-year old breasts swaying and bouncing as she ran up the stairs. It's a wonderful sight: the way 20-year-old breasts move.)

So as Kathy put her sweatpants and T-shirt back on, I took mine off. And down the stairs we went.

I planned on going into the right wing and touching my dick against the far wall on the second floor.

In the lobby, I peeked out the front door: the way was clear. So I dashed past the doors and into the right wing and ran down the corridor to the staircase. There was a left-hand turn to get to the stairs, and I stopped just short of the turn and peeked around the corner to make sure the way is clear. It wasn't.

My mother was coming down the stairs.

Fortunately, she was looking at the stairs, watching where she putting her feet, and didn't see me. All this time, I thought she was at work. (I later found out she had the day off and was visiting some family friends in the right side of the building.)

Losing the game of chicken suddenly didn't seem so important. I couldn't run straight back to left side of the building, my mother would have seen me as soon as she turned the corner. So I raced down the hallway, turned right, and sprinted for the stairs in the center wing of the building.

Behind me, Kathy called out, "Where are you going?" A moment later I heard her say, "Uh oh."

How fast did I race up those ten flights of stairs? Terms like "bat out of hell" and "escape velocity" come to mind.

I raced past an open window between floors and heard a wolf whistle. And as my bare feet slapped against every other step and the tops of my thighs batted the family jewels back and forth like a pair of tennis balls, a voice in the back of my mind asked a question: "What if the door to the roof is locked?"

I made the turn on the landing between the fifth floor and roof, looking for a crack of daylight between the door and doorframe that meant the door was unlocked. But the door was completely closed.

I raced up the final flight of stairs, lowered my shoulder and hit the door like a linebacker. The door exploded open with such force that when it opened as far as it would go, it slammed shut again so hard the noise made my heart jump. Sunshine almost blinded me as I sprinted across the roof to the door leading down to the left wing. I expected that door to be unlocked; it was almost always unlocked. I raced down the two flights of stairs hearing my mother and Kathy making small talk as they came up the stairs together.

By the time the two of them came into the apartment, I was sitting at the kitchen table, my sweats and T-shirt on again, pretending I had been reading the newspaper, and fighting hard to keep my breathing at a normal pace. And as my mother was saying something to me, I watched Kathy standing behind her, giving me her most wicked grin, pointing to herself, and mouthing the words, "I win."

After college Kathy and I went our separate ways, and I didn't see her again until about three years ago.

I bumped into her at a mall and we got to talking about old times. Including the few weeks of our junior year we spent playing chicken.

"How could we possibly have been that fucking stupid?" she asked.

"We weren't the first two people to do something crazy for a sexual thrill," I said. "And you can bet we weren't the last."

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