I hate to admit it.

And it isn’t the first time I’ve done this either.

Driving down the freeway, on my way home to you, I am hit with a sudden urge. An overpowering and unsettling desire … no, need … that must be addressed.

I pulled over into the far right lane, slowed down to a ridiculous fifty-five miles per hour and put my car into cruise control. With one hand, I worked my belt free from my shorts, popped the button and pulled down the zipper; reached my hand down and felt the wet. Still too tight, not enough room. Lifting my bottom, I shimmied my shorts down until they were past my hip bones, but not so far that they distracted my ability to react to things on the road. Ah, there. That’s better. No need to worry about panties … who needs panties on the weekend or major national holidays?  My commando choice this morning was turning out to be strategic now that the evening was upon me.

Hand back down between my legs. Very wet now, indeed more wet than I normally am. I am a lover of Astro Glide and sometimes forget what my own juices are like as I obscure myself with the slick oil. But I have no Glide now, and I can feel that I am making a mess of myself anyway. It’s good. With my fingers I pull myself apart, and run my first two digits down in a V formation to cradle myself. I flick my hand back and forth, it’s very slick now and my fingers move back and forth, back and forth. Bringing the two fingers together and raising the rest of the fingers up in a flared pose, I press down and apply wonderful pressure and as I firmly move my whole hand in tight concentric circles I lift my hips slightly to meet this joy. My fingers are strong and straight and the muscles in my forearm are used to the extended tense application of strength and I keep a steady pressure and pace. My hips are pushing upward, and very slightly they begin to rock from side to side.

Quick glance at the clock, eyes scanning the minimal traffic. All is good. Keep going.

I keep this up for another ten minutes or so and I can feel my scalp is beginning to feel warm and soon a fine mist will begin to rise on my skin. The iPod is off now, the car is silent except for the sound of my breathing. And not breathing. And exhaling, and some small circle “o” mouth chirps of surprise. And as good as it feels, I think I’m ready for a slight change of pace. I reach into the storage bin built into my driver side door and I find what I’m looking for. It’s always here. My friend, sheathed in a powder blue plastic shell and no bigger than the length of my index finger. I pull myself apart once again and lay this pocket rocket against my skin, against my bud. With practiced one handed dexterity, I turn the mini-vibrator on.

My breath draws in sharply; it’s the same every time. A small shock to my body that something so lovely and wiggly and warm is here, loving and caressing me. No need to put the rocket in me yet; I am happy with the pressure and vibration right at the crest of my mound, squarely on my jewel, now so very ready for the sport. Push the shaft against me. Legs pull slightly wider, although it’s unnecessary, just a basic human reflex. Another fifteen minutes, the sounds I make now would be embarrassing to me if I weren’t so very much taken by the intensity of this feeling … thinking of my lover’s words while I move my hips and apply the marvelous pressure.

Small noises from me.

“Huh. Huh. Huh. Oh!”

Hold my breath. Whispered exhalations.

“AAAAA-AAAAAAHH!”

Hips move, pushing up.

“Jesus.”

Now my face begins to contort slightly, as it always does, my eyebrows knit together, my mouth slackens and an observer might think I am doing my best to endure a slow tortuous pain, which I am. My eyes cannot open more than half-way; it is impossible.

Another fifteen minutes have gone by. How is this possible?  I have flown up the freeway with no traffic and made record time getting to my small town. The connector is one mile ahead, just two miles on that road and I’m exiting and then I’m home in less time than it takes to say “No!  I’m not ready!”

I take an early exit.

There is a school district administrative building in my small town; some of the town folk have complained in council meetings that the building parking lot is not well lighted and they implore the city to put additional lamp posts there. I implore them not to.

I pull into the parking lot, drive slowly behind the building to the parking spaces which abut the big empty, dark field that houses our pumpkin festival and the county fair every year. But now it is empty and dark.

My heart is hammering now, and adrenalin makes me a little frenzied. I stop the car sharply, unbuckle the seat belt, kill the engine, turn off exterior lights and dim the instrument panel. My seat reclines fully, isn’t that wonderful?

My shorts are too big for me, that’s why I wear a belt. I don’t need to pull them down all the way, there is plenty of room for me to get both of my hands there and that’s what I do. My joy toy is now inside of me, held fast with one hand while two fingers of my other hand have assumed the position on either side of my hard, excited button. I push the device up, up, inside of me and it’s still dancing the jiggly dance while my other hand moves in a blur, back and forth against me. Now I can simply tap the vibrator in rhythm with the wonderful things happening elsewhere, and I am free to close my eyes fully and open my mouth and let all of the wonderful noises out.

“OH!”

“AH!  AH!  AAAHHHH.....”

“Whoo, whoo, whoo.”

“Aaaahhhh, no!  God!  No!”

I am close, so close. I know when I am there, and I know I want vigorous and hard and slamming and rocking. I move my hand from my bud to the little tool, and the hand on the vibrator grabs the handle at the top of my window. My hips are completely off the seat now, and they are thrusting so hard, my thighs hit the steering wheel with each upward shock. I use the handle to hold myself up, and I can feel the muscles in my arm getting warm with the work. I slam into me, over and over and over and it’s crazy how hard I’m slamming and how good it feels.

My face is buried in my arm, the arm holding the handle. I can feel the moisture on my forehead, can feel it sliding against the bare skin on my forearm. Tears have sprung to my eyes and I’m grunting softly as my hips and hand and vibrator part from each other, slam again, part from each other. I can’t take it, I’m sure I’m going to explode and tomorrow morning there will be a report in the local paper about the poor woman who expired in her Toyota with her shorts half-way down her thighs and a beatific smile on her face. The pace maintains; I feel like my arm is going to explode with holding up my weight and the muscles in my neck are taut and my face grimaces and noises are coming from me.

And then.

Then.

KABLAMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!

“Jesus!”

“Fuck me!!  Fuuuck me!”

“Oh god!  It’s good!  Oh god! Oh GOD!”