Jordana del Feld
3 min readMay 6, 2020


But then his butt changed everything.

He bent over.

His jacket slipped up a bit and the belt of his pants slipped down a bit.

That glimpse of curving muscular ass replete with cleft, and not even one hint of a boxers waistband, deafened me to his words.

He straightened up and turned around. “ — And that’s how you could fix that.”


I wanted to say something smart about Gears, to show I was paying attention. But his eyes were so blue.

Somehow I managed to wrest my attention away from his lips that were so kissable. I hunted in my pocket for cash, although all I could see in my mind was flashes of chiselled, tanned, blond, sculpted, sloping, tapering, angular…Israeli snowboarding instructor.

Somehow I managed not to wrap my tongue around him right there in the street. Somehow I managed to accept the somewhat rusty Italian road bike and ride it home.

But all I could think of was a quote a friend had recently shared. “When all this is over, I am going to suck someone’s cock in the middle of Fifth Avenue.”


Meanwhile Quarantine had been sucking for two months. Ten weeks. The day before I had picked up a package at the Späti and the Spätimeister’s hand had accidentally touched mine and it was the first human contact I’d had in seventy-nine days and then I went home and cried.

Screen time was shit.

People in the street were stupid and dangerous.

What was the point of living in a city if all the good parts had been taken away and all that was left was the expense and the danger and the crowds and the concrete?

Plus I had to move, and rent and the cost of living in Housing Crisis City had skyrocketed like something in a history book about the Bad Old Times. Tech and greed was pushing everyone out, just as tech and greed had pushed everyone out of the last three cities I’d lived in. 99% of the resources go to the top 1% and the rest of us find that our rent money has 10% of the power it did two years ago, which was already nearly zilch.

Sick of all that shit, my libido dead from stress and worry, dating and work and money and hanging out with friends all basically banned with no hope of returning in a year, and staring down the barrel of living in a tiny attic room out in Buttfuck with no stove or oven in an era of no public food, I was fantasizing about how, When All This Was Over, I’d buy an old stone farm-house in France and turn it into an arty retreatery / boutique hotel.

It was pretty much the only way I could figure out how to get myself a home that was big enough to accomodate a stove. But also, the Plague was turning me into a crabby anti-social monster who couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be around people again. Burying myself three zillion miles away in the countryside sounded great.

City slickers would pay me large sums of money to Get Away from It All, to climb my olive trees, to work in my permaculture garden, and to milk my goat! Then I would lead them in a groovy meditation and we’d go to sleep smelling the rosemary and lavender wafting through our windows, and we’d be happy.


But then I saw that golden, cresting glimpse of butt, and that dark dimple that began the divide down the middle of things, and in that moment I knew that I was not ready to Get Away from It All. I was not ready to leave humans behind. And I really was not ready to leave men behind, not even for a four-burnered stove and an oven you could bake a whole loaf of bread in.

Even though in large foolish groups people were a dangerous pain in the ass, individual moments like these put life into my life. Without them, it wasn’t life. It was just marking time until death.

I couldn’t say no to life.

So I mentally thanked that glorious heinie for bringing me back to life, mentally admitted that there would be epic quantities of Special Hugging when All This Was Over, and mentally ripped up my imaginary mortgage on the place in Vaucluse….