It probably seems so far as though all of these confessions are going to start with some sort of online interaction.
This is not, however, the case. This one starts with an across-the-street interaction.
Stitching together the peripheral details into a sort of whole, I can reasonably place this one in 2004 or 2005, most likely the latter. That would put me in my early 40s and her in her late 20s.
This one wouldn’t have happened but for my family’s shit luck in clothes dryers. I don’t care how much we spend on one, it will inevitably turn into a big damn paperweight a few years into what should be a long lifespan. And, of course, this always happens just after the warranty expires.
So I hauled a carful of wet clothes to a late-night laundromat in an older, kind of artsy neighborhood maybe 15 minutes from home. I loaded up the dryers, stuffed them with enough quarters to stun a moose if you put them all in a tube sock, and decided to go for a walk to the bar up the street for a beer.
I never made it.
I got catcalled. No, really. First time in my life. By a woman, sitting with some friends in the courtyard of a coffeehouse across the street.
*Screw the beer,* I thought, and trotted over to join the crowd.
She was tall, almost my height, and curvy. Brown hair, ponytail, button-up shirt and rolled-up jeans. Gave off a definite rockabilly girl vibe, which is a hell of a hot look if someone can pull it off, which she obviously could. She introduced herself, then introduced me to her friends. One of them, a guy who looked like he could hold his own in a scrap, gave me the side eye a few times that night. I thought maybe he’d had designs on her, but apparently he just looked pissed all the time.
Fast forward an hour or so. I had to run back up to the laundromat to fold and change clothes; she told me she’d still be there when I got back. I didn’t really expect her to be there, but she was — and her friends were still there, too. So we talked for a while longer, and then she asked if I wanted to take a walk, which led to us making out in the stairwell of a church a few blocks away. By the time we got back to the coffeehouse, it was closed and her friends were gone.
She said she had to get home, because she worked early the next day, but she gave me her number and I walked her to the car. That led to some more making out in the coffeehouse, but we had to break that up when a cop rolled by, slowed down, flashed his lights and kept going. We didn’t want to be there when he got back.
Well, that was fun, I thought, wondering when or if I’d get to see her again. People do get second thoughts sometime.
Then my phone rang.
It was her, on her way home. She had one question: Was there a place nearby where we could continue what we’d started?
There was: My office. The downside: Someone might be working late. Still, I told her to meet me there, and we went in the side door. I told her to wait in the breakroom while I went to check things out. No dice: A coworker was still there, and I had to pretend I’d forgotten something in my desk.
I went back to the breakroom and told her the bad news. She pointed at a door: “What’s in here?”
It wasn’t locked, so I opened it. It was a utility closet, with a hot water heater and a concrete floor — but there was room enough to lie down. She shoved me in there and locked her mouth on mine, hard. I don’t even recall us taking our pants off. I just remember lying back on the cold concrete while she ground down on me so hard as to leave bruises on my hips the next day. Trying to hide those was fun, I can tell you, but I managed it.
Back to the closet, and me lying there spent with her slowly grinding to a halt on top of me. She looked down and smiled and said “Didn’t expect that, did you? I’ll go out first. Call me.” She kissed me, left the closet. I waited five minutes, still catching my breath, and then went home.
There was a next time. Several next times, in fact. The first next time, I spent the night while the family was out of town. She told me not to expect anything when she asked me to come over, because she wasn’t sure she was in a mood for sex. We wound up with me taking her from behind on her couch, after which we slept there the rest of the night.
We fell into a fun routine for the next couple of months. She’d text me on a Sunday morning, at least twice a month, while I was in church. I’d go over that afternoon. She’d open the door wearing nothing but a sheet and I’d push her against the wall in the front hall, then we’d tumble into her bed and fuck for the next hour or so.
Eventually, she moved to a neighboring state for a new job. I still go to that coffeehouse, although not in a while now. I haven’t been by that church since, and I don’t work in that office any more.
Sometimes, things converge perfectly. Then they diverge, and there’s no getting the moment back. But they’re fun to hold onto in memory.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/c3juw9/laundry_pickup_true_story_xpost_from