We made out on the bus from Indianapolis to Pittsburgh. Hiding in the back row next to the smell of the Greyhound bathroom we kissed and slid hands under jeans as the strip malls passed us by.
On the train from Chicago to New Orleans, we hid in the privacy of our tiny compartment but never quite fucked. I went down on her as she knelt in the window staring at the lights and she squeezed herself between the seats to suck my cock as I drank from an airplane bottle of Johnny Walker.
In the backseat of her husband’s car I fingered her while he drove, my hand hidden beneath her skirt as we listened to him talk football. After she came, she hid a giggle as she forced my hand to my mouth and watched as I licked my fingers. I never asked if she told him.
Backstage, after her final show, she jerked me off over the face of one of the dancers. He looked up at us both with a never-ending smile as she worked me to finish, and both of us watched when he licked my come from his chin. She told me it was a high school fantasy. A check off the bucket list.
On the bed of my dorm room, we came close but for the want of a condom. We touched ourselves, our bodies inches from penetration, and when I came, she rubbed my come into her stomach and inner thighs even as she told me we had to be safe. She told me she came too, but it was a distraction or a story, not an answer.
We broke upon the subway. Stuck between stops–hidden in the flickering darkness–we told ourselves that we were done with moving.