I remember the exact day COVID-19 became real for me because while everyone else was panic buying toilet roll and stock piling hand sanitiser, I had mind-blowing apocalyptic sex on the couch of my f***buddy’s flat while his housemates were at the pub.
March 15: I ran a half marathon that morning – one of the last major events in the US city I was in before lockdown – while trying to process the latest news out of Australia that I would have to quarantine for two weeks when I landed in Perth the following weekend, and that the two weddings I’d planned my holiday home around were very likely to be cancelled.
Three days earlier, my entire company had been given marching orders to work remotely and shops, restaurants and bars were preparing to close their doors.
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As tensions rose across the city, people had already begun to socially distance and hugging was now off-limits. But my god, what that does for the libido…
Post-race. Two lines, one text. Me – “The world is ending. Wanna meet for a drink tonight?”
6:45 pm: I had barely made it through the front door before he had me pinned underneath him, sprawled across the tiny two-seater sofa, his hands hitching up my skirt and yanking down my tights. With the undeniably sexy risk of his housemates walking in on us at any moment, we made full use of every available position.