Sometimes when we’re making love on our lunch break I get on top and wait till he closes his eyes, and then I blow up a condom and burst it beside his left ear. (He’s deaf in the right one.)
We work in the second largest condom factory in the Midwest. You can smell the burning rubber in your hairy nostrils as you drive past us on the highway. If your nostrils are not hairy you can still smell it. (I think.) But our nostrils are hairy. (Mine are not that hairy but the hairs are supposed to protect you, right?)
Anyway, we do it instead of eating in the back of my Jeep. I can taste the rubber on my bottom lip and tongue after I pump air into the latex like an enormous balloon as he grunts to the latest Lady Gaga track. His unkempt eyelashes flicker as if he were dreaming. I can see his eyeballs bouncing back and forth like a pendulum. Unfortunately my Jeep has no heat, so during winter we have to wear our mittens and hats.
We do it in my car because he lost his to the economy. Now we live thriftily: listening to tractor trailers whiz by on the Interstate. Sometimes we hear a train whistle. That’s usually when I burst the condom. But for those fifteen minutes in my car we become the Holy Grail of existence as our locomotive friction heats that factory and we float through a black hole. I usually park in the back corner of the lot behind a dumpster so nobody notices us shaking.
Next time you drive by (if ever you do, you’ll know by the sadistic aroma of rubber) you might inadvertently place your palm against the window. If you open it up just a crack and listen closely for a moment, you might hear the madness of two naked (or ski-bundled) bodies gasping for air. You can almost swallow our energy. Suck it up in a vacuum and store it in the back of your car.
published 5 January 2011