October 16, 2008
Desert Dreams


or Tall Women with Short Dark Hair

Living in the desert motivates you to get up early. Just on the edge of darkness is best. Get up, start the coffee and shuffle through the beat-up screen door onto the porch — the front porch in my case, because it faces east. Naked. That’s important. No one will see you naked on your porch at dawn and if they did they wouldn’t care. Desert dwellers are like that. You can feel the air, softer and cooler than any sheets, enclose you. Desert air feels very personal when the sun is just about to wink over the mountains, when the sky is stained with peach-amber fading to luminous gray and gray to royal blue. The last few stars who have not yet called it a night palely gleam and in the absolute stillness of dawn their winking carries its own music. So sit down on the porch step and put your arms over your head. Open your legs. Wide. Nothing should be closed against air as sensitive as this. And most important of all, don’t wake up.

Dawn in the desert is for dreaming. Holding onto dreams that teased you just on the edge of perception. Out here you can grab those dreams and take them onto the porch with you and savor them while you wait for the coffee and masturbate.

At least that’s what I do. I lie back on the night-cooled boards of the front porch and do the old finger dance for the Sun — the ancient eye of the voyeur gods. Orgasm flows out of me like syrup at that hour, slow and sweet, and the desert soaks it up. The air thickens with my wetness and as I breath in the honey and musk, I often say Thank you, I’ll take two — with cream. If the morning’s especially greedy I’ll have three; the desert needs all the help it can get. When I’m done, so is the coffee and it’s safe let it pull me into consciousness. I’ve got the dreams safely stowed, ready to take out and finger when it gets too hot to be outside.

That won’t take long. By 9:00 AM it’ll be hot enough that just standing raises a sweat, and by 11:00 the heat will have fried the new crop of pancaked road rabbits onto the main highway hard enough that the crows can’t scrape off anything more, although nothing will stop them from trying. At noon, it goes right through you, so hot and clean it hollows you right out.

By then, I’ve usually finished my errands and have my elbows down in the Ivory suds, doing last night’s — or last week’s — dishes, depending. That’s when I take out the dreams again. This morning they’re dreams of tall women with short dark hair.

Dreams are where poetry begins — everyone’s a poet in the last five minutes before they wake up. Someday I’ll write these dreams in a poem for Loralynn that she will not read. Loralynn is my tall woman with short dark hair. That name is the softest thing about her and she never used it. Everyone called her Lynnie. I think Lynnie’s something of an exception to the poet-in-the-morning rule — she’s post-literate. Words weren’t real to Lynnie because they had no taste. Lynnie went through life tongue first.

We met in a bar in San Francisco where the beer glasses were none too clean and your arm stuck to the tabletop. She was tall and tanned and had muscles I could see all the way across the room, even with the bad light and thick air. Her eyes were hazel and her short dark hair pulled brass highlights out of the dull and ugly lamps. She saw me staring and came straight up to me and said, “Hi honey. Wanna go somewhere and suck face?”

That was how Lynnie talked. She had a Tennessee drawl and always began conversations with something like “Hi Sweetness, you look good enough to eat,” or “Hi, Sugar…” or “Hi Honey…” She meant `Honey’ in the most literal sense. If I’d known that at the time, I wouldn’t have told her to fuck off.

I was in San Francisco looking for a job, but my fresh Arizona State philosophy degree didn’t buy any better job there than it did back home in Tempe. I stayed for the atmosphere and because I could walk down the street holding hands with my girlfriends without causing civil unrest. Hell, we could even kiss at bus stops. But my plans didn’t include dykes with drawls who wore cowboy boots and faded cutoffs and wifebeaters the color of old cotton underwear. Frisco sophistication was more to my taste, and I’ll have my leather on the side, please.

Lynnie persisted and she was relentless. I hadn’t known many dykes back home and didn’t know this was one of their traits. She started doing things for me. When I moved, she got some friends together and helped me. She found out I liked oatmeal-raisin chocolate-chip cookies and made some. They were lousy — I don’t think she’d baked a cookie before in her life — but I ate them anyway. She showed up in my weekly women’s self-defense class wearing leotards in dangerous colors — the oranges and greens and red stripes of South American poison-arrow frogs. When she discovered I loved hats, she took me to Paul’s Hat Works and when I was dumb enough to coo over beautiful dark brown Bailey drover, she bought it for me. Somewhere in the midst of all this I discovered her oral fixation and wished I’d given in sooner.

Lynnie’s tongue was pure poetry and it could reach to the moon. Anyone who doesn’t believe that has never felt it. She taught me a lot. One afternoon, she pressed me up against the wall of my apartment with all my clothes on, held my arms over my head and taught me how to kiss. For about three hours. I never came so hard or jammed my tongue down someone’s throat again. When she went down on me, she split me like an apricot, holding my thighs up and apart while her tongue zapped me into orbit and my liquid appreciation ran down her chin.

But Lynnie didn’t like being licked as much as she liked licking. Every time I went down on her was like a hostile merger attempt. Very eighties. Lynnie preferred fucking — that was eighties too. To me, the whole decade was people fucking each other and me protesting it. Fucking wasn’t part of the lesbian trappings I’d acquired in college. Lesbian sex was supposed to be tender and gentle and very egalitarian. My college girlfriends and I cuddled and cooed and thought it was great. We giggled over strap-on’s and discussed fisting at length. We fantasized about, and even tried, a little light S/M, but mostly we longed for someone to show us how to do it right. That was what I went looking for in the San Francisco leather lairs, but I found it with Lynnie. The lipstick ladies with all their deliciously spicy little whips and clamps and restraints paled before Lynnie on all fours, that splendid ass arched high, that open waiting mango pussy creaming, screaming, “Fuck me! Fuck me, bitch! Fuck with your whole fucking arm!” and not caring who heard.

One morning she brought Sabr and her dick home, woke me up and cooed “Lookie, sugar, I brought you a surprise.” And Sabr, a stripper who did a little light hooking on the side, smiled a ten kilowatt fuck-me smile and slapped the huge rubber thing on her palm. We hadn’t been together a year yet and Lynnie already knew me that well, could tell just by my breathing or the heat of my skin or I don’t know what that I’d wake up wet and needy.

Ten minutes later I was on knees and elbows, Sabr had shot about a quart of lube up my ass and was freight-training that big rubber dolly in and out of me while I grunted into the vermilion temple between Lynnie’s thighs. Lynnie’s hands were playing me like a tactile scherzo for fingers and tongue while her rich sweet drawl poured over me like the nectar flowing down the inside of my legs — Come on, honey, take it for me. Let her fuck you, angle kitten, don’t you want it? I think you do… tell me I’m wrong, honey. Tell me you didn’t wake up all horny and wet this morning. Tell me you don’t want to lick me clean while she fucks me through you… Come on, sugar, tell me – but my mouth was full of our orgasm and I couldn’t tell her anything.

It didn’t last, of course. There’s a streak in Lynnie that’s pure predator. She could shred a heart faster than a butcher in China Town. After she’d fucked you blind, you’d find her sitting there in the sweat and wonderful reek of the crumpled sheets with your heart in her hands, smilingly asking “Chop or no chop?”

There’s no equilibrium in a relationship like that. I fought to find some, or make some, all that year and part of another. I was still trying when Lynnie’s friend Silk got all coked up and did a Peter Pan off the 23rd-floor balcony of a Vegas hotel. A month later a cheap trick dropped Sabr in an alley down in the Mission in couple of extra-strength garbage bags and my friend Janis died of AIDS. I began to wonder if Lynnie was waiting for me to slip next so she could eat me on the spot. I packed a suitcase full of clothes, threw my books into paper bags and my vibrator in my purse and fled back to Arizona — back home.

I hadn’t been there a week before I called Lynnie and begged her to move down with me. That predator streak was one of the things I most loved about her — it gave her grace. But she hated Arizona because it was dry and uptight and the heat in July could kill by 11:00 AM and everything was painted white so you could spot the scorpions before you stepped on one. Why the hell would I want to live in a place like that?

It’s my home, I argued, all that stuff’s an exaggeration. She argued back, I lost my temper, we called each other `fucking bitch’ about ten thousand times and I slammed down the phone.

Steam curls up from the dishes, kissing my arms and face and breasts. I haven’t seen Lynnie in years but my memories of that time are still broken glass in my throat. The steam’s making me sweat but not enough to hide the tears.

[to be continued. . . ]


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