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“Sorry,” I reply. “I was lost in a memory.” The crowd is noisy, so I gesture at the weed as if to suggest it had been the trigger.
The man, misunderstanding my gesture, offers me the joint.
I feel like an idiot.
“Go on,” he says with a good-natured shrug. “If you want to.”
I don’t make a habit of doing drugs, but I’m already hopped up on the atmosphere and my borrowed nostalgia. I take the blunt from him with a smile. His fingertips are warm, and they make mine tingle.
I could pretend. I could pretend that this is Woodstock and that we’re here to see our favorite bands. To wear loose flowing kaftans and daisies in our hair. To dance and hug and have casual sex with warm-skinned strangers. I dry my lips with the back of my hand and take a long, deep inhalation. The smoke tastes even sweeter than it smells, and when I exhale, I watch the plume of white dissipate in the shimmering late afternoon air.
Chapter 2
Skinship
Iallow myself to imagine that the world isn’t burning, that the oceans aren’t being choked by plastic, and that peace and love are all that matter. What a time it must have been to be alive. Open hearts, rock ’n’ roll, bare feet on muddy fields. People tripping in every way.
Dreadlocks nods as I thank him for the toke. He must have picked up on my almost instant zenned-out vibe because he smiles and says, “It’s good shit, right?”
I nod. It is indeed good shit. It’s Woodstock. It’s multicolored ribbons fluttering from tambourines as their bells jingle and glint in the sun. Warmth rises inside me, and I’m lifted along with it. In this fantasy, Dreadlocks slides his hand to the small of my back. He uses a light touch, so light that I’m not sure he’s even touching me … until I am.
I’m pleasantly surprised by this visceral daydream. Dreadlocks is standing innocently beside me, but in my mind his palm is warm and tingling on my back.
So much for not liking men anymore.
In this fantasy, he’s giving me the option to turn him down—all it would take is half a step forward. Instead, I move an inch back against his light touch, just enough to signal that I may be interested. We avoid eye contact for a while, but then he applies more pressure, and we look at each other. He’s better looking than I had first thought, and his friendly eyes twinkle in a charming way. The last thing I want is to be charmed by a stranger, but Dreadlocks is different. In this fantasy he isn’t lecherous. He’s relaxed and warm. His touch isn’t an attack, it’s an invitation.
He’s offering a nice time. Did I want to have a nice time with him, a complete stranger? In real life, the answer is no. In my golden-light cannabis daydream, the answer is a definite yes. If we were at a music festival, he could have taken my hand and led me into his tent. But we aren’t in a lovely tree-filled setting, we’re in Canary Wharf, where concrete, glass, and steel rule the skyscraper horizon.
He makes no move to leave. Maybe he has no intention of taking me anywhere. Maybe he just wants to touch my back where my skin is showing above the torn denim jeans I’m wearing. Perhaps he isn’t looking for anything more than to touch someone in an intimate but noninvasive way. There’s a word for that in Japanese. It translates into something like “skin-hungry.” A book I read recently mentioned they have cuddle cafés there. Maybe all this guy needs is a cuddle café. Skinship. Maybe all I want is some no-strings-attached skin-on-skin.
I am soon proven wrong on the cuddle café theory. Dreadlocks slowly inches his fingertips under the waistband of my jeans, then under the elastic of my panties. I try but fail to remember what underwear I put on that morning. Probably something practical, given the plans of the day—although I don’t think Dredz would mind my regular cotton briefs. Remembering that it’s a fantasy, I decide I’m wearing a sky-blue lacy thong with a matching push-up bra. In my mind, his fingers travel farther down, touching my bare ass cheek. I feel embarrassed that the protesters behind us might see what’s happening, but we’re close enough together for them to not notice unless they’re actively looking. It feels so good that I’m willing to take the risk of being seen. I move slightly closer to him to show I’m interested, and to allow his hand to travel lower down. Despite his fingers being nowhere close to my pussy, it starts warming, and the pleasure soon radiates throughout my pelvis. The imagined embarrassment fades. The fantasy fear of being caught transforms from possible humiliation to barely caring. I want him to keep going more than I’m worried about whoever is standing behind us. My breathing deepens, and my eyelids get heavy.
“Corporate greed is killing the planet!” yells the Yorkshire woman, snapping me out of my horny reverie. In my mind, Dredz has a similar reaction, and whips his hand away so quickly I hardly feel it leave. We lock surprised eyes and share a look of regret.
I’m pretty deep into this make-believe. So much so that I can feel myself throbbing, and feel the need for release. I haven’t had an orgasm in months.
I keep going with the steamy scene in my imagination.
I want more, need more. I look at him in a way that I hope will communicate how turned on I am, how much I want more of him: his fingers, his lips. But kissing would be inappropriate. We’re at a protest, for god’s sake. It would give our secret away. Instead, I take the joint from him and take another deep drag, finding eroticism in the mere fact that his lips had been on it moments before. I sneak another look at him, and the desire I see in his eyes melts me. His touch returns to my body; this time, my midriff.
Lower, I think. Please. I want your hand on my clit.
His fingers finally make it. I moan, but no one hears me. He circles slowly, slowly, the pads of his fingers applying the perfect pressure as my labia blooms beneath them.
Oh, fuck. My knees feel like they’re going to buckle. He slowly increases the pressure, doubles the pace.
What we’re doing is totally wrong. Risky. God, it feels good. The combination of the cannabis and the recklessness makes me feel light-headed. At the same time, I’m completely in my body. I am only body, no brain.
Another moan escapes my lips. I can tell he heard it because he presses harder and faster. I feel my orgasm build quickly—too quickly.
Holy shit! Am I really going to come right here at a fucking climate change protest?
I clamp my mouth shut, worried about the sound I’ll make. The sensation is spiraling out of control. I won’t be able to stop it. I don’t want to stop it.
Ohhh fuck!
I gasp despite my closed mouth.
