Track Meet in Purgatory Ch. 02

I could see where this was going. Or, rather, I could see where I was going! I was going to a drugstore! I wasn't thrilled at the idea of marching into a drugstore, finding the condoms, putting some on the checkout counter so that everyone would see that I was buying rubbers, and then paying for them while the world watched. "Umm…" I mumbled. And then, knowing that this was my job, I gulped audibly before continuing, half-heartedly, "I'll get us some."

"It's not so bad,' she said, picking up on my discomfort. "Girls have to buy personal things like that all the time. You know, girl stuff like Tampax. I think you'll survive." She squeezed me, raised her head from where it lay on my shoulder, and kissed me. "You know," she went on, "there's always abstinence. That would work, too!"

I squeezed her back. "Is that the way you want to go?" I asked. I think it was clear from my intonation that it wasn't the way I wanted to go.

She grinned at me. "No more than you do, Nerd!" she answered me, with another squeeze and a lengthy kiss.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was cleaning day for Lynne's house. Our mothers both had the same cleaning lady, named "Gert." We all called her "Dirty Gerty" among ourselves because she was a grumpy, disagreeable older woman who made it clear that she hated children and teenagers. But she was a very good cleaning lady. She cleaned Lynne's house on Tuesday afternoons and mine on Wednesday afternoons. So, to give her room to work and to preserve our sanity, Lynne and I gave up the right to hang out in her house on Tuesdays; and on Wednesday afternoons, we stayed out of my house. Naturally, we resented those galling impositions almost as much as we hated her attitude toward us. The crowning indignity was that our moms had told us, in no uncertain terms, that if Dirty Gerty were to quit because of something either of us did, we would find ourselves doing the house-cleaning!

That Tuesday, in defiance of the impending banishment, we asserted our ownership by having lunch at Lynne's before Dirty Gertie arrived. After lunch we moved back to my house. After half an hour or so, I left Lynne there and walked, glumly and nervously, to the Rite-Aid drugstore on Colfax Avenue a few blocks from home. The closer I got the more glum, not to mention the more nervous!

I arrived and walked right past the store, trying to pretend that it wasn't the reason I was in that neighborhood. An intelligent man always makes an adequate reconnaissance, I assured myself, before undertaking a mission into enemy territory. When I got to the end of the block, I turned around and strolled past the store again in the other direction. Gotta be thorough about reconnaissance! And, reaching the other end of the block, I turned around again and moseyed back! And so on, for several iterations. Mighta missed something the first few times past!

Eventually, I worked up the courage to enter the establishment. Glancing about me, I saw that three or four folks were lined up at the only checkout counter in operation. The clerk at the cash register was a woman. A young woman! A good-looking young woman! A cute, sexy, good-looking young woman!

As a general rule, I liked dealing with sexy young women, though I always tried to pretend disinterest because I was too self-conscious to act any other way. If I'd been planning to buy aspirin, a pair of cheap sunglasses, or something equally innocuous, I'd have been glad to see that woman there.

But this was a different story! I was here to buy condoms, and taking them to that young woman would amount to walking up to her and saying "I'm planning to get laid! A lot! So I need these to put on my dick!" Or, maybe, to announcing that I had some execrable perversion in mind! (A perversion so despicable, in fact, that I couldn't even imagine what it might be!) At any rate, I was sure that placing condoms on the counter in front of her would make her think about my dick! (Awkward!) And she would certainly guess that I was thinking about her pussy! (More awkward! I would be!) She might even believe that I was thinking about putting my dick into her pussy! (Very awkward! I would be thinking about that, too!)

Slightly panicked, I looked around the store and tried to assume the manner of someone who's forgotten something. Muttering (a little too loudly) a remark or two about leaving my wallet at home, I turned around and walked back out of the store.

Not knowing what else to do, I walked several blocks east on Colfax, turned around, and walked back. That should give them enough time to put a different clerk behind the register, I thought, irrationally. It didn't occur to me that a different clerk might also be a woman. Or that the store might not rotate cash-register duty every ten minutes. Screwing up my courage again, I re-entered the building.

The same person was still at the register. She was still a woman, still young, still sexy, although the line now comprised different people. Shit! I said to myself. A customer who had just completed a transaction turned to leave; the clerk looked directly at me and smiled. I returned what must have been a sickly excuse for a smile before she turned to the next person in line. Damn! I continued to myself. She's noticed me! Now she knows I'm here! I was desperate, but, try as I might, I couldn't think of a plausible reason why a person might leave the store a second time and return. I guessed I was stuck in the store, now.

Trying to pretend that I wasn't there at all, or, at least, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I walked past the counter and into the aisles of shelving, upon which were displayed various goods. Among those goods, I expected I would find condoms. As I moved, the store's public address system squawked. Convinced that I'd been detected and that someone was going to say something about my mission, I jumped about a foot into the air. But it was nothing to do with me: A woman's voice said "Anita, dry clean-up in Aisle Four. Anita, dry clean-up in Aisle Four," and the system lapsed into silence. I knew that had nothing to do with me, because I hadn't been in Aisle Four.

Although I'd been in the store several times in the past, I didn't know it very well, so, beginning with Aisle One, I slouched up and down the aisles, looking, looking, looking, moving only my eyes, trying not to move my head from side to side. If I just look like I know what I'm after and where I'm going, I thought, everything will be okay…

A minute or two later, in Aisle Four, I encountered another store clerk. I was looking for a product to put on my cock, so it was another woman. Naturally. She wore a name tag that read "Anita W" on her Rite-Aid smock and she wielded a broom, a dustpan, and a wastebasket as she removed shards of a broken bottle, and the tan powder that had once been in the bottle, from the floor. Anita was middle-aged, and therefore (as far as I was concerned) unattractive and ineligible. And she reminded me of my mother! That was wrong—so wrong!—at this point in my life and for what I needed.

"Good afternoon, sir," she said with a smile. "Are you finding what you need?"

I wasn't, but I wasn't about to tell her that! If I did, she would ask what I was looking for, and then, when I left, two women—she and the check-out woman—would know what I had come for. They would talk about that with each other. And, of course, why. Not to mention what part of me I planned to put them on, and what part of a girl I hoped to use them in. There was no doubt in mind about those things. They would laugh together at the nerdy stripling and his naïve presumption that some girl, somewhere, would do That with him. And do it not just once, but multiple times!

It didn't help that one of those women reminded me of my mother.

"Yes!" I mumbled in answer to her question.

Well, actually, I squeaked the word. And then, trying to act as though I'd just unexpectedly found a frog (a bullfrog!) in my throat, I coughed and repeated the word in the deepest, most masculine tones I could muster. I continued on past her, kept looking.

I was pale, now, and sweating, in spite of the air conditioning that kept the store cool. Nerd that I was, and because of the interests of my girlfriend (My girlfriend! I had a real, honest-to-goodness girlfriend! And she was the reason I was here—the only thing that could make this search worth the trouble!) I even knew the word for that condition. I'm in diaphoresis! I thought to myself as I kept searching.

I went through the whole store without finding any condoms.

This was serious! Surely, I wasn't going to have to ask for condoms at the checkout counter! In a store that seemed to have only female employees! Asking for something in a store is a lot like stopping to ask directions; it's unmanly. And, because of what I wanted and the people who worked here, this would be even worse than unmanly; it would be genuinely humiliating. I didn't know if I had the courage to do it! So I reversed course and slunk back along the path I'd already covered, trying to look even more carefully—and even more unobtrusively.

I was back in the Aisle Four on that second trip through the store when I encountered Anita again, finishing her clean-up and picking up her wastebasket. "Are you sure I can't help you, sir?" she asked.

"Uhh… No!" I said, managing not to squeak this time. "I'm doing fine." Accepting my refusal of her offer at face value, she disappeared into the depths of the store with her broom, dustpan, and wastebasket. But, I noticed, the air in the store seemed mighty thin, even for the Mile-High City. I was decidedly short of breath. I knew the name for that condition, too, except that my brain wasn't getting enough oxygen to remember it. But I knew for sure that the air was thin: A normal level of oxygen would have made my ears burst into flame by now.

I was halfway back through Aisle Two when the store's public address system emitted another squawk. I jumped again, a little higher than the first time. Anita's amplified voice announced, "Customer needs assistance with picnic supplies. Customer needs assistance with picnic supplies." That didn't have anything to do with me: I didn't want assistance, and I wasn't looking for picnic supplies. I kept looking.

Soon, I reached the end of Aisle One, completing my second tour of the store without success. I wasn't ready to admit defeat, principally because I wasn't ready for the consequences. So I turned around and began a third pass through the shelves, moving, this time, in my original direction.

I was skulking around the corner from Aisle Three to Aisle Four when I encountered a man of about Anita's age coming forward from the rear of the store. He was wearing a Rite-Aid name tag that read "Phillip H, RPh" on a pharmacist's white jacket. "Good afternoon, sir," he said quietly and politely. He continued in the same tone, "The condoms are at the other end of Aisle Six. They're right next to the personal lubricants. I recommend that you purchase a lubricant at the same time. Most men find that they obtain the best results by using a little bit of lubricant inside their condoms. If you'll step this way, please…"

He turned around and headed for Aisle Six. I nearly fainted at this unexpected discovery of my purpose. But I recovered myself without collapsing, or otherwise making a scene. Meekly, I followed him, grateful for his discretion in approaching me in a confidential way. I pondered the hint about the lubricant. They hadn't mentioned that in sex ed, but it made perfect sense. I wondered how he'd figured out what I was there for.

When we arrived, he pointed out the region on the shelves where the condoms were stocked. I don't know how I'd missed them (Twice!) unless it was because I had expected to see them marketed individually, in the familiar little tinfoil packets I'd seen guys displaying as badges of their alleged masculinity. These were in boxes of one dozen, two dozen, or five dozen.

I looked over the display, awed by the amount of safe sex its contents would support. Evidently, a lot of people indulged in the activity that Lynne and I had just discovered! And there was a lot of variety, but Trojan was a brandname I recognized. A box of a dozen would be, I thought, plenty for eight or nine days. Then, being hopeful, libidinous, and—most importantly—an optimist, I decided that two dozen would be better. If I got that many, I thought, I might not have to repeat this exercise any time soon. Before Phillip returned to his pharmacy enclosure, he asked, "Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?"

"No," I said. "Thank you."

He turned to leave, saying, as he did so, "If you'll just bring your selection to the pharmacy counter, I can ring you up at the register there."

Two minutes later, I was at his counter with a box of two dozen Trojans and a tube of "K-Y Warming Jelly Personal Lubricant." As I paid, my curiosity temporarily overcame my embarrassment, and I asked, "How did you…" Embarrassment reasserted itself,and I had to let the question trail off.

"How did I know what you were looking for?" he asked with a smile. And then he answered himself: "You're not the first nervous young man to be embarrassed at making a purchase of this kind, you know. It happens often enough that we call it the 'picnic supplies' problem."

A minute after that, I was back out of the store with my purchases safely concealed in a Rite-Aid sack. My equilibrium was almost intact.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Lynne was waiting for me in my living room—right where I'd left her—when I got back. "Did you get what you went for? You don't seem to have any visible injuries," she said with a dirty smile.

I smiled back at her, just as dirtily. "The injuries are all psychic. They're internal and invisible," I replied. "I'll need years of therapy to recover. But, yes. I got us a couple of dozen condoms and some lubricant to use with them."

She stepped up close and put her arms around my neck; her soft femininity pressed against me. My cock responded. I put my own arms around her as she said, "Appropriate therapy, administered as soon as possible, should heal those injuries quickly. But I might go ahead and administer 'years of therapy' anyway!" And she reached for a kiss.

It turned into a deep, lengthy kiss, and when it was over, I was fully hard. She looked up at me from within my embrace and I replied happily, "Good therapy might help, at that! And you're just the therapist I need!"

Still smiling dirtily, she asked, "Did you get the right size?" And then she went on before I could reply, "Maybe we should try one of them on you. We want to be sure that they'll fit when we need them!"

"Umm… I think there's only one size," I answered. "So I think they'll fit."

"We'd better be sure," she allowed. "We wouldn't want to find out at the wrong moment that they don't!" Her smile was a little dirtier.

"Why do I get the impression," I asked, "that you're just looking for an excuse to play with my dick?"

An expression of wide-eyed innocence appeared on her face. "Why, Jase! I'm surprised that you would think something like that of me! I'm just looking out for our best interests!" But her hands had gone to my belt buckle; she undid it as she spoke.

"I shouldn't doubt you! I don't know what came over me," I replied, as she unbuttoned my jeans and pulled the zipper down. "We'd be very disappointed if we found that they don't fit just as we were—" Powerful sensations interrupted me; she had pulled my rod out of my pants, wrapped a hand around it, and started to stroke. My hips rocked in response and I moaned.

She stopped after a moment or two, so that she could look into the Rite-Aid sack. I regained enough of my composure to speak: "Let's…" I began. Taking her by the elbow and directing her toward the stairs, I trailed off.

"…head for your room," she finished for me. And, sack still in her hands, she led the way to the stairs and started up. I followed, my boner projecting proudly from my jeans.

We were only about halfway up, and she was still leading the way, when her ass, swaying now in front of my face, gave me an idea. She had lean thighs, runner's thighs, and there was a gap between them. Through that gap, beyond that hypnotizing ass, I could see the shape of her mound as it, too, wiggled its way up the stairs. Saying, "If you're going to play with my dick, it's only fair that I…" And I slid a hand between her thighs, to cup her pussy.

She stopped in her tracks, and, as I stopped behind her, she wiggled herself more firmly into my hand. I rocked my hand against her; she rocked her hips in reply. "It's only fair," she whispered, as though something preoccupied her. She paused; wiggled again. "Only fair!" she murmured again, barely audibly.

After a few moments, she moaned, and began to move up the stairs again, slowly. She said, "If you don't stop that, we'll never get upstairs to find out if the condoms fit!" She moaned again and tried to wiggle herself even deeper into my grasp as I continued to move my hand against her. She seemed to enjoy what I was doing at least as much as I did.

I reached around with my other hand and found her belt buckle. One-handed, I unfastened it, undid the waist button, and pulled her zipper down. "Do we need to get to my room?" I asked, a bit short of breath. "Really?"

"I guess not!" she answered, almost as breathlessly. "But let's get to the top of the stairs so we don't go tumbling down!"

Moving seemed to require her to concentrate intensely, but she managed to climb the remaining distance, and I climbed along behind, maintaining my grasp on her. In spite of the way my hand pressed against her mound, her jeans had begun to slide down over her hips as she climbed. My own jeans had already sunk to mid-thigh, and it was something of an effort, distracted as I was and with one hand occupied, to keep them from sliding all the way down and tripping me.

When she reached the top, I moved my hands to her waistband. Grasping both her jeans and her panties, I tugged downward; both slid down easily. She stepped out of them, pulling her shoes off as she did so, and she turned around to face me where I stood a couple of steps below her. My boner throbbed at the sight of her naked groin.

"Why don't you sit down here at the edge of the top step, and then lie back," I suggested.

She wasted no time in lowering herself. And, once down, she lay back and spread her thighs. I sank to my knees between hers; I came to rest a step down from the top. The view I now had of her pussy mesmerized me. My cock throbbed again, and I stared.

She grinned up at me as I removed my own shoes and pants. "My pussy really does turn you on," she said, "doesn't it!" She reached for my waist.

"It sure does!" I admitted, taking my cock into my hand and directing it to the opening she was displaying in front of me. The slick wet heat of her entrance enveloped my tip, and I pushed. I slid into her, and my full length buried itself in that slick wet heat. We both moaned at the resulting sensations.

She smiled up at me from the floor and whispered, "Your dick sure turns me on! Especially when you put it in me!"

She wiggled her hips under me, and my own hips responded involuntarily with a bump. Seconds later came another bump, and another, and another, and…. Soon, we were slamming our groins against each other in abandon. All thought was gone but for the desire I felt for her culmination—and for my own.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Slowly, the tempest subsided, and I found that we were lying together, mostly on the wooden floor at the head of the stairs. I was still on top of her, my knees still on the next-to-top step, my cock still buried in her, her arms still about my waist.