Kyle, 30 year old stuck in self-quarantine.

I never realized how shitty my apartment was until my internet ran out.

The main room pulls triple duty by serving as kitchen, living room, and bedroom—quadruple, I suppose, if you require a dining room. The only other room is a cramped bathroom. There is no door between them, nothing to screen the unsightly mildew and hard water stains from guests, if I were to ever have some.

The “kitchen” consists of a sink centered on the north wall, flanked with short countertops and adorned with mismatched, undersized appliances. All the natural light shines in from the south wall, the one I keep my old futon pressed against, where three windows overlook the intersection where street-level shops that are struggling to re-open after the lock-down. After a few months of living here, I got tired of trying to fold the futon back into a couch, so it only serves as a bed these days, taking up the majority of the floor space, a perpetual offense to feng shui. Now I just step all over it any time that I need to cross the room.

I’m stuck in here because a coworker disclosed his positive COVID-19 test last week. It was already an under-paying part-time job, but the business was deemed essential. Lucky me, I got to keep working, put myself at risk, and make less money than people on unemployment. Since then I’ve been slowly losing my mind, waiting for the flu-like symptoms to set in.

I eat the same meal every day, a scoop from my ninety pound “starvation insurance” bag of rice, eaten straight from the rice cooker bowl. I toss in some frozen vegetables and play seasoning roulette for variety. And that might be the best entertainment I’ve got left. My cellular data plan was used up one day after the wifi I’ve been stealing changed to password protection. So, between the excitement of meals, I jerked off until I couldn’t get it up anymore. Turns out, I suck at imagination. My real-life spank bank was never well-funded. I’m having to dig deep, trying to remember scenes of porn videos from my early days of using the internet. Somehow I remember the goofy lines of dialog better than I can picture the sex scenes. I’d give anything for one dirty old porn mag.

I’m loooosing my fucking miiiiiiind.

I tie a handkerchief around my face, put on crinkly, disposable gloves and walk downstairs to check my mail slot. I feel guilty breaking my isolation to even do this much outside of my room, but I'll also feel guilty if my mail slot gets too full and annoy the mail person and neighbors. I retrieve a thick stack of mail and promptly turn back up the stairs. Normally, I’d take the steps two at a time and tell myself it is a workout, but now I take them slowly and one at a time to not induce heavy exhalations to prevent exposing anyone to my microbes and poor life choices. I return to my apartment and pull my door closed quietly, grateful no one saw me break the quarantine they don't know I'm in.

“I heard you!” A woman’s voice barks with irritation.

I freeze.

My hand is still on the knob. I slowly twist it, push the door open a crack and peek down the long hallway to the right. I don’t see anyone.

A door slams. I release the knob and stiffen at the sound of heavy footfalls. They are fading into the distance. Curiosity urges me to peek again. Through the gap of the doorway, I watch a baggy figure stomping toward the stairwell.

“And check the expiration dates this time!” an older woman’s voice calls out from the door on the other side of the hall, Nancy and her mother’s apartment. A deadbolt clacks sharply, then a second, then a slide latch, then a second. I don’t remember Nancy’s mom being a paranoid kook before. Maybe all the wild political news over the last couple years has done a number on her. In that regard, I am almost glad that I am temporarily out of internet—although if I had it at this moment I'd be revisiting vintage videos of Rebecca Lord or Brianna Banks...

I peer after the receding figure, who could only be an oddly dressed Nancy, flicking the bird over her shoulder without looking back—at her mother, not me—I remind myself to deflect the sting. Nancy spins to her right and disappears, making a clomping decent down to the main entrance.

Those three seconds of seeing Nancy are sweet sustenance to my under-stimulated mind. I retreat into the apartment and stand like a dummy, re-imagining her striding away from me in slow motion. Her oversized, unlaced boots drag and clomp with each step… Her tan cargo pants, blue hoodie, black baseball cap and face mask, all of which seem oversized as well, cover every conceivable inch of herself. Even so, the way her pants hang loosely on her hips and her ass sways with feminine grace still gives my porn-poor brain something to drool over. Why is she so overdressed on such a warm day?, I wonder, then my thoughts return to that ass swaying as she walks away, her middle finger erected toward her kooky mom.

I wedge the junk mail between dirty dishes on the counter and remove my mask and gloves. As an afterthought, I bolt onto the futon to look out the window, catching a last glimpse of Nancy as she hops onto the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street and disappears around the corner. The last time I saw Nancy was out this window. It was—what, two months ago? Four? My sense of time is pretty borked these days. I know it was before the lockdown order was in effect.

I heard her leaving her apartment late one evening, giggling loudly in the hallway. I crawled off my lumpy futon and listened at the door to female voices.

“Give it, bitch.”

“Don’t hog it this time.” Nancy’s voice. Spark. Inhale. Puff. “Is Jake going to meet us at the club?”

Smoking in the hallway? Not cool, girls.

“Here, so we can all walk together. Let’s wait outside,” said the first chick.

“Who else is—“

Their voices faded with distance.

I went to the window then, too. Putting my oily forehead to the glass and looking down, I could see them standing on the sidewalk below. I didn’t know Nancy’s friend, but they made an eye-catching pair. They both wore similar spaghetti-strap tank tops that showed off exaggerated cleavage, and from above, I had a terrific view. A few dudes catcalled at them. Sometimes the ladies gave them bird, sometimes they ignored it. Every time they moved, I just saw new angles of their party-girl legs in miniskirts and cleavage.

I stand in front of the window now, stir-crazy, in the worst shape in my life, staring blankly out the window for who knows how long. My hand is down my sweat pants, jerking automatically at the momentarily vivid memory of two pairs of untouchable tits seen from over twenty feet above. As pathetic as I feel, this is the hardest I’ve managed to get since my internet dried up. Beggars can’t be choosers. I close my eyes and try to maintain the visuals while stroking vigorously. The friend was the bustier of the two, but Nancy she had better legs... too bad she is wearing baggy pants today. My thumping strokes suddenly feel amazing as a surge of precum lubricates my hand and I get harder. I know from experience that it is going to get sticky soon, so I jack it faster, turning toward the bathroom to finish. A commotion catches my eye.

Outside, from around the street corner, Nancy skids wildly into view, dropping a cloth grocery bag, its contents spilling into the street. She leave it behind, scrambling to regain traction and keep running toward our building. The second grocery bag is looped around her forearm, throwing off her balance.

What the fuck?

A man in a navy blue jacket flies out around the same place Nancy came from. He has something raised in his hands. A weapon. No… not a weapon. I don’t know what it is. He looks like he intends to tackle her.

“Holy shit!” I stand alert wondering if this is an ****, an abduction, or if she got caught stealing from the grocery store. The man is gaining on her. It suddenly dawns on me that I might be the only person seeing this, maybe the only one that can help her. After a second of hesitation, I jump to action. “Fuck-fuck-fuck-FUCK!” I fling myself out of my unit and run to the stairs, skidding down them as fast as I can. Through the frosted window of the entryway door below, I see a bobbing shadow as the lock clatters and turns. Another shadow merges with hers. I keep hopping and skidding down, feeling queasy at the sounds of struggling bodies, when I hear a crunch and dull thump. The shadows separate and the door swings open. Nancy spins inside and slams the door closed. I halt my decent and stare in dumb silence.

“Jesus, Nancy! Are you okay? What the fuck is happening?”

Nancy shoots a frightened look in my direction, only slightly relaxing when recognizes me. “What do you think, dude?”

Yeah, I wouldn’t know my name if I were her either...

“I don’t... know… D-Do you know… that guy? Is he an ex or something?” Apparently my lack of recent socializing has made me uncharacteristically hungry for conversation. “Did you... kill him?”

Bright red specks dot her hoody. More red splatters on the floor from the object in her hand. She looks down and drops it with a startled squeak. It’s a family size can of spaghetti sauce.

“Ohhhh—” groans someone outside. The shadow reappears. This time it moves abruptly and the frosted window explodes from an impact. Nancy screams and runs straight at me as the attacker’s hand fumbles along the door casing to find the lock mechanism. I spin on my heels and run upstairs, suddenly not at all confident that I could fight off this crazy. Behind us I hear the door swing open and slam closed. I turn into the hallway and do my best impression of a sprinter all the way back to my open apartment. I slide into my doorway and look back to see Nancy careening after me and the assailant charging a dozen feet behind her. She will never get into her own apartment in time so I wave her into mine. She doesn’t hesitate, flying in past me, her arcing grocery bag right-hooking me squarely in my soft belly. I manage to slam the door closed with my whole body before realizing the wind is knocked out of me. I flip the lock and slump down to the floor.

The door jumps against its hinges with a terrifying thud. I lean back against it harder as several more thumps follow. Nancy wrestles the straps of the bag off her arm and drops it, then throws her hands against the door above me. If I were capable of delivering oxygen to my brain, I might find it intoxicating to be sitting with her over me, my nose six inches from her pelvis, but after a couple failed attempts to inhale, I clutch my chest in a slow panic instead.

“Too late, fucker! Go stick your cock in a blender!” My-my, Nancy your language... I slump to the side.

The door jumps even more violently with what sounds like a running drop-kick. The fleshy thud and long groan that immediately follows all but confirms it. I slump down farther, vision going blurry. I stare at a grocery bag leaking milk all over the floor.

“Are you okay?” A nice voice asks from far away. “Hey... Do you need help?”

I finally wheeze my first shallow breath of fresh air and blink in sweet relief. My vision starts to return.

A phone rings... Nancy’s phone. “No mom, I’m across the hall. No the chubby guy. Hey, what’s your name?”

“K-kyle..” I barely manage to croak, straightening myself with effort.

“I KNOW MOM! No... He helped me... I’ll be there in a minute okay? I think he’s hurt... No, KYLE might be hurt. He is slumped against the door. I’m talking about our neighbor, Kyle... I don't know why there are grown men lying on both sides of the door! I think he’s just out of shape. No, mom, Kyle is really out of shape. The guy in the hall must have hurt himself trying to break in... BECAUSE HE’S A DUMB FUCK!” She makes sure to yell that part straight into the door.

The dumb fuck in the hall bangs the door twice in response. "Come out here, bitch!"

“When that asshole leaves I’ll come back okay? And... I lost most of the groceries trying to get away... I know mom... I know. You just tell me when he’s gone, okay? I love you too.”

Nancy pulls back from the door as I struggle back to my feet.

“Shit.” She lifts her socked foot from a pool of milk expanding from the grocery bag.

“Where did your boot go?” I ask, still feeling woozy. She still has the other boot on.

“It flew off on the stairs. I should have fucking laced them tighter.” She lifts the remaining booted foot and with a slight shake, it falls to the ground.

Nancy eyes me as I manage to stand up fully and breathe normally again, then she opens the grocery bag and winces at the carnage. Everything is covered in milk. She pulls out crushed boxes and sets them next to the wall. Gently, she lifts a quart of milk from the bag, the plastic cap is missing. She digs in the bag but can’t find it.

“Can you put this in your fridge for now? And can I get a towel?” She holds the milk up while she unhooks her face mask from her left ear with her pinky and flings it off into the corner. “Ick! That fuck tried to spray me.” Her narrow lips curl dramatically and she spits.

When her crystal blue eyes flick up at me, I snap into action, taking the milk from her. “Yeah... hang on.” I slide it into the fridge and grab the cleanest towel I have that is in arm’s reach and extend it to her. “Sprayed you? With what?”

“What do you think?” She sounds very annoyed.

“Uhhhh... pepper spray?”

She stares at me with wide, exasperated eyes. “Really? You really don’t know?” She spits on the floor again.

I turn around and grab some hard water stained glasses from the drying rack and get the filtered water pitcher from the refrigerator. “Nope. Is that guy on some kind of a spree? I don’t have TV or internet at the moment.”

“He sprayed me with cum!”

I spill water all over the counter. “What?!” I can’t have heard that right. I try to dam the spill with my mail then turn to her in horror.

“It’s not just him. Lots of people are doing it. That’s how they TRAP women.”

“I am so confused. How does that trap someone?”

“No, T-R-A-P. Termination of Rights and Personhood. I can’t explain why it happens--it just does. If they get you to swallow jiz, you lose all your rights.”

“That’s...” I am about to say ‘completely insane’, but somehow an itch in my brain tells me she is right somehow. “...the most fucked up thing I've ever heard.” Right? Why doesn’t that sound like bullshit?

“Yeah it is. Mom and I have been hiding all week, but we ran out of food. I went out and he was waiting for me outside of the store. Thank god for COVID masks. That's not something I ever expected to say.”

Too many chaotic thoughts are colliding for me to think straight. I stand there, watching the water trickle off the counter. Loss of personhood? Lots of people are doing it? I clench my fist thinking of the sick asshole that might still be in the hall. “Why would they even want to do that?” I unclench, vaguely aware that my fingers feel sticky.

“What do you think? What do men always want?”

“SEX SLAVES!” The dude in the hall answers. I feel guilty that it was going to be my first guess.

I look at my hand... sticky...with precum? My righteous anger evaporates. "They have to get you to swallow a little bit of cum to make sex slaves?" My voice sounds hollow. My cock stirs on its own for the first time in months.