Mountains

Traffic thinned in the high country.

“There’s no room for a statie to turn around out here.  You can open it up.  Once we get into those mountains, it’s deputies in SUVs…but until then, we’re solid,” Sailor said.  She stubbed out her cigarette on the ashtray, shifted her hips forward in her seat, and placed her hands behind her head.  I pushed down the gas pedal.

We kept the windows rolled down.  The cool alpine air rushed in, tousling Sailor’s hair.  Through the glare of late afternoon sunshine bouncing off the film of dust covering the windshield, I could see near-flat, open fields, mile upon mile of pale green, unharvested hay.  Scattered farm buildings broke apart the landscape, their walls worn down to the bare boards.  In the distance, towering up, making those outbuildings look like miniatures, stood the mountains.  They were stark, roughly snow-capped, purple-black.  They stood so far away, and yet were wrought in such sharp detail that they seemed unreal.

“…the fuck?” I whispered.  I took a breath.  I felt disbelief.

“I know,” Sailor said, “nobody knows they’re here.”

As our little car tore across the dusty plateau, she explained to me that there are some high mountains you cannot see, even from very close, because they are set just far enough back from the foothills that no line of sight permits a view.  But once a person climbs past the initial threshold of elevation, up onto the plateau, the mountains emerge suddenly, starkly, filling the sky.

I stared.

“We can stay up here for awhile,” Sailor said, “It’s cheap to live.  We can hide out.”

We had money we’d kept from Harlin; big paying tops that he’d never skimmed, a glovebox stuffed with a profligate’s ransom, enough hard cash to get us into a cabin near a little lake that Sailor knew about way up in the mountains.  She and her sister had vacationed there as children…until the winter her father broke both of his legs in a skiing accident.  He never spoke of it; they’d simply never returned.

With the car tucked into a trough-like driveway beside the cabin, and my heavy duffel and Sailor’s big backpack cast down on the bed, we made our way down the gravel road that wound around the lake to a little fake chalet where tourists could sit on a deck and look out across the glass-green water, into the mountains beyond.  We sat there and drank cold beer, smoked cigarettes, and stared out…as if the air could quench our bodies, as if our very skins could dissolve into the dusk.

rated x

He likes to take the emotional ride.

Yeah, you know what I mean…

When you stand close, take in each other’s scent…

…when on the instant of the first touch of fingertips, your sex grows full and warm under the crotch of your clothes…when you slide together, grapple, and your bodies lock…pelvis to pelvis, belly to belly, chest to chest…when he holds the back of your neck in the roughness of his hand and the two of you feel the pressing of your warm, clothed bodies, the pressing of  your cheeks, arms, hands…even the bones of your noses, pressing, almost to the point of pain…softened only by the heart of your kiss…

when your hair mingles, when he loses his breath; when you inhale sharply and touch his back with your hands; when your tongue grows wet, and alive…and you grasp for him as if grasping for food…when your hands work quickly as the two of you speak in stuttering whispers, fumble with buttons and zippers…when you look into his eyes and feel the magnet pull of two dark whirlpools…when the clothes slip quietly to the floor, almost noiselessly, and you tread them with the gentle marching of your naked feet, forgetting what you wore, like so much strewn-out evidence…

when the sensation pulses in his body, and you cup his root with a low-slung hand; when the two of you linger there, for the sheer pleasure of kissing, of making out, your bodies naked…

until your own warm inertia turns you slowly, oh so slowly into bed,

and the hours roll by…

with your palms resting  on the crown of his head as he kisses you, covers your sex with his mouth, his tongue darting and sliding under your nap, making you slippery, contracting you…until you say you want him inside you…

and he slides his verge balls-deep into your yearning, opening yoni…and your skins meld, so that your fuck is one body, one breath…your foreheads touching, your spines bent into a heart, your bodies sealed seamlessly together in a driving, railing fuck…so slippery you don’t know whether your yoni is hard or his verge is soft, so that you are simply coming, sighing, in and out of your skins…until time fades away…

and you fade with it, dissolving into the air with the first lightening of the sky…

when, ever so faintly, the color blue passes across the room, when you’re resurrected, and remember you’re awake again…

when the clock spins like a wheel in the sea, when a fist wraps his root and yours…

until the hump and thrum bends your two spines like willows, your yoni and verge, your two pubic bones, melting together so pleasurably as one,

the sheets wrinkled and warm beneath you,

while the room, small and tight, hot and damp, closes and expands…

 

Verse 6, Learning the Toll

What could his toy car

leave but the trace of its

bead of polished brass, rainwet

ornament draggled by grimy

ribbon, silent noisemaker

tied to a fender, tracing

superficial figures

over lotuses carved

deep in wet by

lovers’ feet, their image

vanishing in surf

washing over the

unmeasured petals, the

sandalwood-colored

ground-turning-dark,

in depth submerged,

the wind high, cooing,

as a boy, catching the scent,

forgetting his toy

car and everything,

sprints after them.