We’re in the back of a small car. My body is splayed – stomach pressed into a seatbelt clip, knees crooked into unfamiliar pivots between seat and floor. Some background noise: radio lapping at the dregs of top 100 hits and the occasional car going by in the distance. Each time that happens we both look up. Look out. Finalize that the coast is clear. Then our eyes resume what our bodies couldn’t bother to discontinue, the weight of inertia never letting the risk of being discovered distract our bodies from this rough, ceaseless business.

My head is turned toward the car’s rear – the seat. Eyes scrunched, head hitting the passenger side backdoor with ceaseless rhythm as he fucks me.

“Arch your back.”

Hand on the small of my back pushing it down, but that isn’t right, that isn’t quite how the arch happens. I pretend to fall to the rough demand of his hand while instead curving to its intent, further lowering my chest and face and curving the small, lifting the bubble of my ass out of the shadow and into the bright parking lot light. I look back. He’s looking outside. Coast clear. He turns back, says with a sneer, “Turn the fuck around and get fucked.”

I lower my head. Haven’t closed my eyes yet and all I can feel are his hands gripping my waist and my head carrying out a silent fight with the back door, my brow landing its stern, rhythmic hits.

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