The first time we fucked my face was squashed between a seatbelt buckle and the right-side door. It started out clumsy and uncomfortable, like trying to swing dance in a dumbwaiter. His shoulder kept knocking against the headrest, and I was terrified that my nose was somehow going to force up the door handle and send me tumbling pantless from the truck. But after the front seats were reclined up near the windshield and the back of my head was propped up against a pile of his sweatshirts, we found the rhythm. It was like kick drums and base guitar, fierce and steady and aggressive, and after a minute I forgot about the car rocking and the parking lot shoppers and got lost in the spiral.
When it was over we were human again. Sweaty, flushed, and sprawled out at odd angles on the back seat, we caught our breath. I realized I was still wearing my work shirt and name-tag. He reached around me for his pack of Camels, pulled out two, and cracked the rear window.