Gay Covid Sex During The Lunch Hour Special

By

Kyngtrampstamp

WC:6000, or 35 minute read.

“Gwowck. Gwhoack. Gwo-eck,” He gags. Chubby face. Spittle running over his chin. I watch him rock back and forth on all fours. Anchoring with his lips. Pulling to drain. Then stabbing his tonsils back on the guys hard end. Towel around his bubbly waste. Rocking on his hands and knees. Ass curved upwards. He continues stabbing his head onto a handsome random’s stiff-end like a watermelon forcing itself to audition for a scene on some “broletusho.com”or “Let’sblowBrandon.com” gay porn website.

I lean against the wall. Watching. I’m watching some other gay dude gag on a very attractive deep-throat. I’m watching him slam his face into the other guy’s lap. My arms are crossed. I have my mask and vape in hand. I drag another puff in the shadows of the bathhouse.

The guy melon-poking the bottom’s mouth exhales deeply, and slowly, and poke, poke, poke, trying to poke that face up, whilst his checkered mask dangles alongside the outline of his jaw. The pale neon hall lights, hidden above a blanket of painted black cheesecloth, softly outlines every lean muscle on his chest. Pecs. His flexed stomach. Glistening. His glowing white towel hanging just to the side of his cock. Draping his thigh.

I exhale through pursed lips, pause, then tuck my weed vape into the waist of my sauna towel. I watch the vapour reach towards his legs that also have every muscle fibre showing. The smoke, however, lifts before it touches them. I sigh.

The man on the chair looks down to who is blowing him and says, “Hey, wanna kiss?” — poke. poke-poke — . The blowjobber aggressively shakes his head with his mouth full of dick. I silently laugh.The poking continues. It’s 12:00 at noon. Wednesday. “Gweck- Gweck. Slurp”. Where, usually, the only thing to sit on at this time of day is the office chair that the more than handsome man is currently being blown on.

The office chair in use — creak-creak-creak — had clearly been rolling around its lonesome earlier that day. Either waiting to be found. Or used. Or pushed around. Or left alone. Or, found alone rolling around the “free internet” computers. Where one computer had the word “the” vandalized in between the two words “free” and “internet”. No credit needed.

Other times the chair could be found alone in the swing room, literally swinging, or at the lockers by the checkout counter, checking for new arrivals, but never, and I mean never, would the chair ever allow itself to be found in that creepy, stained, black and white tiled bath house bathroom. The chair always just left, even if to pee, instead of catching rust from the bathroom’s constantly puddled floor.

Often times, though, the chair would find itself alone in the hall of glory holes; A long hall with holes at random heights with access to either side, either through other halls, or rented rooms. Sometimes, By itself, in the glory hole hall, the chair would spin here and there, peaking into this glory hole and that glory hole, curtly yelling “helooooo” into them despite being alone at the bathhouse.

One time the chair was not alone. It got a response. Sort of. It went to greet into one of the holes, but stopped just as its lips began to form “heloooo”. Into the glory hole it peered. Mouth opened. In the distance, a toothy grin shone back. A glowing toothy grin atop a shaded silhouette. A kinda goofy, toothy grin that didn’t move.The chair sat watching for a moment, thinking it might be someone, so it said “hey!”. The toothy grin stood frozen. The chair leaned back. Then leaned in further through the glory hole. The toothy grin cocked its smile to the side, in response. This freaked the chair out. It jumped back. Letting out a loud creak. Embarrassed, and scared, the chair sped away.

It didn’t slow down till it realized it was in the canteen hall. Slowing down it rolled past the soda/dildo/giftcard vending machine, then stopped to catch its breath in front of the chocolate bar machine. Looking through its reflection in the plexi-glass it saw a Butter-Nutter Cup hanging by its fold on the tip of the push coil. The chair saw that the chocolate Butter-Nutter Cup was concluding that no one wanted it: its sugars cause dick cheese, its milk ingredients make for a sour kiss, and the meth, no one here wants to eat because of all the meth, or coke, or whose ever fentanyl that is — probably China’s — . Worst of all, the Nutter-Butter Cup appeared to realize that it’s dated.

So, as the chair watches, the Nutter-Butter Cup decides to give up, and jumps, obviously expired. Unable to outshine the allure of $1.25 bumps done on the back of pen caps. It falls to its end. Thunk. The chair blinks. It watches the bar slowly slide through that hand blocking mechanism that a meth addict will regularly get itself caught up in. The chair gives a moment of respect for the chocolate bar’s last moments. Then, the chair pivots, and rolls on. Leaving the chocolate bar for someone in need. Canteen hall behind it the chair now comes to the dimly lit hall. It turns to face down its length, but it does not roll down this hall. Ever.

It’s the hall that isn’t lit. At the end of the hall is a door ill fitted for its frame. It’s the bathroom door. The door rests at an angle. Stainless steel hinges loosely holding it in place. Light pushes out the angular slits surrounding the edge of the door. Sometimes shadows creep out from under the door. Darting across the frame. Back and forth.

Once, the chair saw into the bathroom when the door was left open. The chair saw that it had two toilets, and one stall wall. And, yes, with a glory hole in that stall’s wall. Me go poo while blowjob for you convenience style of bathroom. Lazy, gross lust complete with a black and white tiled floor whose uneven plane puddled the tiled floor.

The puddles on the floor reflected the exposed florescent office lights above. Long bland office lights meant for chairs to be officed under. Or, in this case, lusted under. Or, for whatever case a typical chair finds itself under. Which many office chairs have no problem being. Which is ok.

This office chair, however, never goes in that direction. It hates that light. It just stares from the other end of the hall. Watching. Waiting. Definitely looking. Definitely not wanting to be stuck under those lights. Worrying that office lights are its only outcome. It’s only ending. Staring down at that bathroom, not sure where to look to next besides this last door, the chair freezes as a strong hand — wedded, holding a checkered mask — Firmly grasps and pulls it back. Away from the light. Back past the expired Nutter-Butter Cup. Once again through the empty glory hole hall, and taking it back to the dark corner under the neon soft light covered by the painted black-leather cheese cloth. Where the chair gets used, sat on, by the lean handsome guy receiving the gwocky beej. His towel has now fallen off of his thigh. Pooling on the floor. The office chair wipes its wheels on it. Rocking back and forth. Just in case.

As I watch blow job in front of me, the bathhouse’s official attendant approaches from down the hall. A body by pilates — or, meth— figure defining in and out under the neon lights that are spaced at a social distance. He comes towards us in a patrol like manner, observing what is before him. He spots up the man on the office chair getting the blowjob, mask dangling, steady breathing as he holds the head of the guy kneeling at his legs. The attendant smiles under his bejewelled mask, his eyes dart quickly at the guy sucking dick before he turns away. I watch the attendant dreamily brush three fingers across his temple. For a moment he seems he might continue on. Then, his hand halts at his ear. He freezes. He sniffs deeply, stiffens, and glares, and turns swiftly. Laser eyes coming at me. No longer looking dreamily. His mask points into the shadows. Where I’m kinda in sight. I lean back against the wall. Hiding under the low lit corner just out of reach of the dull lights contact. Oh shit. Face mask in my fist. I hope my beard deceives him. I suck in my lips.

“mask on, now!” he snaps his fingers up at me, “Now!” he power snaps. Boom.

I raise the mask to my mouth as I lean foreward into the soft light, reining it at the side of my face. Pretending to loop my ears up.The attendant tilts his face up. Waits a moment while leering down at me. — My hands slowly rotating at the side of my face— . Then marches off. Satisfied with his rule. Looking somewhat Unsatisfied with the Gwocky action he was required — workplace ethics — to leave behind.

The gwocking, and poking, continues for a few more moments when the office chair man pops the bottom’s lips off the head of his cock, — phawp — , to turn the face up towards him. He says, “I don’t wanna knock all day. Wanna make out?” His eyebrows bounce. A challenge to come hither.

I laugh. He tilts the melon head in his hands up towards his face. Or, he at least tries. Their is an awkward stall. The head pulls back and squishes in between the pair of hands and tries to turn a frowning, smushed head- shake away. The office chair man leers at him patiently, hands bracing, looking at the squished face he is holding in place. The bottom freezes in that awkward , smushed face no, and says, through pressed cheeks, “Kissing causes Covid.”

They both pause. One wanting to move foreward, one wanting to move back.

The bottom, unable to push his face back down, breaks the awkward by quickly pushing his way up. He stands momentarily over the lean swimmer thighs before covering his bare mouth with the tips of his fingers. He looks back and forth, then down at the floor, eyes widen. He quickly bends to grab his mask. Snaps back up. Then quickly masking he then daintily tries to lift a dimpled leg over the seated thigh. But his skirt like towel catches on the seated knee. As he tries to push his leg over he simultaneously reaches under his mask, and spits into his fist. He grabs the office chair man’s cock with the spittled hand. Polishing the grip while still trying to push his leg over the knee. Trying to land a straddle he wobbles forward. He braces his free hand on the chair’s arms. His eyes look stuck. The handsome man doesn’t help, doesn’t relax his knee. The chubby bottom looks at his spittled hand polishing grip. His cheeks shake. The handsome office chair man shakes his head.

“Tops are supposed to be on pre-p.” The bottom flutters his eyes.

“You won’t even kiss me.”

The bottom responds by dropping his face. The energy shifts. Eyes coagulate with shame. He puts his leg back to the ground. He looks around him and sees me leaning against the wall. He focuses. He looks down at the erection he was just polishing. Removing his mask, he flings it down beside him. He falls back onto his knees. An angry mouth. Eyes squeezed shut. The melon head stabs itself back onto the hot man’s cock. Gwock, gwock, gwock. Refusing to leave the audition. The chair goes silent. The man on the chair holds his hands up. No more creak-creak-creak in the gwocky off beat.

Now, it’s just the lone sound of one man gwocking. Cock sucking. Trying to keep his place on the lap. Not wanting to lose. Wanting to take just a bit more. Not wanting to feel. Sucking to claim. He chokes on it harder. Louder. Stabbing those awkward sobs tying to escape.

The lone cry of “gwock-gwock-ghwoahhahhah” echoes down the halls, sounding by the swinging meth-head trapping mechanism of the chocolate bar machine, and past the holes in the walls, the sound ricochets down the unlit hall, and stirs someone waiting in the silent bathroom. Bland neon light seeps around the bathroom door with the stainless steel hinges. A shadow stirs.

The toilet flushes. It’s a sunny winter wednesday at noon. Someone is sitting naked on one of those two toilets. Someone sweating behind a wet covid mask. That someone standing. The sound of sandals stepping on black and white bathroom tiles. Stained.The sound of grips being smothered into the cool, wet, puddled floor. The lose metal hinges on the bathroom door give a single, long, deep REEEEEEEEK. I think of a bull pen opening for a ride.

I hear heavy man feet coming down the hall. Heavy legs stepping towards us. I hear heavy breath through a wet, thick mask. The guy on all fours doesn’t stop his gwock. It excites at what is approaching. It picks up pace. The man on all fours gags even harder as saliva runs down the shaft of the office chair man who is clearly trying to throw in his towel. His towel that is stuck under the wheels of his chair. The chair that is trying to keep it’s wheels clean.

The gwocking slows as the larger, huger, wet muscle bull approaches bullnaked from behind. Looming. He stops. Towering over the bottom on all fours. He looks down, ignoring the man on the chair. He leans his huge chest over and grabs a towelled ass cheek with one hand. No hello. A hard squeeze— “put your fucking mask on, piggy” — . No turn of a face.The man on all fours starts to whimper — deliverance — as the cock slips out of his mouth. A strand of clear mucous spittle holds on for as long as it stretches. Mask goes on over sniffles. A heavy hand reaches down the length of the towel and shoves its fingers up it, OLE, towel peels away to reveal the chubby, quivering, begging dimples beneath.

The skinny bottom “OOHHH”s. His forehead goes to the ground. Raw dog pose. The shifting of heavy legs bracing from behind, squatting low to the floor. The faint, covered neon light highlights the newly arrived mask: Skeletal jaw print. A somewhat toothy, wide open smile.

The newly arrived slaps his big and huge sounding meat can thick against the top of the bottom man’s anus, thwap — thwop. The noise stops. Then, I hear one spit aiming. I hear one splat land. No wrapper crinkles. It’s just two raw dogs with no compromise. It’s Wednesday afternoon. February. I hear the club music off in its distance. I go to pull my vape out from the fold in my towel. Instead, the guy on the office chair ejects from the threesome.

He rolls across my focus. Towel dragging at his feet. My hands go back to covering my chest. I’m the only other person here. He whips the towel up off the ground. He stands up. All of him now standing, he wipes the spittle off his balls. His towel slips back to the floor. It lands at his bulbous man feet. I admire his appeal. Flashy lean. Possibly straight. Kinda. Or, whatever it means these days for a man like him to be wearing a wedding ring here. Anyhow, I cower back into the shadows, feeling my arms over my chest. He rubs his palm across his perfect chest. Looks at me. Is he trying to make me feel fat? It doesn’t stop me from eyeing him. Or, pretending not to.

He says to me, “ Faggot,” with obvious aire, “Wanna finish me off?’ His eyebrows bounce. I pause. I want to look away. My back’s to the wall. I’m pressed.

“Brave words”, I stammer. Then laugh. Stupidly. I look to the side. I keep my arms covering. He flexes. My eyes come back. Damnit. His eyebrows bounce again. I’m cornered by his attention. He sees what I’m feeling. I hold myself tighter. His arms open at his side.

He says, “I’m fine with this.” I nod which I did not expect.

“Wanna come closer?” I step away from myself, avoiding the awkward hesitations I had witnessed before. My eyes are wide open as I’m pulled in. Inside I’m screaming. Outside my arms are still crossed, moving in. Not actually hiding anything. I come to a stand in front of him. My arms are tight. Up close he looks older but also looks really good for how old I think he is. Which makes me question if he is just really confident. And younger. But he is not.

I’m standing up against him. He steps in a few inches. Rises up on his toes “See, I’ve got something too.” I feel my forearms against his rising chest. I feel his nipple rubbing my wrist. He smiles. Eye brows bounce. I breath out. He inhales. Catches my breath. Grabs my wrists. Yanks my arms down “There, hard part’s over”.

His hips push up to mine, “Now, you won’t put your arms back up when I let go, will you?” I shake my head. He lets go. My eyes open wider as our shafts push into each other. I feel our cocks exchanging pulses.

He pulls me in a bit tighter, hands slide up my back. Face to face. Our hardening hard-ons in close contact. Hard pressing silk over steel. Boners ready to fence. Ready to go. A tense twang of shafts in between the opening of my towel. His hips go side to side.

His hands hold my arms. We’re pistoning over back and forth. Push pumping. He looks me up and down. Humping up and down. We shift over each other. I shift up, and foreward. My nose touches down on his. I’m on my toes. Something slips. My bare ass. My towel pools behind me. My vape pen bounces. I slide down against his body. Shaft up my chest. His hands slide up my shoulders. Catching my ears. He catches my shaft in between his muscled shins. My hands direct for his hips. Thighs. On my knees. His calves pulsing, warmly crushing me in between them. His stomach chisels my face. My dick held in place. I feel a slight haunt of insecurities. My arms wrap around his waist instead.

I rub my face into his lower abdomen and inhale. His cock slices precum across my throat. I kiss the top side of his shaft, pushing against it with my lips, it presses down on my collar bone. I pump up against his shins with my hips. My hands at his waist. He smiles. I smell again. The head of his cock pulses precum against my throat. I recall being called a faggot. I say, as it’s my turn to bounce my eyebrows, “ I heard my mouth is as good as your moms.” He laughs, head tilting back. Immediately, I suck him in. “Oh,” He goes as my lips handle his veins. Sealing around his head. A pulse. Pre cum on my tongue. The feel of the taste. The smell at my nose. He thrusts in. Pulls back. Phwap. And “dirty fuck”. And kinda laughs. Back in my face again, And “Oh fuck”. Pulls out. He cowers back. Emptying my mouth. He Cums. Acidic warm. All up my face. All down my face. Through my lips. Dripping chunks that slide to my balls. Mudding my pubes. I sip pursed lips. I start to close in. He holds my wrists up. My cock is slippery wet. I pull back. Covered in cum. Pump up. Between shins. I push for more. I pull. I’m going for both back and forth at the same time. I look up. My head drips. My head is bobbing. His eyes bounce his brows up. I know what he is calling me, again. He smiles at my thoughts. For a moment we both know what each other is thinking.Then, with feeling. We’re in this together. His calves roll. My hips in. I’m done. I fill the space behind him.

A moment.

Forehead presses cum slick abs. Lips kissing the taste between my lips. Hands fall from shoulders. Hands leave thighs. I stay kneeling. He sits back on the chair, it rolls back. He pauses. So am I. He wipes his forehead with his towel. I hold my cloth mask across my face, cum absorbing, as the bath house attendant comes around again.

“Oh good,” he says, snap ready in hand, “I was, like, worried you were not taking the mask mandate seriously. We gotta do what we can to reduce the spread.”

I feel the cum on my face. It adheres the mask. I realize that the attendant is in needing of some reassurance. “Like sandals in winter,” I say, holding my hands up to the side of my chest. Mask loops dangling by my ears.

The handsome man laughs, again. The attendant turns to look at the handsome man, sees that he is not wearing his mask, realizes that I am covered in someone’s cum, turns to the maskless man again, eyes turn to lasers, fingers bitterly, weakly snap. The man in the office chair gestures with his mask and stands up, wrapping the towel around himself. The attendant speeds off. The handsome man raises his eyebrows goodbye. I wave. Once.

I remain on my knees as he walks away. I lower the tops of my feet and rest on my shins. I’m now by myself. Alone in the bathhouse on a wednesday early afternoon. Where my towel faintly glows on the ground beside me. Where I hear faint club music trying to hide in the silence. I sit for a bit. Alone for a few moments. I go over this feeling found during some mid-week mid-day during the lunch hour special. Holy fuck. I’m either high or crazy even though I know I am high. I also know that I have to pee. Badly.

I lean back and press my palms on the floor behind me. I arch my chest out instead of crossing my arms. I want to go change, and leave, but the handsome man is heading to the lockers. I want to leave it at that. I sit up and grab my vape, balling my cummy, cummy mask into my left hand.

I’m in that kneeled position for a moment, hands on my thighs, when I wonder aloud, “Where did the raw dog and Mr. no compromise go?” The club music sounds back. I inhale a drag. The office chair sits empty to the side of me. I grasp it with my hand and stand up. I really, really need to pee. Fuck it. I push off the chair. It creaks.

I walk down the hall to the gross bath house bathroom. The office lights at the end of the tunnel. My arms at my side. I hesitate. It smells. The light is on and the door is closed. I walk up and hear those two going at it. Short wet grunts. That top’s mask sounds clogged. Gross! I hear someone close to him crying a soft moan. Oooooo-ooomn mnnnnoooaaaawe! I hear a rhythm of slap-slap slap-slap-slap. Mixed pace. It almost sounds like hands slapping, or slipping, or attempting to brace on the slippery, puddled, stained checkered floor? I can’t see much through the sides of the door. It’s just noise. Shadows. A quick glimpse. I try to think of what the sound actually is but I’m left waiting for my thoughts to answer. All my thoughts can think of is that feeling of waiting for that echo to return when you drop pebbles into a dark well. A ploosh? A crack on stone? I’m hearing no echo return. I raise my vape to my lips. I step my left foot to the door.

“I can take you down there.” I hear the skeletal mask man speaking through his wet mask, “I can get you so deep that you won’t need to hear it. You’ll be it. That, they’ll hear. It can be done. Let me take you to it. It’ll bury you from the light that gives you so much heat.Then turn around. A soiled cloud to rain up. Wet masks. Wrap you in it. A cocoon to reveal in their light. Where they’re safe. Where they never were. Something to undo the world that they made too bright for you”

I see shadows moving through the spaces between the door and its frame. I could see a sliver of the stall wall where the single glory hole was drilled through. Shadows on the wall behind it looked like something, maybe chubby arms, or legs, squirming. I hear slap-slap. Sandalled feet moving back and forth on damp tiles. I think I see squirming. I think I see a heavy arm pinning, bending. The “ohmmmnoooo” moaning. Thrust kicking. The constant rhythm of heavy breath through a soaked mask that keeps frothing. He continues.

“Let me give it to you. So you can give it back to them. From you, you can rain out cocoons. Over flow the well they said you had no salvation in. They’ll all be laughing like me in the end. Like they wanted you to be. Their rock bottom. Their door for ending. You can get back at all just by getting done. Let me dump. One silky drop. It bursts. Let me push. Baby. Let it take you through. I’ll charge you with all the pleasure they said didn’t exist.”

“mmmmm. mmmmhhhhhm!” said the bottom. Through the crack in the door I could barely make out the shadow reins of his mask being pulled back by the enormous shadow of the boulder like shoulders. The bottom rears his squirming arms. The muscle-bull’s shadow reins back the squirming shape. Steadying him in place. I hear a sandal step down. Through the crack at the door I see an eye focusing on me through the single glory hole of the only stall wall.

A Heavy, dense sandalled leg steps down on the black and white tiles. A crunching squeak. The sound stops. I can see a large foot is pointing at me. Towards the door. Waiting. I feel a frothing growl radiating through the ill fitted frame.

I feel leering that I cannot see. Scanning for what could lose control. To be controlled. To give up. To give in. Trying to find that part of me, arms squriming, digging for more of the pleasure they said I shouldn’t be. Throwing mud back at their mouthes. Cracking their faces. Laughing. Falling back through the rocks. Pulling their light with me. Wanting to smear it all through oblivion.

“Then come.”

I see a huge hand coming for the door, my left hand opens. My left foot goes to lift. Splat. My cum soaked mask splats on the end of my foot, draping my toes. I stop. I stare down at it. My palm closes. My shoulders relax.

I hear him say, “Omigod. Oh… My fucking god,” snap- snap. snap,” I knew you didn’t care about the rules. Or, anyone!”

Snap.

I shake my head.

I turn around to see the attendant staring at me. He is three feet just behind me. As I am standing just at the bathroom door. I freeze. My eyes shift back to my vape pen held at the side of my face. I exhale. I try to think of a cover plan and say its just steam blowing from my mouth. Then I start coughing the smell, without a mask on. He can smell my cough and clearly can see that I am high, and holding a vape pen. No towel on either. Naked peeping through the cracks of the bathroom door. I’m clearly a perve. Who still has to go pee.

He looks me up and down, “It’s really important that you leave, now, like really important.” He tries to glare at me like I’m not wearing any clothes. Which we both know I am not. I shrug. He looks around on the floor and stares down the hall to where my towel is probably resting. He turns back and glares at me. Like I needed to be dressed. I say, “ok,” and turn to leave for my locker without any cover on. Vape pen dangling between thumb and fingers. I saunter away. The attendant follows. From behind the bathroom door I think I hear someone whimpering “Thank-you”.

As I approach my locker the office chair guy is just pulling his white shirt over his worked body. He smiles while looking down, awkwardly buttoning up his exposure. I smile at him as he closes his locker door and say to him to “have a good one”. He nods silently. I look down at my foot that has some drying cum on it.

“You soaked my mask.” I say out loud, accidentally, to the guy who laughed his freud all over my face.

“I know,” He replies, “ I’d buy you a new one but i’m only like this here.” He says “here” again as he hands me his mask in passing. He drops off his towel at the front door. As he waits for his lock deposit and ID the attendant turns a blush from his handsome, exposed smile. The attendant hands him his deposits. The office chair man walks through the door into the sunlit hall of the building. I see his shoulders descend down the steps as the entrance door to the bathhouse closes off our worlds. I sigh. Sadly satisfied. Which is real. The attendant steps out from the front counter, closing the “employees only” door behind him. He turns to see me with my mask off, leers at my nudity, and yells, throw his bejewelled mask, “I told you enough. Put it on!”.

I shrug. I put the office chair man’s mask to my face. The attendant realizes that I’m not the one who wore that mask in and cries, loudly, “No! You acted like you didn’t care about everyone!” I inhale. Shrugging. I Smile.

Ending Scene:

The handsome man walks out of the seedy downtown building into a winter plowed alley. Light blue open sky. Bright sunlight above. Cold, hard packed snow. Boots crunching their grips on the crunchy-squeaky snow. He passes a blue dumpster bin with the wheels of an office chair sticking out. He gets into his sedan. Leather seats still warm from when he left. He looks into the rearview mirror as he starts the engine. In the seat behind him is a small, plush kids doll — a plush caped superhero with a covid mask on, soft plushy fists at its sides, a red lip kiss that is half on the mask and half on the dolls face — laying on its side. He has had to accept it. The doll is behind a seatbelt. He looks behind his car as he reverses out of the parking lot.

Pre-Ending Scene: After I Put The Checkered Mask On:

I walk up to the front counter. I check my reflection in the plexi-glass. I have the checkered mask on. My nose ain’t covered. The attendant sits with his back to me. Scrolling through a music list. I set my lock and key down by the till, silently. I ring the bell. He startles. Glances over his shoulder and gets up. In his hand is a Nutter-Butter Cup. Half eaten.

As he approaches the other side of the plexi-glass he seems torn between the chocolate bar and putting on his bejewelled mask. He seems hungry and doesn’t want to let go of the bar. His eyes go wide. I speak.

“The plexi glass is fine. Though it does stop airflow.”

He breaths in deeply at that, nods confidently, and rings a lock deposit out of the till. He slides me back my ID, and a five dollar bill. I put the five dollars in the tip jar. Instantly, his eyes light up. We both make eye contact for a slight moment. Though, for very different reasons. As I leave I say, “ I got the lunch hour special. I didn’t pay the deposit.”

Post ‘Gay Covid Sex During The Lunch Hour Special’ scene: The Chubby Bottom Goes Home:

Sweating. Anxious. Full of a random’s cum. He didn’t shower after leaving. Just got on the bus. Mask on. With hands still smelling like that toilet seat. Like the yellow stained tiles on the floor. All around him he sees people practicing their social safety. Living perfectly safe lies. Inside of him he feels it growing. It forces out a wet cough. White phlegm catches on the inside of his wet mask. He starts sweating. He smiles.

At home, where he lives alone, where no one checks on him, where the Canadian Government of Canada sends him his monthly CERB checks, he locks the apartment door one last time behind him. He slowly peels off his mask. The dried phlegm leaves his cheeks and his lips looking raw, and red, peeled. He coughs into his fist. He wipes the phlegm on the wall. It smears like cotton.

He sits on the couch and turns the TV on. Evening news. A camera zooms into a news anchor sitting at a table on a freshly washed checkered floor. She is wearing a skirt, stilettos, and a purple blouse. With perfect studio hair. In a posh Canadian accent she says, “ What will future pandemics hold for us? Will they always just be a virus? What have we learned about them? Will the experts trust us when pandemics return? Do people even care, eh?”

He shakes his head. The chubby bottom coughs, then spits into his fist. He goes to pick it out of his palm, and it stretches like an adhesive. He wipes the cottony goo across his thigh, covering down to his knee. Laughing. He Coughs. And gurgles.