When my wife was alive and commuting daily at least 45 minutes to work, she loved recorded books, mostly mysteries and usually abridged. For a few years I joined her in the commute and it was obvious how the recorded books relieved the tedium of the drive and I had to agree with her, the abridged versions left out a lot of boring description and made the trip more pleasant. Due to the number and size of the abridged tapes, she was enjoying a typical novel in just two days. Recorded books were, as they say, better than mayonnaise.
I knew a few readers that used recorded books to cover the hours washing dishes, weeding the garden, or ironing the sheets (they still do that?). Being an avid reader myself, I tried recorded books, thinking it was another avenue to expand my reading. What a disaster!
When they stormed the high walls I slipped my arm along the back of the seat, timing my questing fingers to the explosion of the black powder cannons. As the rebellious hordes raced through the streets and alleys I dangled my fingers lower and gradually cupped her right breast. She remained focused on the sounds and sights of the siege on the Technicolor screen. Suddenly there was a breakthrough from below and I reached with the other hand to slip under her dress and stroke the inside of her thigh. She rushed two defensive hands to her lap and repulsed my flanking maneuver. I retreated but immediately attempted to make a new breakthrough below. Again a flurry of hands repulsed me. I sat back, regrouped, and accepted a conciliatory kiss. My hand never left her breast.
Originally published 41 years ago. Borrowed from repost at Daily Kos, Brainwrap.