Big Ed Magusson
I dropped my pack, fished out my canteen and my gorp, and settled in against a rock. I considered taking a piss since I was standing on the Continental Divide, and we boys always joked about being able to have our pee go to two oceans simultaneously. It felt too vulgar, though, and without the others, lacked bragging rights.
Then I took in the view. To my right, mountains, mountains, and more mountains. Reds, greens, and faded browns. To my left, mountains, then hills, then plains that stretched until the Earth curved. The view was interrupted by puffy sheep shaped clouds that I looked down on. If I looked straight out, there was nothing but sky.
Thirty-odd years later, I can still recall the sooty and grey blackness of the thunderstorm that rolled in below me and drove me from the pass.
* * *
I shifted in my chair, a bit excited, but a bit nervous. As always, the cool and dark of the strip club soothed me after a morning in the Arizona sun. But my regular dancer had promised to turn up the heat.
This was the early nineties, before lap dances were ubiquitous. Strippers danced on the stage or on the floor just outside one’s knees. Bottoms stayed on, at least in Tucson, and so what mattered were the moves and the attitude. The dancers who relied solely on their looks didn’t remain dancers for long.
My favorite, a lithe blonde with small breasts who called herself Summer, had ballet training in her past. She also had a dedication to the craft of stripping, much as others might disdain such a term. We’d found a connection, with her trying new moves and me telling her what I thought. Given the deadness of the afternoon shifts when I visited, there wasn’t much more to do anyway.
So I waited for the current dancer to finish and Summer to take the stage. A special routine for me? One that sizzled and scorched?
Then the DJ announced the show. “You know Summer! You know Storm! Now I give you a Summer Storm!”
Summer strode out, matching steps with a brunette dancer I knew only in passing.
Storm favored black lingerie and wore a sheer baby doll that laced up the front. Summer stuck to white, but had added a cammie of her own.
They started by matching each other’s moves and they strutted and swayed, but when it became clear this was unrehearsed, they took turns in the spotlight at the front. They rolled their hips, shook their breasts and whipped their hair like a heavy metal music video. Then, toward the end of the song, they slowed and stood close. Summer looked my way and smiled.
The rules of the city at the time were that dancers couldn’t run their hands over their breasts while on stage. Nothing was said about mouths.
Summer leaned forward and seized the string of Storm’s top in her teeth. Then she pulled back, unlacing it and letting it fall. Storm shook her bare breasts to draw the eye. Then Summer’s head moved in again, with her hair obscuring what her lips actually did, but Storm’s eyes went wide, as my pulse raced, before they pulled apart and began to dance again.
Much of my time in Tucson was spent staring at the sky, hoping and waiting for the cooling monsoons. Yet the only summer storm I can recall with perfect clarity is the one in the club that day.
* * *
When I emerged from the jet way, my chin actually did drop. The redhead waiting for me, in those pre-9/11 days when security let more than ticketed passengers meet the planes, had outdone herself. In sunglasses, a cap, and a short skin-tight dress more suitable for the nightclub than the airport, she looked every part the sexy chauffeur of my wet dreams. Even better, I knew that underneath that dress was... nothing. My first directive as a long distance Dom was that panties were verboten. Having finally flown into town, I looked forward to seeing the result.
He face lit up, and she eagerly bounced on her heels. We embraced, but did not kiss. That would wait for baggage claim. Instead, I just pulled back and admired. The way her red locks framed her face and cascaded over her shoulders. The curve of her hip, hugged tight in emerald cloth. Her lips, moist and slightly pursed.
We kissed in the parking garage, standing next to her car, with other vehicles nearby blocking the view. We kissed and my hand found her thigh, and then higher than her thigh. I played with her clit until she was slippery and steaming. Then I thrust two fingers inside, curled them, and stroked her g-spot until she came.
The relationship lasted three months. For ten years, I was unable to go to the airport without recalling that scene.
* * *
I write, in part, because words are the only medium I have to get images such as these out of my head. I lack the dexterity to paint, draw, or sculpt. Words give me at least a chance to relieve the pressure that seems to gather each time the memories flit back behind my eyes. Yet at the same time, words drive me daft as often as they soothe.
For words, however poetic or however blunt, can’t really describe the azure of the sky from Pawnee Pass without a full thousand of them that would bore the reader. They fail to convey how motion and reaction and surprise can intertwine simultaneously, since one word must follow another in linear time. They also force me to spend way too much effort staring at the screen trying to come up with yet another synonym or non-purple way of saying “thrust.”
Worse, writing only encourages the cycle. I try to have more attention to detail, so that I can write better, which means more mental photographs get stored up, which puts more pressure on me to write. Sometimes it’s frustrating. Sometimes, it’s glorious.
* * *
I scanned the sky for hawks, as rare as they would be. The bird in my hands squirmed, but let me hold it tight. Beside me, my bride of three minutes smiled at me. I worried about hawks; she worried about poop on her dress. Dirt was the bane of our outdoor wedding.
We waited, and then we counted along with the ‘dove’ wrangler before tossing the white homing pigeons into the sky. The wrangler released the rest of the flock and we were surrounded by white flashes of feathers and then laughter and applause.
It was a glorious day. Even better, this time I have pictures.
Big Ed Magusson writes sexual fiction with a frequent emphasis on voyeurism. More of his work and his regular musings can be found at www.besplace.com. An alternative fictional scene with a sexy chauffeur at the airport appears in his story, Love’s Labor Found, which is included in his anthology Holiday Sights, available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords.