fingers and laughed again, turning around to kiss him. He tasted ketchup. No-mayo. Maybe mustard? He wasn’t sure and didn’t care as he turned her back around, sliding her underwear down around her thighs and entering her from behind.
He knew he had a few minutes, at best, before coming. That wasn’t anything new. Baseball scores, third grade teachers, Newt Gingrich, Kate Gosselin, Snookie-thinking about turnoffs never held him back from coming. Fucking Marcia from behind was new; she never let him do this.
His right knee adjusted as a garbage bag filled with coffee grounds and empty milk cartons shifted under him. The change in angle made Marcia buck backwards against him, slamming him deeper into her at a slight arc. Joe saw her use one of her hands to brace herself against the dumpster’s rust-covered wall, her fingernails ragged now and a crumpled, stained napkin pinned between her hand and the side.
With this new leverage Marcia thrust backwards and up slightly, and Joe gave up all thought, his leg muscles straining to hold himself steady inside her. His slick penis slid in her, then retracted, only to repeat again and again as Joe’s unmeasured pleasure grew. She was dripping, her juices forming a thin band around the base of his penis like a juicy, translucent friendship bracelet, and in the glow of the moon and the parking lot light he could see, feel, hear and smell himself fucking his wife. He licked his lips and tasted her-or maybe that was vanilla syrup-all senses activated and alive and focused on the friction and the wetness and on Marcia’s ass pumping him.
She seized up and Joe’s cock slid further in her, her vaginal walls holding him, sucking him like a blow job. Joe tried to continue moving inside Marcia but he couldn’t; she’d clamped down so hard that the vise grip made it impossible, yet sent the blood pumping through him, set the nerves on edge and massaged them as if finely calibrated by a universal maker.
Unsure of his ears, Joe heard Marcia’s faint voice over the rush of blood that filled his senses. “Fuck me, Joe! Fuck me and make me come. Oh, my God, I’m coming, I’m coming-” Her body shuddered hard, as if shivering, and he saw the veins in her neck tighten as she clamped on him. He sank his hand into her messy blond curls and rode her, her ass meeting the base of his cock and his balls slapping against her as he tugged lightly on her hair.
“What is this?” she moaned. “How do I? Am I? I’m-” And now he was coming and coming, multiple waves that had no logic yet made perfect sense as he froze, awash in adrenaline and lust and champagne and the marvelous emotion of loving his wife with all his being for the first time in years. Her pussy imprisoned him as she shuddered and pulsated, arched and raked her chest with her broken fingernails, finally biting her own shoulder through the full-body muscle contractions and, as Joe could best count, at least six of them. As his own orgasm waned a brilliant clarity filled him, coexisting with a serenity he wanted to bottle and save.
He looked down and saw Marcia rubbing a banana peel all over her ass.
Still clamped inside her and coming down off the sex high and the booze, Joe took a good look around. His suit pants were under a bag of bagels. Marcia balanced herself on a few torn bags of food garbage dominated by white paper cups with a coffee shop’s logo on them. Coffee grounds dotted his thighs and his wife was now writhing, her ass glowing in the open air, his cock stuck inside her while she rubbed a damn banana peel all over herself.
An audible thhwuck! broke the silence, like a bottle of champagne being uncorked. Joe flew across the dumpster and hit his head against the metal wall. Marcia collapsed into a well-dressed heap on top of black plastic bags filled with garbage, the banana peel perched over her anus like an item in a still life painting.
Marcia couldn’t look him in the eye. Joe had put on her clothes, cleaned her up, and gotten her into their car. She came to as they were driving through town, minutes from home. She was sore and tired and what was that scent? Rotten bananas and rust and cum filled the tidy car.
Joe looked ripe, like he’d looked in college during finals week. His jacket was in a heap in the backseat, his white work shirt smeared with a bunch of brown stuff and what looked like half a hand print across his belly. Two buttons were missing from his shirt-and not where it stretched across his midsection, but up near the neck. She could see his chest hair poking out and glanced up at his face. There was something stuck in his beard and his hair-which was normally a neat, lovely, chestnut brown-sat like a rusted metal scrub pad on his head. He stared at the road with a perplexed smile.
Marcia looked at her hands and found four broken fingernails and some sort of gunk glistening in her nail beds. She pulled down the visor and inhaled sharply. Where her makeup normally rested, on manicured eyes and lips, there sat colored smears of what looked like ketchup. Or mustard? Or French dressing? She couldn’t see the color. And why did her hand smell like butter and old tube socks?
The night flashed through her mind quickly. Dinner. Champagne. Groping Joe. Butter. Fisting. “Last Tango in Paris.” Hiding behind the dumpster. Hiding in the dumpster. And then…
Like a palpable memory, the sex flooded her, her body suddenly a movie screen, her skin playing out their lust. In the dumpster, Marcia had been in a vortex of pleasure and pain, but the pain was pleasure and it all smelled like a middle-school boys’ locker room combined with a bakery, and that was good, that was sensual and fine and she never wanted to leave this place, wanted to live there forever with Joe pumping her from behind, with the cold, hard steel at hand’s reach and the glow of the security lights illuminating this time, this place, this odor, this fuck.
A swell of anxiety and shame rose up in her, mixed with her raging arousal, and she closed her eyes as she sighed, resting her head against the back of the seat. But she couldn’t will this away. Her orgasm in the dumpster had been more intense than the time when the electronic toothbrush had been hoovered all the way in, only there was no vibration, no bristles, no pain, just the feel of Joe and the warmth, the warmth, the omigod! of something new and fresh and butter and rotten bananas and flesh and bagels and the warmth got bigger and then she was wet, so wet, and Joe had screamed through his teeth, his orgasm blending with hers into one big postprandial sex juice bath.
Arousal swept over her yet again, a flush in her groin and that painful, irritating blue clit, an urge that meant she had to come-whether she wanted to or not. She pushed the arousal aside as best she could, cringing.
At home they took separate showers in separate bathrooms and when Joe came to bed he touched Marcia’s shoulder. His mouth was open and ready to ask a question. She yawned and said, “Goodnight,” ignoring the obvious tent his erection created in his pajamas. He turned out the light and she hoped he’d go along with her, pretending that what just happened could wait another day to process.
Marcia’s entire body pulsated, though, as if each molecule vibrated at a slightly faster speed than the high setting on her electric toothbrush. She had come! She’d never orgasmed during sex before. And that was nothing like any orgasm she’d ever experienced! Normally, it was like a controlled wave that needs to crest and be done, the energy concentrated and then dispersed.
This time her whole body had pushed and groaned and exploded at once. Feeling him move in and out, stroking her insides and slamming against her cervix, the rawness and wholeness of the night above them without filter. She had smelled and felt texture and rot and slime and ick and she liked it. Liked being an animal among the waste and the discards, loved the mixture of her juices and Joe’s cock and the coffee and bananas and bagels and how their bodies had compacted the trash with their bends and twists and gyrations and thrusts, like a human composter you’d never find for sale in a Gaiam catalog. How many day-old bagels can I fit on Joe’s penis? she wondered.
Blood vessels had swelled and burst and a new plane of existence stretched out before her, standing ready for her to access whenever she wanted with Joe.
Her arms ached to reach for him and celebrate, to be held and to hold, but she was also mortified and so embarrassed she wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. What kind of woman gets off from sex in a dumpster? The sights and sounds and feel of it all came together with the alcohol and the forbiddenness of it, and in the end she turned off the CEO in her mind who constantly ordered her (and Joe) around and became all sense, all flesh, all decomposition and decompensation in the nerve endings between her clit and tailbone.
A smile crossed her lips and she almost rolled over to whisper something, anything, to Joe that might get them to talk about what had happened. She was ready. A faint snore began to build from his side of the bed and her shoulders sank in disappointment. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to fall sleep.
Joe woke up to the sound of a faint hum. He looked at the clock: 3:51 a.m. As his brain cleared, he realized he knew the sound. It must be Marcia brushing her teeth in the middle of the night again. Man, was she ruthless about dental hygiene.
