The Smell of the Desert
Phoenix is just the place for parking lot sex. The whole city is basically one giant parking lot\’an asphalt abyss stretching for impassible miles. Strip malls are more prevalent than scorpions in this desert.
It was one of those beautiful desert nights. They only occur in the desert. The dry heat fades and suddenly it’s cool, fifty degrees, and a light breeze wipes away all memory of how you melted your hand to the car steering wheel earlier in the day. It had just rained and the desert was verdant for once; the smell of fresh creosote, that pungent desert bush, made me think of the smell of her. The night was filled with it.
We had been fighting again\’not talking, not phoning. And meeting to makeup and make out. We chose Denny’s. There is a Denny’s at Camelback and 7th Street, conveniently located halfway between our houses, which were separated by miles of those plentiful highways.
It was known by the late-night Camelback bar crew as Gay Denny’s. It was a place to drunkenly kiss your lover, end or begin a night of arguing, or if you were 16, to safely flirt with your boyfriend while lecherously glaring at (or grabbing) your waiter’s ass.
I can’t remember now the order of events. Whether we ate first (orange juice\’big glasses of it, and French fries with lots of salt) or had sex first (christening her car.) But I remember the meal. It was salty and acidic and it burned the insides of my cheeks, left my hands streaked with grease. And, I remember the sex.
We had been in the front seat. I was behind the wheel wearing one of those v-neck shirts she likes. She would so softly spread her palm on my chest whenever I wore one, excited by my exposed skin, by what she could not see. I always touched her legs when we sat in cars, which we did a lot because people do not walk in Phoenix. She has skinny bird legs, like poles. I loved her legs. I would run my hand up and down them, almost as a reassurance that she was still there; that this was still real.
All of this led up to the first makeup kiss. Bittersweet, familiar, soft, and underlying it all\’hungry. Her lips are plump, like overripe berries that melt off the bushes in the midwestern summer sun. They were a contradiction to the sandy soil she is born of. They are meaty enough to pull in between my teeth, and I did that, echoing her own movements, letting her know I needed these kisses too.
We kissed one another deeply. I rubbed her legs in her jeans and she caressed my hidden breasts. Eventually, we tumbled into the back seat, puppies scrambling on top of one another. She unbuttoned my cuffed jean shorts.
“Will it make you nervous if I do this, she asked in a coy whisper, meanwhile sliding them off my sticky body.
We were in the parking lot. A yellow lamp shed shallow light over us and we kept popping our heads up to see if there was anybody about. By the time she took off my pants, however, I had lost all inhibitions.
I was left in my underwear, skimpy cotton things that did not disguise my sopping cunt.
“You smell like the rain, she moaned in between my knees, kissing my white thighs, her fingers lightly brushing the seam of my panties. She taunted me with her breath, and my heart raced with hope.
The geometry of this situation was nearly inconceivable. My head was wedged against the door, knees bent, legs open. She was half-kneeling, half sitting on the edge of the seat. We were both mesmerized by our situation, by the anticipation of being inside one another once more, by the thought of getting caught.
She grazed her fingers over and over the stitching that ran horizontally across my clit.
“These will have to go too, she sighed moving my wet underwear aside with two fingers, and then, reassessing, pulling them off my legs. They were disposed of somewhere in the car, buried in layers of napkins, Arizona ice tea cans, art gallery flyers, and old New Times newspapers.
I had shaved that morning and applied thick, unscented cream to prevent razor burn. I knew the skin of my cunt was soft and she rubbed her cheeks and hands against me, stopping to lay her head on me like a pillow. This was torture. Each breath she exhaled was like the cool night breeze and it filled me with urgency for her. My heart was literally beating in my clit and I thought I might burst. I’m sure each pulsation filled her ears with thunder, throbbed in her head\’insistent, yearning. She must have heard, because she suddenly turned her head.
Slowly, I felt her cool mouth move to my clit. Wetness collided. I could feel my orgasm rising even then as she developed a rhythm. She pushed her tongue and open mouth up and down over me: a piston in a car, a racehorse, an August monsoon rain in the desert.
It was quick and consistent and I could hardly bear it. I held her head more tightly to me\’aching for that lightning explosion. I came as she quickened her rhythm and plunged two fingers deep inside me. This must have been some miracle acrobatic contortionist stunt on her part. I was as wet with nectar as a saguaro bloom in April, oozing honey to attract the bats at night. I could feel the blood rush to her cheeks, the flush on her face mirroring the flush between my legs.
I loosened my hands from her head and pulled her to me, kissing her more strongly than before. I could feel my taste slide down my throat with each swallow\’burning the insides of my cheeks, salty, slightly acidic.
Later that night we exchanged our “I love you’s like foreign currency and kissed goodnight sweetly. I drove my car away, into the night, enjoying the smooth feeling of pavement beneath my tires. Our scent hung like a myth in the air and the resinous smell of creosote blew through my window.