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theGreatxIam

Subway series #7: 
Please DonŐt Ask How I Got Home 
By theGreatxIam

Going with Clarissa was like teaching yourself to
parachute. Exhilarating, but also very unnerving. And
darn complicated.

A friend of mine set me up on a blind date with her,
saying I was moping around too much, six months after
I'd ended my first "grown-up" relationship -- you know,
the first one where the main reason we broke up wasn't
that one of us had gotten sick of  "our song." Bobbi
and I had been together for three years and we'd split
when I got tired of asking her to marry me.

Clarissa, this friend said, would be the perfect
antidote, someone who would get me out of my
oh-my-god-I'll-never-get-married funk. I thought he
meant I'd realize I could still be attractive to women.

On the very first date, all my friend told me was that
Clarissa was about my height, raven-haired, and would
be wearing red.

So I'm standing in the lobby of the Chastain Hotel,
which looks like every one of the five diamonds it
gets, scanning the lunch crowd nervously. I see
berry-red pantsuits, blood-red jackets, brick-red
blouses, and even a crimson sun hat. And all of them
with dark hair.

But like they say in the old war movies, you never see
the one with your name on it.

I had just about convinced myself that one of the
pantsuits was my date when a hand flew out from behind
and spun me around. I barely had a second to notice the
fire-engine red vision -- from 4-inch fuck-mes to
micromini to spangly tube top to blazing lips -- when
those lips were plastered to mine and my tongue was
going best two falls out of three in a wrestling match.
Whoever this woman was, she certainly seemed friendly.
Her body was pressed to mine tightly, nipples poking my
chest, one leg wrapped around my thighs. Her hands
gripped my head, pulling me into the long, long kiss.
There have been boy bands whose entire
teenybopper-blessed careers haven't lasted as long as
that kiss.

When she finally let me gasp for air, she shoved one
hand onto my crotch and checked out my burgeoning
hard-on.

"You'll do," she said, pulling me by the belt toward
the hotel restaurant.

"I'll do what?"

The woman in red looked exasperated. "It's a first
date," she said. "I won't know that until dessert, at
least."

"But you don't know who I am, do you? I sure don't know
you."

"I'm Clarissa," she said. "And if you're not the guy I
was supposed to meet, who cares? You still give good
tongue, and the rest of you seems glad to meet me."

It quickly became apparent that my buddy had not been
concerned about anything as pedestrian as my
self-image. He had diagnosed me as too boring and had a
precise prescription: sex and thrills. At the same
time.

Clarissa all but raped me that first day. I was pulled
along in her wake into a torrid affair. Meals and the
theater and such were just things to do in between
fucking. And it was indeed fucking. No pretense of
"making love" for Clarissa.

Nor was simply falling into bed good enough for her. At
first it was things I could handle, like hot kisses in
the theater lobby at intermission and the missionary
position on her kitchen floor. But more and more, her
passion for public displays of affection intersected
with her passion for passion.

We took a flight to Hawaii: She blew me in the
bathroom. We got to our condo: She had me pump her on
the patio; I was actually grateful we'd gotten stuck on
the top floor. Late one moonlit night she found an
empty stretch of beach: We had sex on the sand.

Increasingly, sex on a bed was too mundane for her --
unless the bed was set up in a furniture store at noon
on a busy Saturday. (No, we didn't -- but she did give
me a handjob in the religion aisle of a Barnes & Noble
one slow Sunday morning. I swear you could hear the
gates of heaven clanging closed.)

I am not a prude, and Clarissa was definitely worth the
risks. But I started to balk at some of her more
flamboyant ideas. Yes, I crawled under the table at my
cousin Eddie's wedding and chewed Clarissa's cunt --
Eddie's mom never liked me anyway and she'd stuck me in
the back of the hall with the bride's stepfather's
second wife's nephews and two couples who vaguely
remembered having known Eddie at some summer camp. And
yes, Clarissa and I did do the horizontal rhumba on a
gurney in an emergency room after she'd cut her leg
slightly trying to climb out onto a rocky ledge
overlooking the local monastery.

But I drew the line at tit-fucking her in a rowboat at
the park lagoon. (I tried to use the excuse that I
can't swim, but she pointed out that the lagoon's only
two feet deep.) And I absolutely refused to do a 69 in
the glass elevator of our big local mall on the Friday
after Thanksgiving.

"You're no fun anymore," Clarissa said with a frown. I
was afraid I was losing her, and I wasn't sure if that
would be a bad thing or not.

Because Clarissa's penchant for public pubic activity
was getting awkward, and we didn't have anything in our
relationship but sex -- but that sex was amazing.

Clarissa had a body that would have made the Pope
sweat. She's the only woman I've ever seen who had a
figure of Barbie-doll proportions: long, long legs, a
tiny waist between moderate hips and big tits that
defied gravity. Her oval face rode atop a regally long
neck. Throw in bee-stung lips, doe eyes and a halo of
sun-blonde hair and that's her.

As if her natural attractions weren't enough, she had a
pro's touch with a makeup brush. Sapphire eyeshadow,
blushing cheeks, a high gloss on those sensuous lips.
And a wardrobe that could get arrested for prostitution
just hanging in the closet. Never has so little cloth
done so much for mankind. Tiny skirts that would barely
have covered her panties -- if she ever wore panties.
For more demure occasions she could slip into a pair of
black leather pants that fit her tighter than the cow
they were skinned off, so tight you could count the
hairs of her bush -- if she didn't shave herself back
to virginal smoothness.

She didn't have a single pair of "sensible" shoes.
Nothing but spikes and platforms.

Her tops came in two types: tight and tighter. No, I
lie: She also had an array of men's shirts (I presume
her version of notches on the bedstead) which she wore
unbuttoned and knotted above the navel. They flapped
open so much they would have shown most of her bra --
if she ever wore one of those, either.

For the most formal events she did have clothes in
reserve -- silk dresses that looked like they'd require
paint remover to get off; chiffon and lace concoctions
more transparent than Macy's windows and with a much
more interesting display of goods inside. Once she took
me to a funeral -- I don't know whether she knew the
dead guy's family or just wanted an excuse for our
post-burial fuck among the tombstones. Anyway, I was in
a suit and tie (I never did get the grass stains off
the knees). Very proper. Clarissa showed up in black.
As in a black leather bustier that did, indeed, make
her bust bustier. A black lace skirt that let everyone
see the results of her below-the-belt barbering.
Strappy black heels. In short, she looked so hot that
if they'd opened up the other half of the casket they'd
have had visual proof that she could make a stiff
stiff.

On top of her looks, on top of her clothes, Clarissa in
bed -- or anywhere else -- was a wet dream come to
life. Emphasis on the "come."

She sucked cock like a Hoover with lips. She could and
did take me down to the root -- I'm no stallion, but, I
mean, she didn't gag or anything. I think her throat
was double-jointed.

And she fucked even better than she sucked. Lying down,
sitting up, standing, squatting, on all fours, or any
other position you could name -- and several that I'm
pretty sure have no names -- Clarissa gave as good as
she got. She could flex the muscles of her cunt like a
boa constrictor and pound her hips faster than a
hummingbird flaps its wings. Yeah, she fucked like a
bunny -- like the Energizer bunny. Except he keeps
going and going. She kept coming and coming. I swear
she could have an orgasm if you just touched the tip of
her nose. Do you realize what it does to a guy's ego
when he's gotten a woman off six times in one night?
And for Clarissa, that would just be shooting par. She
made me feel like the greatest lover in the world.

So she was perfect except for the one teeny, tiny,
infinitesimal flaw: She was stark raving crazy about
exhibitionist sex.

I couldn't tear myself away from her, but on the other
hand I'd gotten kind of used to not being jailed on
morals charges. It was a dangerous line I was walking.

So when Clarissa came up with her next bright idea for,
as she put it, "livening up our relationship," I was
very aware what was riding on my answer. Saying no
would almost certainly send her off to find someone
more adventurous. The sane part of me had no problem
with that. But the sane part wasn't in charge. I had a
Clarissa addiction and all I could do was say yes.

She wanted to have sex on the subway. At rush hour.
Anonymous sex, she said. And when I asked what that
meant she said the rules were I couldn't speak to her.
Had to go along with whatever she did, no questions, no
hesitation. All she would promise me was that she
thought we could get away with it -- and that I would
be surprised.

In fact, it was all going to be like a secret
rendezvous. We would get on the train separately -- she
had the timing down to a science. It was supposed to
happen like a chance encounter. Beyond that, Clarissa
would only smile mysteriously.

The last time she'd pulled one of these play-acting
stunts, she'd met me at a park dressed in a Catholic
schoolgirl's uniform and made me walk through the park
with her, hand in hand, with everyone staring at me
like a babysnatcher, before pulling me into the bushes
and into her bush. I was not a little afraid of what
she had in mind this time.

The next afternoon, I rushed out of work and checked my
watch carefully. At the appointed time I wormed my way
onto the second car from the rear of the northbound
train. I hadn't spotted Clarissa, but she had to be
around somewhere.

The subway was as jammed as ever that day. Some blonde
almost removed my spleen with her elbow as we jostled
together. It was Easter week, so besides the regular
work crowds there were lots of schoolkids. I tried to
find a spot away from them as much as possible.
Clarissa was not likely to worry about whether there
were any minors around when she pounced, so I had quick
nightmares of some little kid yelling "Mommy, Mommy,
look at the funny way those people are kissing!"

I excuse me'd and sorry'd my way through the car
without seeing Clarissa. I finally had my progress
completely blocked by the packed passengers at the far
end of the car. Almost at the same time another surge
of passengers boarded at the next stop and I was
trapped like a sardine -- and believe me, the crowd was
almost as smelly -- in the aisle between two sets of
doors. Only the pressure from all sides kept me upright
when the train lurched into motion; there were metal
half-walls forming the sides of benches on either side
of me, but several layers of standing passengers kept
me from grabbing either wall for support. We were
packed so tightly that I couldn't raise my arms from my
sides without elbowing at least two people. It was so
crowded that your "personal space" -- the zone other
folks had to stay outside to avoid discomforting you --
shrank and shrank to avoid overloading your brain. I
could feel it contracting. It had started out at the
normal foot or two, but quickly zoomed inward. I
thought it was stabilizing somewhere around the outside
of my clothes, but it kept going. In seconds I was so
adjusted to conditions that my brain wouldn't have
objected if someone's finger sank three inches deep
into my flesh. Which wasn't that far-fetched; there are
Siamese twins who aren't as close as we all were.

Gradually, though, I began to notice that someone
seemed closer than everyone else. Someone behind me
kept brushing the back of my neck.

With no small amount of difficulty I spun around. The
annoying rubbing, it turned out, was the flapping of a
veil. A brown veil of heavy cloth. A nun's veil.

Oh, she had outdone herself.

Though she kept her back turned and didn't say a word,
I knew it was Clarissa. Right height. Right build, from
what I could tell under the habit, a loose, bulky robe
that fell all the way to the floor. And just the right
degree of outrageousness to the whole idea.

But how was she going to do me? I figured a hand job,
with the oversized sleeve of her habit covering it up.

But I was underestimating my Clarissa.

As the train bounced and heaved, we were all being
tossed against each other. Only I noticed that one
person kept bumping me in what you might call a most
intriguing way.

Standing as we were, Clarissa's ass was perfectly
aligned with my crotch. Every lurch had her butt
bopping me. In no time flat I had a hard-on that
pointed straight at her.

I could have waited for her to take the initiative,
like I always did, but I figured I needed to prove I
wasn't a wimp after backing out of her earlier
suggestions. And I realized part of the point of the
nun's habit must be that she was playing the innocent.

If that was how she wanted to play it, I thought, fine.
This really could be my chance to prove I was no prude.

The next time the train's motion brought us together, I
was ready. I met the bump of her ass with a little
extra zing. Her shoulders flinched.

After another bump or two, I kicked up the heat a
notch. I not only met her bump for bump, I pressed
forward, riding her ass for a moment before I backed
off. Gradually I increased the time we were in contact
until we were virtually joined at the hips. I kept
rubbing my crotch into her, going with the rhythm of
the train.

I was actually getting into it, without any qualms.
This whole sex-in-public idea was turning me on.

If anything, it wasn't enough. A dry hump is bad
enough, but the heavy cloth of her robe and the zipper
over my cock were making this like kissing through
glass. I wanted more. Hell, I needed more.

First things first: My zipper was definitely in the
way. With the noise of the train, no one noticed when I
eased my fly open. But a few experimental rubs against
Clarissa's rump proved it wasn't much help. Without a
lot of thought, I reached down again. This time I
brought my rod out into the open. It was a delicate
operation because I was as stiff as a girder, but I
eased my rod out.

This was getting risky, and I hadn't completely lost my
mind. In the subway, especially one as crowded as this,
people don't look down. And the side of the car we were
on was going to be against the tunnel wall for a long
time; no worry about the doors opening and spilling us
out onto the platform. Still, better safe than sari, as
the woman said while she walked around Bhopal in a
chemical protection suit.

I covered myself with one hand as the other slid around
Clarissa's hips. Applying gentle pressure, I pulled her
back so my cock buried itself in her robe, all but out
of sight. When I resumed our rhythm, it was definitely
better; I could feel my rod settling into the crack of
her as like a frankfurter in a bun. I put both hands on
her hips. She was a little awkward at first, which was
OK. I figured it went with the whole act. But soon she
got into it too, giving me a little twist of her ass
from time to time. I looked down and saw a small spot
of wetness on the habit as precum oozed out of me.

Too many years of Catholic school education and too
many repressed fantasies about nuns, I guess, but I
almost lost it right then and there. I had to marshal
all my willpower to keep from slamming my sausage
against her in a few brutally quick thrusts and
blasting my jism all over her habit.

But I held back and gradually got back into a normal
rhythm, clutching Clarissa's butt to me. I threw
several sidelong glances, but no one seemed to be
noticing anything amiss. Same old same old, lights
flashing past every few seconds like megaton fireflies
in the darkness, cold neon tubes in the train washing
the color out of everyone's faces inside. Three guys
sitting side by side on a bench, silently struggling
against each other for elbow room. There was some kind
of commotion at the far end of the car; all I could see
was a big ball of blonde hair bobbing around in the
crowd of heads. Another passenger who'd missed her stop
and was trying to shove her way to the door. You can't
wait until the last second when a train's so crowded;
you have to strike out several stops ahead and take
advantage of every opening, however small. Saying
"excuse me" has as much effect as shushing a
locomotive.

It was a dry hump steady as a train that I was giving
Clarissa. My rubbing and the pressure of my grip had
pulled up her robe a bit; the folds of cloth bunched
around her waist grew slowly but surely. Underneath,
slowly revealed, were a pair of plain black flats and
beige pantyhose. Quite a change from Clarissa's usual
attire; she was playing this role to the hilt.

But I was getting too horny to play much longer. I
pulled up on her outfit more boldly now, heaving it up
inch by inch. The hem crept past her knees. It started
moving even faster. I looked down; she had grabbed her
robe in both hands and was pulling up. This was more
like it. I let her take over there as I slid my hands
around to her stomach, pulling her tight to me.

A blast of air when the door opened across from us came
as a shock; we froze. But the car was still so packed
that there was hardly any movement. By the time the
door shut again, we were back at it.

But it seemed wise to check out the crowd again. Still
no sign we'd attracted any attention. Everyone had
their vacant, glassy riding-in-an-elevator stares in
place. Though it was noisy enough, it was a white noise
that drowns everything else. All I could hear above it
was, just barely, some hubbub in the middle of the car.
Couldn't make out what it was, but when I looked over
the blonde head from before seemed to be in the middle
of it. Jeez, had she completely missed the door on her
end and gotten swept to the middle? Some people just
aren't cut out for public transportation.

Clarissa had managed to get her robe almost all the way
up to her waist as I returned my attention to her. I
pulled back from her ass for a second and she yanked it
up the rest of the way, then let it drop back down. The
robe fell over our junction, neatly concealing my cock
as it rutted against her firm ass with only her
underwear between us. But it wouldn't have been much of
a secret to anyone who bothered to look. Her habit,
trapped in back and falling only to her knees in front,
exposed her spread legs. I was plastered against her
from foot to head, my face buried in the folds of the
hood that concealed her face from me. Our asses were
banging back and forth. And my hands had crept up and
found openings in the sides of the habit; sneaking
inside I'd gotten hold of her tits, encased in a bulky
bra. Clarissa continued to amaze me: I'd never seen her
in anything but sheer silk or nipple-baring push-ups
before. It took me awhile to remember long-unused
skills and manage to unhook her bra without seeing it,
but in time I was able to slide the stiff cups off her
and put my hands directly on her quivering tits.

Quivering, indeed. I could feel her heart thumping as I
massaged her full breasts. Clarissa usually was a bit
blase about having her tits manipulated, but this time
her nipples quickly grew rock-hard under my touch.

Meanwhile I kept humping against her. The friction of
her nylon-covered ass was too much for me. With a grunt
and a groan, I felt my cum begin to surge. I tried to
pull back but Clarissa shoved her gyrating rear back at
me. Two quick thrusts and burst of hot cum jetted out
of me.

She might not have felt it, for she continued to bump
her rump into me. But soon the friction on my cock
became agony, not ecstasy, and I squirmed to keep her
away. When she persisted, I realized I had better
satisfy her some other way.

While my left hand continued to play with her chest, I
slid out my right and slipped it under the hem of the
heavy brown robe. She stiffened for a moment when my
fingers drifted over her crotch, but relaxed as I
brushed lightly over her stomach.

Slowly I edged upward until I reached the waistband of
her pantyhose. Pressing my hand against her hot flesh,
I eased under the elastic. Just inside I felt something
soft and slightly fuzzy. Wow, I thought: cotton
panties. I'll bet they're white, too. Nice touch.

I pressed into them. Quickly I encountered a forest of
crinkly hairs -- Clarissa believed in the natural look 
-- and kept going. I could already feel the heat. It
felt like a sauna (to mention another place we'd once
made out).

Down I went, feeling the dampness of her panties on the
back of my hand. Down to the first traces of slickness,
to the soft, wet folds of her pussy.

I slid my hand completely over her opening, cupping it
and squeezing gently. She responded to me, beginning to
hump against my hand. As her movement got stronger I
bent my middle finger, letting her own motion push it
inside her.

It plunged through her outer lips like pushing your
finger into a warm stick of butter. Bit by bit I
pressed deeper. When my finger was in all the way I
began the old in-and-out. My thumb found her clit; just
a touch of it set off a shudder that made her whole
body vibrate against me. Clarissa had never reacted
like that before.

As I continued to finger-fuck her, her head lolled back
against mine and she sagged slightly. I put my left arm
around her waist to hold her steady.

Soon her own hands closed over mine, urging me on. I
pressed deeper, faster, twisting my finger from side to
side, twiddling her clit. Faster than Clarissa had ever
done before, she came, her body seizing and releasing
several times. Loud, long moans rose above the racket
of the train. Anyone who hadn't noticed them surely
would have smelled the pungent odor her hot cunt gave
off.

Sure enough, when I looked around behind hooded eyes,
our fellow passengers were maintaining their facade of
nonchalance but they had all moved away from us. Along
the walls and in the aisles they were stacked like
cordwood, but Clarissa and I had several precious
square feet of space all to ourselves, an island of
lust in a sea of tranquility.

Well, mostly tranquility. The blonde -- I couldn't see
if she was a bombshell, but she was certainly exploding
-- appeared to be throwing some elbows as she continued
to work her way through the crowd. With her battering
on one side and us humping on the other, the passengers
in between were hard-pressed to keep their faces blank.
With the train crammed full, the rest of the passengers
were simply hard-pressed.

Me, I was just hard.

My cock had come back to life, riding straight and
stiff along the crack of her ass. True, we were on a
crowded subway. True, we already had attracted
attention. But if I ever were to prove to Clarissa that
I was the man for her, now was time. Besides, I was
just damn horny.

And so I figured in for a penny, in for a pounding. I
rolled Clarissa's pantyhose to her knees. I'd been
right; her cotton panties were white. I peeled them
down, too, revealing the glorious globes of her ass.
Boy, was I glad I'd picked the end of the car away from
the schoolkids.

Clarissa, apparently spent by her orgasm, had slumped
forward. I put my arms around her to keep her on her
feet. My cock lay between her ass cheeks plump and
happy, and for a moment I considered tubing her up the
butt. I'm not an anal fan, though. I wanted that creamy
cunt, and I wanted it now.

Since Clarissa was already bent slightly at the waist,
I had only to let her bend more to bring her pussy into
position. Thanks to the way everyone was avoiding us,
she was able to hold onto a railing for support as she
spread her legs. I let my cock trail down her ass crack
and slip underneath her. With one hand I guided the
head of my dick to her slick tunnel entrance. She
wiggled her ass when I teased my cock across the
opening a few times. She was right; this was no time
for folderol.

Holding my rod steady, I lined it up and drove forward.
It shot through her pussy lips, which snugly closed
around the shaft.

But I couldn't drive in to the hilt. I figured I must
have used the wrong angle; we hadn't tried doggy-style
very often. Twice I pulled out and tried again; twice I
slid in halfway and got stuck. On the third try
Clarissa pushed her ass back to meet my thrust and,
after a momentary hesitation, my cock was fully buried
in her hot hole.

She shrieked as I shoved in and clamped her legs
together, almost squeezing my balls into pancakes. I
held back after that; Clarissa had never reacted like
that before and I thought it was taking the naive nun
routine a little far. But in a little while she eased
her legs open and started moving her cunt back and
forth. Cautiously at first, I responded.

I hadn't remembered it ever being that good before. Her
pussy held me in a tight but gentle caress all the way
in, and she wiggled and jiggled until the very root of
my rod was gripped by her hot, wet labia. We bucked
together, matching thrust for thrust, so my hard cock
slid almost all the way out, bulbous tip just barely
inserted, before it drove back in, popping past her
pussy lips, smoothly entering her warm internal
embrace.

My hands roamed the lush body beneath her concealing
robe, tracing the curves of her ass, riding up and down
her legs. When I reached around and found her clit with
my index finger, she moaned so deeply my cock tingled
inside her. I had to bring a hand up to wipe the sweat
from my eyes as our rutting took on more speed and
intensity.

I was only moving a couple inches in and out of her
now, but they were sharp, savage thrusts, being met by
equally violent movements from her.  When I grabbed her
around the waist I couldn't keep my grip on her
sweat-slick skin and I pushed her robe higher and
higher. Lost in passion, I used one hand to yank off my
belt and pull down my pants. Frustrated because my cock
was still trapped in the fly of my briefs, I tore them
apart, leaving the shreds hanging from the elastic
waistband.

My shirt was plastered to my back. I was all but
oblivious to the cool breeze when the subway doors flew
open at a station. Half-naked and consumed by my
desires, I concentrated on fucking Clarissa's eager
cunt.

She was shouting with every thrust, a mix of incoherent
yells and a lot of "Yes!" and "Oh!" and the occasional
"Oh! Yes! Baby!" Our fucking was so furious that it had
sent her voice up a whole octave.

I wasn't much more articulate myself. "Oh, yeah, take
it, baby, take it," was about as lucid a sentence as I
could string together.

But it wasn't about words. It was about flesh on flesh,
cock in cunt, the old in-and-out. We were in a cycle,
fast and then slow, rough and then nice and easy.
Clarissa's robe was bunched up to her neck now and I
was rubbing her back -- it looked so pale in the
train's lights. Her bra fell to the floor and I reached
around and got two heaping handfuls of tit, massaging
them as I fucked into her over and over.

Her cries rode the scales as we matched each other
stroke for stroke in perfect rhythm. The sight of her
naked beauty and the thought of our public act pushed
my passion into overdrive. I slammed my cock into her
eager cunt over and over, harder and harder. My balls
slapped back and forth. Her pussy was so well
lubricated by then that I had begun to lose crucial
friction, and I had to corkscrew into her to push my
cock closer to the edge.

Even so, I would feel myself edging near an orgasm only
to have the sensation ebb. My legs were growing weak.
My hair was matted to my skull, my shirt a sodden mess.
I was taking in air in huge, open-mouthed gulps. And
still we fucked in harmony.

Then came the time when the feeling rose and it did not
fall. A tightness gripped my balls and I could feel my
cock becoming even more engorged, filling Clarissa's
cunt wall to wall as I took my fast, deep strokes. I
began pulling her onto my rod, tugging at her waist,
grabbing at her veil. It came off in my hands as my cum
blasted out of me, huge hot spurts shooting into her
body. I forced my cock as deeply into her as I could,
holding myself inside as the last pulses died away.

Even as my dick began to deflate Clarissa called my
name over and over. It was confusing to  hear her
orgasmically emphatic shouts but see her staggering
upright as my cock slipped out of her. What's more, the
shouts seemed to be coming from behind me.

I turned and saw a woman who seemed, in my dazed
exhaustion, to resemble Clarissa, but with blonde hair.
I turned back to my fuck partner and was disturbed to
see that pulling off her veil had revealed a head of
short-cropped blonde hair.

As I twisted my head back and forth between them, the
woman in the nun's habit settled her robe and veil back
in place. Under closer scrutiny, she didn't resemble
Clarissa much at all; her nose was narrower, her mouth
wider, her forehead bigger and her eyes darker.

The blonde behind me, on the other hand, had a very
familiar scowl. She put a hand to her head and lifted
off a wig, uncovering a tousled raven mane. "This was
supposed to be your fucking surprise," Clarissa said as
she flung the wig in my face and stormed off the train.

The nun who was not Clarissa but was, apparently, very
much a real nun said nothing as she slipped away in
Clarissa's wake.

I was left there butt-naked. I am still trying to
forget how I got home.

Remember how I said going with Clarissa was like
teaching yourself to parachute?

Breaking up with her was about the same.

Without the chute.