Love Glove

by Angie M. Brashears

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Quarentimeout: Body Glove Copyright © 2020 by Angie M. Brashears

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at jim2angie@hotmail.com.

  Thank you for supporting this Indie Author’s rights.

  polkadotauthor

  Edited and Formatted by Amy Briggs

  Photography by Dan Grytsku/Shutterstock

  Cover Design by Amanda Shepard

  Beta Read by my Spirit Animal, Morgen Frances

  All Rights Reserved

  Created with Vellum

  Love may make the world go round but sex keeps it turning.

  —Mama Hazel

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Coming Soon

  Also By Angie M. Brashears

  1

  Crammed into our tiny apartment, the smell of my mother's Estee Lauder perfume must be fucking with my mind. Did he just say what I think he did?

  Eyes glued to the TV, I'm already hyperventilating into my house mask. Not sure if it's the impending announcement, or my mother sitting on top of me that's got me sweating.

  With little regard for my panic attack or acceptable social distancing, my oblivious mother continues to talk over her favorite newscaster. Regaling me with a full accounting of her day. "No toilet paper, not even napkins! This is tyranny! I said that too, Lucy.

  Right before, I asked to speak with the store manager.

  Acting like my complaint wasn't valid, he took his sweet time getting to me too. The battery on my ride-on shopping cart was already in the red. Forget about disinfecting. They can't even be bothered to charge the damn machines!"

  I don't know why Mom insists I watch the news with her. All she does is talk right through the whole broadcast.

  Massaging back a headache, I beg. "Mom, could you not? I'm trying to hear what the surgeon general has to say."

  After an indulgent pat on my knee, my mother raises her voice to Defcon five. "And that's when I told Mr. Manager to push me back inside the store where it's warm. Early shopping my eye, I could have caught my death out there. Might as well slap a toe-tag on us seniors and wheel us into the meat freezer for all the care they show us."

  Nonplussed, I blink. "Complaint noted. From now on, I do the shopping. Can we watch your show now?"

  Strained chords in my neck pop when I turn back to the screen. But the segment is over. It looks like they moved on to more pressing breaking news without us. "Great, Ma. Now we missed it."

  "What? What'd we miss?" Dad's old reading glasses make her eyes look comical. I've bought her at least sixty pairs of her own, but she insists that my late father’s are the reason she never misses a thing.

  Eyes peeled, she searches the screen. "There. Read the ticker on the bottom. Oh, Lucy. Did I ever tell you about the time the city of Boston gave your mother a ticker-tape parade? There was a brass marching band and everything, that was way back, even before you were born…"

  Ears filled with floats and confetti, I try to keep up with the fast-moving news before it changes to something else.

  A prominent soft-spoken doctor recently announced on Snapchat, of all places,

  that it's perfectly acceptable to use online dating apps like Tinder to "hook up" during a pandemic.

  What the hell was the surgeon general doing on Tinder?

  My doting mother winks. "Looks like there's still hope for you yet, Lucy."

  "Thanks, Ma."

  I envy those who get to quarantine alone. I'm shut-in with my sixty-eight year old mother. No nursing home will take her. Even before all this, she was put on the Geriatric Do Not Return list.

  Mom's got an awful tic. She never shuts up.

  I can't complain though. I get to live in a third story walkup in the heart of Brooklyn. It comes with a fire escape and the occasional wet thumb wiping crumbs from the corner of my lip.

  In the words of the great Axl Rose, we could all use just a little patience.

  Mom prattles on about a Grand Marshall that may or may not have had the hots for her, and I'm left to wonder.

  Exactly who was the sex addict that asked about "hooking up" at a time like this, and would said person have their press pass revoked?

  2

  At dinner that night my Virginity takes center stage.

  "High school was a few years ago, Ma. I prefer the term celibate."

  She rolls her eyes and waves at imaginary flies. "Excuse me, Miss Hoity Toity. Are you planning a trip to the nunnery and forgot to tell your poor mother?"

  "Hardly," I snort. "I just hate the word. Virginity sounds like a corny theme for prom."

  Mom laughs long and loud. Wiping her eyes, she's sputtering to catch me up. "Prom. Sorry, I was just imagining. Instead of a Winter Wonderland, it's Frigid Virginity under the stars. Ditch the streamers for glow-in-the-dark prophylactics hanging from the ceiling."

  Lulled by the joke, I'm giggling along. "Sounds like a good time."

  But leave it to mom to point out some key facts. "Only an intact hymen is no cause for celebration, Lucille. Especially not at your age."

  I look around the empty apartment. "Who's celebrating? Besides, I'm thirty. Don't lose hope for me yet."

  A forkful of green beans poised in the air, she stares me in the eye. "Hard not to. By that same token, it's been thirty years. You know what they say. If you don't use it, you'll lose it."

  "I know. I know. Can I eat my meatloaf in peace?" I stab at a chunk of meat before I lose my appetite completely.

  She waits until I swallow. "So, why haven't you?"

  Dad's prolonged illness comes to mind. That was a real sap on the old libido. Then, it was working my way through college. Trying to find a job that didn't come with fries—clawing my way up the silicon bitch career ladder. Which excuse should I choose? It's easier to play dumb. "Maybe I never used it because you traumatized me with all those safe sex lectures growing up. Accompanied by technicolor disease pictures in your medical journal, it was enough to scar me for life."

  "Come on now. I'm eating."

  "Me too."

  Her fork hits the plate with a bang. She’s not about to let that dig at her parenting go unanswered.

  "Really, Lucy. I scarred you for life? Is that why you're wasting your time in that dead-end job at the pimple popper's office? You should be running the place."

  Here we go. If the topic of grandkids comes up. I'm out. "Dr. Copeland is a Dermatologist, Ma. She does a lot more than that."

  "She's not doing anything at the moment. Neither are you. Now's your chance." Mom beams.

  I walked right into that. "Eat your dinner, old lady."

  I pick at my cooling plate.

  After all this time, do I really need to find out what all the fuss is about?

  Up until the surgeon general gave the green light to hook up during a global pandemic, there was no pressing need. My virginity wasn't calling out to me.

  Mom interrupts my thoughts by squeezing
my hand. "Lucy dear, you know gay's okay by me." An actual tear pools at the corner of her lashes. "Just don't make me the last to know."

  Talk about after school special. Now it's my turn to roll my eyes. "You're not going to leave it alone, are you? You want the reason I haven't been deflowered before thirty? I just never got around to it. Wasn't important. You finished?" I push away from the table and start clearing.

  Her squawks follow me to the kitchen sink.

  "What do you mean you never got around to it? Paying bills, cleaning out the junk drawer, calling your mother back. Those are things you don't get around too. Not losing your virginity."

  "Shhhh. Keep it down, or the neighbors might volunteer. Sheesh."

  Why do I even bother? Her voice is back to Defcon five. "And stow that attitude Lucy. I'm just trying to help by pointing out the obvious. You're on leave, no time like the present. Might help with that crankiness, too," she mutters.

  "I heard that. Should I just go stand in the middle of the street naked advertising the merchandise? If you haven't noticed, we are in the middle of a lockdown. Related to a pandemic. Pickings are mighty slim.”

  Hoping to end this conversation, I fake a smile. “Ice cream?"

  It’s a yes on the dessert.

  The whole time I'm scooping, I can’t but notice the Cheshire smile. "I'm glad you brought that up. Remember I was telling you about my friend Mr. Wexler? Well, he has a son. Sweet young man, though he is a bit lonely. Lucy, do not make that face. What if it gets stuck like that?"

  "Ugh. Mom, no. Please do not help me. It's bad enough I'm living with you, I draw the line at you fixing me up on dates too."

  "Don't be so hard on yourself, dear. The living situation is just temporary. Don't you worry. You'll be back on your feet and out of my hair before you know it. But while you're here, I just wish you would keep an open mind about Mr. Wexler's son."

  I drop the bowl of Rocky Road in front of her like it's hot. "Careful of the nuts with your dentures. And it's a hard pass on the hookup mom. Lonely? You might have well said creepy. If he's so great, why is he still available?"

  I keep track of where she drops her dentures. Those chompers cost three grand a pop.

  She gums a walnut in contemplation. "I've been asking myself that same question. He's very methodical. Likes things a certain way, that's for sure. Not much of a talker, more of a listener. A real gentleman though. Just like your father."

  "Aw, no wonder you like him so much, but it would never work out. I'm more of a listener too. Besides sex during a pandemic? What would that even look like? Forget rose petals and silver buckets icing champagne. A post-COVID boudoir will likely resemble a serial killer’s lair."

  Mom thinks a minute. "You're right. Draped wall to wall in protective plastic. Not for blood splatters, though," she warns.

  I laugh. "Droplets only. Don’t worry, I’m no vampire."

  "That's right, and the virgin slayer needs to be covered head to toe for your safety. Some kind of tarp maybe? Which could prove difficult since the willie needs to be free."

  "Mom!" I snort. Virgin slayer? Willie? Great, now my imagination is working overtime too.

  "Safety isn’t sexy. I'd have to precut the glory hole if I expect a second date."

  Second date. Does that mean you're actually going through with this? Why not.

  "Who knows? There may be post-corona motel rooms within walking distance.”

  Defensive, Mom looks around the neat apartment she keeps. "What's wrong with here?"

  "You're here. I gotta keep you safe."

  She smiles. "Aw, don’t let my safety stop you."

  "Mom, your safety is all I think about. Besides, I wouldn't put it past you to barge in carrying a tray of baked goods. Going on and on about the moistness of your new recipe from Pinterest. No, thanks."

  "Hey, don't make fun of Pinterest. That's where I got the recipe for the banana-less bread you liked."

  "On a side note, that bread was delicious. But I know my mother. Horrified, you'd take one look at my plastic-wrapped man, and there'd be no stopping you."

  I mimic her voice. "What's this a crime scene? Poor guy can't even breathe."

  "Oh, Gawd. I don't sound like that at all." She laughs.

  "The moment would pass. I'd still be a virgin, only a pissed off one. Stomping around, yelling for everyone to get the heck out."

  “A real Virgilla,” she agrees.

  I love it when she giggles like that. Dreamy eyed, I know she can see the impending fiasco as clear as I can. "Would it help if I promised to wait outside the door and only hand out prewrapped treats for the road?”

  Her wheels continue to turn. "Hey Lucy. There's an idea.”

  “What? Luring men in with tasty treats?” She’s lost it now.

  “Not quite. But would you consider letting me wrap you in plastic wrap?"

  I blink twice, but she’s serious.

  "Nope. Besides there’s not enough Saran Wrap in this apartment to even cover one of my thighs.”

  "Sadly, you got my curse." She gets up and plants a wet kiss on my forehead.

  “Lucy, you keep me young. But I can’t sit here entertaining you all night, I've got some crafting to get to. I'll leave you to your sex thoughts.

  "Not even seven-thirty, and you're ditching me? Don't you want to watch a little TV? Maybe whip me up some of that bread?"

  "Night, Lucy," she says before closing her bedroom door.

  Now it's too quiet. Mom's got her orchestra music on. Not too loud tonight, I can still hear her sewing. She really needs to wear her wireless headphones. “Too technical,” she says.

  To which I always reply. “Just hit the on button.”

  I pick at a piece of lint stuck to the sofa and straighten the doily.

  Now that it could happen, I can't stop thinking about having sex.

  When the bars, nightclubs, and churches shut down. I thought great—there goes my last chance. I should've had sex.

  Resigned to a celibate life, I was doing just fine until the news came along and got my hopes up.

  Mom's got her crafting to keep her busy. What do I have?

  Knitting is not my forte. Can't sew a stitch. I cook just to eat. But I did set up that trial account on Glytter last year. Wonder if it's still active? If not, I can just make another. Time to see what all the fuss is about.

  3

  Eating the last of the ice cream out of the container, I head to my room.

  After a quick verification of my birthday, I'm in. Hard to believe the Glytter account is still active. My profile picture pops up on the screen and takes my breath away.

  Man, was I skinny.

  Once upon a time, I was ready for sex in the city. Mary Tyler Mooring my way through life. I had a studio apartment on the Westside. On my way to a great career, I'd been doing Dr. Copeland's books for a few years.

  But I wasn't a certified Accountant as Mom liked to remind me. I'd been taking night classes at the Y to rectify that, and then the shit hit the fan.

  My college was one of the first to close.

  Work from home became, don't call us, we'll call you, and the rent still needed to be paid. I was able to keep juggling the bills for another month or two. By the time I took mom up on her roommate offer, I was twenty pounds heavier and bone tired.

  Glytter was the furthest thing from my mind.

  I can't stop staring at my pre-corona self. The hopeful optimism, the designer scarf I'd labored two hours over to get the right carefree knot. "What a crock."

  Almost as big a lie as the stream of male profiles. Rows upon rows of eager men, all grinning and available. My feed is filled with pictures of rugged, outdoorsy types. Running with the bulls, mountain climbing, sailing. Regular gladiators, every one of them.

  Surrounded by succulent beauties, sipping cappuccino's in exotic locales. "Why do they need Glytter?"

  There's got to be some catfishing going on here. No one leaves the house without a mask anymore.


  No need to worry about right swipes, the minute I make myself active, I've got twenty or so guys just salivating to greet me. One after another, dirty messages crowd my screen.

  It appears we've left the Parthenon of dating and entered the Thunderdome.

  Bald or hairy? What happened to hello?

  Come on, show me your tits. I'm not taking requests.

  Hi Lucy. Nice to digitally meet you. I can't wait to digitally stimulate you. Try stimulating my mind first, pal.

  I'm a Scorpio. Okay if I sting you? Don't you mean Scorpion? Cause this makes no sense.

  We could hook up, just don't come between my dog and me. I wouldn't dream of it.

  You up for a little late-night Skype masturbation? I masturbate just fine on my own, thanks.

  I'm so underwhelmed by the instant messages I'm receiving that when a live chat bubble pops up, I seize upon it. Finally, someone willing to show his true face.

  Clearing my throat, I lean towards the mic. "Hello?"

  A naked man fills my computer screen. Well, a potbelly and his junk. Why's he pinching the sides of his penis like that. What is he doing?

  Squeezing the tip, the head of his dick is manipulated by a ventriloquist.

  I rear back when his penis begins to talk. "Fuck me."

  Oh, God. Do not engage. "Excuse me?"

  He squeezes the head with authority. "Fuck me!"

  "Listen, I'm not going to be talked too like that from a penis, understand? It may just be an expression of inner anger at women or a mistreatment left over from childhood. Whatever it is. I won't stand for any objectification."

  Full of reproach, the dick tries once more. "Fuck me…please?"

  "Oh, fuck off." Great looks like virginity wins again.

  "What a winner. Still, it’s good to see you getting back out there, Lucy," my mystified mother mutters behind me.