It’s late November; I’m sitting upstairs in a Starbucks reading a long, dry textbook chapter, and Billie Holliday’s version of “All of Me” comes on. I try to focus on the text, but when I stare down at the page, the black marks swim and crash against each other until I have to close my eyes. I remember you gliding your hand up my right arm, pressing my palm into the cabin wall while biting my neck. You reach behind my shoulder with your other hand to untie my bikini string; the top falls from my breasts and you yank it down, taking your left hand off my right and sliding your fingers into my wet hair. I still feel your muscular arms wrapped around me, picking me up to wrap my legs around you and pressing me harder into the rough wood so you can penetrate me, banging me against the wall with all the force of youth’s desperate wanting. I try to find something to hang onto, but you tell me you’ve got me; I don’t need to put my hands anywhere but around your neck. You sink your grip deep into the flesh of my flanks and find a way to get deeper into me, tasting lake algae in my kisses and hearing me whimper into your ear as I come hard onto you, making sure no one outside hears us. There won’t be campers until the next day, so we spend all night tangled together, listening to Billie Holliday’s love songs on the cabin’s CD player.
I’m driving through Death Valley on a long stretch of empty highway, looking around at colorful rock strata and abandoned mines, and “Shameless” by Garth Brooks comes on the radio, crackling because I’m so far out. I think of another highway in another state; of tall firs and stars. We’re in your 1981 Ford pickup, and this song – our song – comes on the radio. You pull over, shut off the engine, and ask me to dance. With my window rolled down, we can hear the song loud and clear; I have my hand on your shoulder, caressing your neck with my fingertips, and you have your hand in the small of my back; I sigh, feeling connected and safe. Mid-dance, you reach under my skirt to slide my panties down under my dress and over my flip flops, flinging them through the window. You return your hand to my back and touch me with the other; still swaying side to side, you take the now-flowing juices from inside of me and lift them up and over my clitoris, clumsily moving your fingers, but still gratifying my easily-satisfied body. After the song, I hop into the truck bed and offer you my hand; you grin and take it, scrambling up. I unzip a sleeping bag and put it down, pushing you onto it and laughing. I take your boots off and unbuckle your belt, then unzip you to find you commando and hard as a rock. I let my dress straps fall over my shoulders, taking them off as I straddle you, and put on your hat. I interlace my fingers with yours and sink onto you, giving you my very best cowgirl. You buck up like a mechanical bull and I stay on for the long ride. The night is black around us, and I still smell pine sap and distant bonfires.
A band at Coachella sings “Billie Jean,” and I remember sneaking off with you at a Halloween party, finding a dark room where we meant to make out but ended up fucking with abandon on a couch. We were too greedy for each other to be careful about not being seen or heard. Too young to be drinking; tipsy with vodka, but soused with oxytocin.
I hear “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” by the Temptations in the supermarket and am transported to an intense and steady stare in your eyes across a field of running children; I blush, feeling a taut line between us where everything else fades. I feel a tug on my hand and look down; it’s a seven year-old camper. “Delivery service!” she squeaks, smiling big with a couple of teeth missing. I pop the balloon handed to me and take out a piece of paper that reads, “I want to make you come so many times that you beg for mercy.” I stuff the paper in my pocket and blush deeper, trying to will my nipples to deflate, feeling an uncomfortable and warm gush in my knickers. “Mercy,” I mouth to you, and you salute me.
At karaoke one night, someone gets up to sing “Faithfully” by Journey. I deeply inhale and think about the last time we kissed, slow dancing at the Bear’s Den in front of your bros, multi-colored lights flashing around us. You had a girlfriend, but that had never stopped us on either side. I listen to the lyrics – “Being apart ain’t easy on this love affair / two strangers learn to fall in love again / I get the joy of rediscovering you / oh girl, you stand by me – I’m forever yours, faithfully” – and reminisce about the promise of love, the consequences of lust, and the fact that there are some people you never stop wanting no matter how much time has passed.
This piece was inspired by an erotica writing contest over at @EA_unadorned’s site; he came up with a brilliant set of writing prompts based on song lyrics. Please check out not only the prompt page, but his site in general!