Sonia is on a road trip, a road trip far away from the husband who was driving her nuts and away from her two young sons, her boys, whom she loves, but occasionally feels she does not deserve. She is very pregnant with her third child –what the fuck? --and has developed a bad case of hemorrhoids, truck driver hemorrhoids, pregnant lady hemorrhoids. But now, she sits happily on her newly purchased donut, that special thing truck drivers sit on to relieve their asshole pain. She starts the car. She sits still for a minute, the car humming, and feels her ass cheeks spread open because of the donut hole. This is the point of the donut, to free all pressure from her asshole. Does she feel relief? She sits there for a bit, in the parking lot of the Big Lots in western Illinois. To figure out if the donut is really helping her. Her ass is smeared with preparation H—which she administered in the bathroom at Big Lots—and now she has her donut. Hmm. It seems to help, but it puts a bit of pressure on her lower back, which was aching a bit, anyway. She scoots around, finds a way of perching on her donut and resting her lower back against the seat that seems to feel the best. And then she backs her station wagon out of the parking spot.

Four hours later and it’s dark. She’s not ready to stop at a motel yet. Her ass feels great. Just fine. What a difference the donut has made, she feels she could drive forever! Tonight, she’ll drive late into the night, or so she thinks. She will drive, drive, drive! She is sick of all her CDs, or rather, she is taking a break from them before she gets completely sick of them, and she’s listening to the radio, listening to a classical station. Sonia doesn’t listen to tons of classical music, but she does listen to a bit of it. She listened to more of it in high school, with her Dad, before she moved out and rock and roll took over her life. And yet, she knows this music! How exciting! It is Ravel, the piano concertos. Beautiful pieces; sad, lovely, emotional. Moving. Soaring at times, perhaps even emotionally manipulative. But that is what she likes about music, perhaps what she likes most about all music. It can make you feel what it wants you to feel. It can take control. She turns it up and her heart clenches. Her boys. No, no she can’t think of them. Willing herself to think of something else, she thinks of her donut. Ah, the power of the mind. The mind can switch around, can move, can un-stick itself, not always, but sometimes. Her shiny, plastic, dark blue donut that is cradling the fat of her ass. She starts moving her ass around, and her lower back is enjoying it, too. She’s massaging her lower back against the back of the car seat, and her butt cheeks on the sturdy, but cushiony curves of her donut. Now, in her mental vision, comes the sight of what is floating free in the hole of the donut. Her oversized, red, slightly angry pussy. The baby is pushing down on all of her organs and her vagina gets so much blood trapped down there. She remembers the thought she had during her first pregnancy—monkeys with their red swollen genitalia have nothing on me. And so it was and so it is again.

Now, Sonia scoots her ass around so that she is gripping the sides of the donut with her ass cheeks. She manages to move the donut with the grip of her butt, so that she now perches on the side of it, rather than sitting on it as she’s meant to sit on it. No more floating in the hole. No more parts of her being suspended in free air. No, now she feels the lips of her crotch embracing the plastic of the donut. She swerves a bit during this maneuvering and looks in the rearview mirror. Her breathe is coming a bit more quickly now; she’s nervous. No one behind her, no one immediately behind her. There are some lights far back, far, far back, as this Midwestern highway is so straight and flat she can see for what seems like forever.

She begins grinding, back and forth, back and forth. God. It’s been too long since she masturbated. During her first pregnancy, she masturbated every day. Like a guy. Like a fifteen-year-old boy. Hell, she had been in her late twenties and still thought fucking and coming were the most important things in life. My, how things change. During her second pregnancy, she had little time to herself, what with her son running around. But when he napped in the afternoon, she sometimes got to masturbate. Sometimes, she read a magazine, or returned phone calls. But sometimes, she took a “nap”, which meant, jacked off. But this pregnancy, she can count how many times she’s done it, taken care of herself.

It’s not easy to lift her body—she’s getting quite big and unmanageable at this stage of her pregnancy—but she does it, lifts herself out of the seat, grunting to do so, and she takes one hand off the wheel and with the other hand, pulls up her skirt and pulls down her sticky panties. The car is swerving, but she’s in control, she is, and she slows down, too. Indeed, she stops pressing the accelerator at all. She gets her panties to her mid-thighs and then falls back down on the donut. Ummph. Now, from a more relaxed sitting position, she pulls her panties down to her ankles. First one side, then the other, until the panties drop down to her ankles, and she can kick them off, just by lifting one foot, and then the other. No more panties! It’s just her wet, needy pussy and the cool, slick plastic of the donut. Back and forth, back and forth. God! Ravel is getting excited, too. Swirling around, quickly, wrenchingly. It’s painful music, but beautifull. She feels tears come to her eyes—these concertos always made her cry, she remembers—but she can’t ever remember crying while masturbating. This is a new one. She also is pretty sure she’s never masturbated in a car, or at least not while trying to drive one. She’s given blow jobs in cars, been fingered and fucked in cars, once had her pussy eaten out in a car, but she’s never masturbated in a car, especially not while driving. Back and forth, around and around. Her ass tenses. Is she going to make it? Well, yes. Too soon? Perhaps there is no too soon in a car, on a highway. Perhaps quick is the point. She looks down at her body—it is the Venus de Milo. Round, wet, a bit smelly. She reaches down into her T-shirt to grab a breast and manages without too much trouble. Her breast is wet, with sweat, with that humid nipple sweat that happens when she’s in an excited state. God help her. She pinches her nipple, hard. A white drop appears on the edge of her nipple and then drips down. Soon, she’ll have milk. Her breasts when she is nursing are the most erotic thing to her. For a moment, she can’t see. This scares her. Should she pull over to finish herself off? She can’t look into the mirror, it would ruin it. She’s so close. She can do it. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. Like that book she reads to her boys about that damn train, as she grinds against the donut.

She puts her hand on her other breast and squeezes it, massages it, pinches her other nipple. She loves her pregnant tits. Loves them. She thinks of the Almodovar movie, where one of his female characters says of women: “We’re all assholes. And a bit lesbo.” Anyone who’s ever masturbated is a bit homosexual, no? But just a bit. Because mostly, while she enjoys touching her body, she thinks of men fucking her to get to the end. She usually closes her eyes tight and thinks of men in and on and around her pussy.

But she can’t close her eyes, unless she were to pull over, which it looks like she might have to do. Grinding, grinding, lifting her ass a bit higher so her pussy is barely grazing the donut, teasing it, and then slamming it down and grinding it hard. Oh, God! It’s a car. A police car behind her! Maybe he’s driving past? To get some speeding villain? She’s not driving fast at all! In fact, oh fuck, she’s driving really slowly. Please Mister Policeman, don’t pull me over. His lights glare at her and she looks at him through the sideview mirror. She’s right there… she’s so close. She slaps her breasts. Bad, bad, bad. She is a very bad lady. He flashes his lights at her. Fuck, fuck, he’ll see her pussy! He’ll know! He’ll smell her in the car! He’ll…fuck her. Come and fuck her.

Through the loudspeaker comes the, “pull over your car.” Sonia puts both hands on the wheel and pulls over, grinding on her donut all the more quickly. She’s sweating now, her face flushed, her hair damp. She stops the car, she knows she has a minute or two, before the cop comes out of the car, she’s been pulled over once or twice before, she knows the drill, he’s doing a check on her license plate number, or at least writing it down, it’s exciting, shaming, yes, yes, shaming and exciting, and now that she’s pulled over, she has both hands free and she puts a finger inside of herself and with the other hands rubs herself and yes, yes! He’s coming out of the car to get her! Ravel has reached his crescendo, her heart is flying with the music and, and yes! He’s walking this way, and maybe he’s young and mean and strong and yes! Yes! Oooooh, yes! Ooh. Oh. Yes.

Sonia slumps forward and her hands come out of her dress. She wipes them on her thighs. She’s shaking, red-faced, her hair glued to her forehead in dark, wet clumps. Her lips are dry from the hot breath coming out of her mouth. Was it the best orgasm of her life? Why compare. It is what it is. There is a cop shining a light at her. She rolls down her window.

“Can I see your license and registration, ma’am?”