Lusting for the Cellist Next Door

My apartment shared a wall with a cellist. It’s the living room wall, to be exact.

Erik toured much of the time. When not touring, he practiced at a studio elsewhere, but now and then I heard him playing in his apartment.

When I first moved in, we exchanged numbers, just in case, you know, for apartment information, emergencies, and such. He’d never used my number until now.

Now we were in quarantine.

Since he hadn’t been home much, he had limited supplies. That’s what he stated in his text.

“Hi, Ariana. Sorry to interrupt your day. By chance, do you have any extra Lysol wipes?”

As an avid shopper, I had enough to share.

“Sure. I’ll sit a container at your door.”

“Thank you.”

I strolled to the kitchen, grabbed a canister, masked up, and stepped into the hallway. When I placed the wipes against his door, I knocked. Feet shuffled my way. Through the door, his voice mumbled. “Thanks.”

I imagined his handsome face on the other side. He was fantasy material.

And so, with lockdown, the longer I was alone in my apartment, the hornier I got. Every night I masturbated to sleep. During the day, I fantasized and addressed my urges anywhere and everywhere throughout the apartment.

It’s day who-knows-which, and weariness seeped through me. I needed new fantasy material, more incentive, and a connection to reach my orgasm. I needed someone and something with more oomph to take me there.

When I hopped into bed,...