Concerning lockdown-loneliness; the guy downstairs; the pros & cons of living alone; the pros & cons of living with parents; bellow-inducing orgasms; my friend; a long, long drive, tingling & wet; tea & toast; a bath & a girl in the mirror.
The last lockdown was tough. I live alone in a small apartment in the city, whilst my parents live in the highlands. I wasn’t able to meet them, nor my friends. My job at the theatre was put on hold. I started to go absolutely stir-crazy. I began to spend some time with the guy who lives on the ground floor of my apartment – this wasn’t strictly allowed during the lockdown, but we were both lonely – and he’s just about kept me sane over the last few months.
He’s almost ten years older than me, an absolute sci-fi TV geek, 80’s rock music fanatic, and a brilliant cook. Like me, he loves creative writing, and he sometimes reads me his stories (such as the goddess who is stuck inside the body of a child who drives an enormous motorhome through the deserts and is told fairy tales by a moth who lives in a jam-jar) or we watch Netflix (Umbrella Academy is brilliant!) and he usually cooks me something scrumptious. We would usually fall asleep on the sofa, leaning-against-but-not-quite-cuddling one another. It got to the stage I was comfortable enough to nip down to his apartment in a thin nightdress or pyjamas; during the summer when it was very, very hot, he’d sometimes strip down to his shorts; and we’d flirt a little, but it would never go further than that. And at the end of the evening, or in the early hours of the morning, I’d climb the stairs to my flat on the top floor and take off my pyjamas and lay in bed and hump my hand or a pillow until I was ready to sleep.
As winter approaches, along with the second Covid wave, further lockdowns have been implemented across the country. I worried that I’d be stuck in Edinburgh and wouldn’t get to see my folks over Christmas, so yesterday my Da drove down and picked me up and took me back to their house where I will be living for the next month or so. With it comes its pros and cons: I get to be looked after like a little girl; I get to bake cakes and bread with my Ma, and watch awful old action movies with my Da; I get my old bedroom and en-suite bathroom back (which is almost as big as my entire apartment in the city!). But the internet is patchy and there’s less privacy for self-pleasure.
Having gotten used to living alone, I’ve never had to be quiet as I reach orgasm. I can whine and squeal and grunt to my heart’s content (or, more accurately, to my clit’s content). What’s more, with nothing else to do, I was enjoying my Covid-O at least three or four times a day. Now I’m back in my parents’ house, I don’t have the luxury of simply pulling aside my underwear whilst I’m sprawled on the sofa, or idly fingering myself in the kitchen whilst I’m waiting for the kettle to boil. What’s more, when I do get the opportunity (in the bath, or late at night when my parents are asleep) I have to lower the volume, so to speak. I can’t believe how much I miss bellowing when I come!
Over the last week, I’ve started chatting online to a girl I met here on Solotouch. She’s pretty and funny and open. Although I enjoy masturbation, I’ve only had a couple of serious relationships so I’m enjoying the opportunity to be so open and honest with someone. There is a genuine thrill of sharing intimate secrets with someone that I don’t know in the real world. She tells me about how she likes to touch herself, her relationships with other girls and boys, the sort of porn she enjoys… She tells me her kinks, and I get to share mine. In some cases they are so similar; such as watching myself masturbate before a mirror, peeling my lips apart and teasing my clit, as if performing before an audience on the other side of the glass.
My apartment block doesn’t have a lift, so yesterday morning, whilst helping my Da take all my bags down the stairs (well, actually, watching my Da take all my bags down the stairs) I checked my emails on my phone, and I saw a message from my new friend. I didn’t have time to read it right then, not with my Da huffing and puffing as he manhandled my case down three flights of steps. My Da packed everything in the car, and I said goodbye to my flat – only a temporary goodbye, I’ll be back after Christmas! – and my Da started the long drive to their home in the highlands.
It was early, and my Da knew I was still sleepy, so he didn’t bombard me with conversation. He let me snooze. But I wasn’t snoozing; I was wide awake, thinking about the email from my friend. What had she written, I wondered? I wanted to read it, but I stopped myself for a couple of reasons: first, it would have been rude to read my mail when I hadn’t even had a proper conversation with my Da that morning; and second, what if my friend had written anything erotic, or sent an intimate picture, something that would make me tingly and wet? How could I cope with that, sat beside my father in the car, unable to touch myself?
Instead of reading the email, I kept my eyes closed as though I was sleeping, and I imagined what my friend might have written. I imagined her describing her breasts to me, and how sensitive her nipples are. (And at the thought of that, my nipples started to swell; I could feel them, pressing against the cool fabric of my bra.) I imagined her describing how she undresses and walks naked from room to room in her house, teasing herself, edging to make the pleasure last. I imagine her standing at the living room window, naked, watching passers-by outside going about their hectic lives; relaxed and calm, she slowly slips her fingers between the folds of her labia, lubricating her lips and savouring this most basic pleasure.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, pressing my legs together. Had I been alone in my flat, I’d have savoured the tingling warmth in my crotch, but it wasn’t welcome now, not whilst I was sat beside my father in the car. He noticed me squirming and said, “You cold, hen? You want me to turn the heating up?” And I mumbled, mock-sleepily, “No, Da, I’m okay.”
But I wasn’t okay. The warm tingling continued, and I imagined my friend again, by her window, looking out. And I am on the other side, looking in. She leans forward, pressing her breasts against the cold glass. I reach up and touch one nipple, then the other. We’re separated by oceans, and we’re separated by just a few millimetres of cold glass. Her nipples, squashed against the icy, cold cold glass…
By the time we reached my parent’s village, I was in a sweaty mess. My Da thought I was coming down with a cold, and when we arrived at their house, he sent me inside to see my Ma whilst he brought the luggage in. My Ma made me hot, sweet tea, and toasted me freshly baked bread, and I sat demurely at the breakfast bar in their light country kitchen, with my legs crossed, trying to ignore the dampness in my underwear. I assured my parents I was feeling well – “I slept so deeply in the car, I felt groggy when I woke up, but I’m fine now” – and we baked cakes and drank more tea and spoke about everything and nothing, and I felt like a little girl again. Or I would have, if it wasn’t for the relentless, tingling warmth, a feeling that I know would not abate until I’d dealt with it.
After lunch, I excused myself and ran a hot bath. Locked safely in the bathroom, free from interruption, I slowly undressed. Later, relaxing amongst the bubbles, I would read my friend’s email and I would look at her pictures whilst I caressed myself and brought myself to a lip-biting, whimper-stifling climax. But before that, I look at myself in the bathroom mirror: the steam from the bath is condensing on the glass, so I wipe it clear, reach up on tip-toes, and press my small breasts against the mirror; and I picture my friend on the other side, standing at her window, pressing herself to me.
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