Desert Dreams

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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’l 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.
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“A” is for Androgynous

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cydytame034.jpgShe had short brown hair like the boy who sat behind you in third grade: parted on the side, cut just above her ears, flopping slightly in her left eye. She, however, was no child. She was all woman, all five-feet something of her, all rangy length of arms and legs, all skinny-hot, milk-fleshed, tattooed beauty of her.

You’d see her at the gym because you were there and she was there and you seemed to have the same schedule. It happened once, twice, three times, and before you knew it, you were scanning the gym floor for her as you crossed to the locker room. You were disappointed if you didn’t see her. You tweaked your workout if you did.

The cardio could wait. You could do legs tomorrow. There was no reason why you couldn’t start chest with cable presses. There was no rule against it, and if there were, you were ready to say fuck it.

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My Michelle That Wasn’t

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cydytame161.jpgCrushes weren’t unusual when I was stripping. Surrounded by so much female flesh gyrating and writhing, airfucking for cash during those everlasting, carnival-lit nights, crushes on girls flitted like butterflies. I had them; others had them on me. Sometimes the stripclub crush resulted in mercurial sex or longer-lasting relationships; more often, they came to nothing. Just those warm fuzzy feelings shooting warming the dark, the natural progeny of faking sex, hot bodies, casual conversation, and the us-against-them, foxhole mentality of strippers awash in a world of customers.

There was one crush I had that felt different from the fast-burn lusts I had for other girls. This crush remains, even now a decade plus later, to sit apart from my erotic memories of other girls. This crush felt special.

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Words to Stitch on a Pillow

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cydypotd025.jpgI don’t have a family who passes much from generation to generation. There is a Hepplewhite table that used to hold our mail and telephone and now resides in my uncle’s log cabin in Wisconsin. There are some pieces of furniture and some sculpture that my grandfather crafted that are spread across three states and the respective homes of his four children. There are some Chinese vases and antique chopsticks and so forth that my great-grandfather brought back from China when he and his brothers taught English there.

And there are three pieces of matrilineal wisdom.

My great-grandmother said, “It hurts to be beautiful.”

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The Incredible Edible Ava

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cydytame065.jpgOne summer, a couple of years ago, I had this threesome. Clocking in at under forty minutes, it was quite possibly the fastest threesome in history. This threesome was with a totally forgettable man and Ava, this 23 year-old woman who is the postergirl for a new, uncharted, and busy sexuality.  Ava, a petite, busty, exotically sloe-eyed brunette, is married; she also has a male lover, and she regularly has threesomes with both her husband and her lover, though with separate women. (I shudder to think about the cryptography of her Blackberry.) Moreover, she comes at the drop of a g-string and claims to spend most of her time at her desk at work with ben-wa balls inserted in her small, pink pussy, chatting with girls online.

Ava is a tiny powerbunny of sexual energy. She flounced into the hotel room of the world’s fastest threesome, exclaiming, “I came seven times this morning with my rabbit.” Then she took a fast slug of wine out of the open bottle resting on the laminate dresser and undressed so quickly I don’t recall she was ever even wearing clothes.

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