Out Of Order
AgeGap Erotic Short Story // Curvy Young Woman, Older Man // Explicit
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She hates her thighs, but here they are, grinding together under polyester shorts with a soft rhythmic shush as she makes her way down the split-gravel path. Sweat soaks her back in quarter-sized polka dots. Every minute, she checks her FitBit knockoff. Even the heart rate monitor is unimpressed. Fat Burn blinks like a participation trophy.
Her name is Greta. She is twenty, a sophomore at the local college, determined to lose at least ten pounds before her cousin’s wedding in September. Her roommate’s gym-bro boyfriend laughed when she asked how to start lifting, so now it’s just walks. Twice a day, headphones blaring K-pop, marching through the blinding green tunnels of the riverside park.
She’s nearly a mile from the parking lot when her bladder gives a sharp twinge. It’s a dull ache now, but in ten minutes it will be an emergency. She could make it back to the car, probably, but the thought of clenching all the way there is worse than the thought of the bathroom. Just barely.
The rest stop is a concrete block, like someone tried to make a jail cell cheerful with baby blue paint. There’s a drinking fountain on one end and a set of picnic tables. Empty except for a guy in a reflective vest, vaping. Greta tries not to make eye contact.
Inside, the air is cold and wet, tinged with bleach and ancient piss. The light over the mirror flickers. One of the two stalls is zip-tied shut, OUT OF ORDER in red Sharpie. The other door has a gap at the latch like a missing tooth. Greta tugs it shut and twists the knob, feeling the dead weight of a lock that won’t catch.
She yanks her shorts down with her underwear bunched inside. The toilet seat is warm and sticky with old sweat. She half-sits, half-hovers, arms folded tight over her belly, doing that anxious squirrelly pee-dance. The echo in the bowl makes it sound like a horse pissing.
Greta hates this. The forced vulnerability, the sounds, the certainty that someone will come in any second. She looks at her knees, pale as raw chicken, the tufts of dark leg hair missed by her last frantic razor pass. A mosquito, trapped in the airless cubicle, lands on the fat above her sock line. She smacks it, shakes the sting from her hand, refocuses.
The latch gives a pathetic click and the door slams open. Greta jerks upright, yanking her shorts halfway up, clamping the waistband in both fists.
A man stands in the doorway. Gray hair, weathered face, the red staff polo of the groundskeeper. Mirrored sunglasses. He sees all of her. Thighs splayed, wrinkled shorts below her crotch, the white waistband of her period-stained underwear.
“Shit. Sorry.”
His voice is deeper than she expected. He slaps the door shut so hard the cinderblocks tremble.
Greta freezes. Her pulse is a jackhammer in her neck. She doesn’t move for five seconds. Ten. She is suspended in that humiliating instant, the shock of being seen, the certainty that he catalogued every shameful detail in one glance.
She stands, clumsy, thighs wet where her pee trickled down. She gets her shorts up, fumbles the flush, stares at her face in the rusted mirror. The light strobes overhead, striping her with fluorescent bands.
What did he see. Her cheeks blotched, her mouth slack. Dimpled thighs, wide hips, the soft under-roll of her belly. She looks used.
