Erotica: New York, NY By Way Of Taos, NM

This story was originally published in "Erotic Travel Tales" by Mitzi Szereto (2001, Cleis Press) and reprinted in "Speaking Parts" (2002, Alyson Books). It is presented here with the author's permission.

Vi called it “spaghetti western weather”—a cinematic weather pattern highlighted by periods of near-clichés: dust-devils spinning against a too-blue sky, a too-red desert bed; tumbleweeds chasing each other down cracked streets; a solitary mesquite bush, looking harsh and sharp in its hunger for survival. Screen doors knocked open-shut, open-shut in a lazy rhythm—pushed by a sternly hot breeze, followed by gusts laced with eye-stinging dust, dirt, and crisped leaves.

“All it needs—,” Vi would say—part of a ritual worked up in the year they lived in the tiny trailer, “—is a dog looking for somewhere to die.”

For a couple only three years together, they had a lot of rituals. In more thoughtful moods, Clarette would expound in a tired voice about how the desert was perfect for such things—beads on a wire of routine that made the heat, the dust, the boredom tolerable for just one more day. When she was in a less thoughtful mood, she didn’t say anything—she’d just sprawl on their stained mattress in a once-white t-shirt and old, comfortable panties and try to think of anything except for heat, dust, and the boredom.

The electric clock over the dirty stove made a gentle hum, clear if you tuned your ear to it—as Clarette did, a gentle reminder to herself that Vi would be home in just a few minutes. The hum was another of those Indian beads on a wire, a little ritual she did without thinking.

Sometimes, when she did think about it—the hum of the clock, the sun being just so close to the horizon, the obnoxious newscaster on their cheap little B&W teevee who always said “we’ll be right back,” all these things that happened just before the truck pulled up, the door opened, the jingle of Vi’s keys in her denim pockets—she called it her ticket.

Because when Vi came home, it was a chance to leave the dry outskirts of Taos, New Mexico—at least for a little while.

The sun was gone, the movie over. A curtain of deep night—as only the desert can make it—over everything. The moon was gone, new—so the sky was only lit by hard points of starlight. It was a warm night, and for that, Clarette was grateful—she didn’t like the desert cold, the way it seemed to cut through her.

Next to her, in their big bed, Vi was radiant heat—her big breasts soft against her back, her strong legs casually draped over hers. If she wanted to, Clarette knew she could wriggle her toes and feel the scratchy calluses on the tops of Vi’s feet from the too-hard work boots she had to wear.

Behind her ear, the big woman’s breath was sweet, with just a tiny hint of the beer she’d had with supper. They stayed that way, curled around each other, for quite a while—a nebulous component of a typical night. Finally, her breath growing even warmer as she spoke, Vi said, “Where do you want to go tonight?”

Clarette was quiet for a time, letting the earth spin through her mind. The day, the Sergio Lione weather, made her think of the movies—of totems and icons—and one thing, and one thing only, came to mind when she thought of classics, of places that seemed to only exist on their cheap teevee.

“New York,” she whispered, taking Vi’s hand and pulling it around herself tightly.

“On the subway, late at night,” Vi said, her voice low and theatrical. “The city that never sleeps is dozing, so it’s just us—just you and me—sitting on the hard plastic seats, watching stations flash by through the graffiti-painted windows. Sometimes we emerge from the tunnels and travel through the nighttime city—buildings that mix bright windows with dim stars, blocking out the clouds even high overhead. Brilliant signs as big as ... as big as anything you’ve ever seen: all the colors of the rainbow, spelling out big corporation names. There’s a liveness to the air, like electricity is running through it. There’s so much to see, so much that your eyes can’t take it all in—they even hurt there’s so much.

“But we’re on a train, traveling through it—together, holding each other, so nothing hurts. We’re feeling the rumble of the rails, the sway as the car bends through the steel and concrete canyons.”

Vi’s hand moved softly, gently, till she cupped Clarette’s small breast. “We’re alone, traveling through the greatest city on earth. You’re wrapped around me, your head resting on my shoulder, my hair tickling your cheek. My breasts, full and warm, are heavy on your arms.

“We’re rolling through the city, between the high buildings, down into the cool tunnels. You look up and see the names you’re always heard of on the Transit maps: Broadway, Lexington, Manhattan, the Bronx, Queens, Greenwich Village, Wall Street. They roll past the dirty windows; they flash by as we clack and click down the tracks.”

Vi’s voice grew deeper, huskier as she gently squeezed Clarette’s breast, cupping the tiny conical shape with her rough hands. “I kiss you on the subway, breaths mixing as we roll. As I do, you feel my nipples harden, even through my sweater ... did I mention I’m wearing a sweater? Well, anyway, you feel me get nice and hard—you know how I do—”

Clarette giggled a little-girl sound, pulling the bigger woman closer, feeling her own nipples respond.

“I unwrap you and push you back into the hard seat, kissing you rough and mean, nasty. You feel my breath coming into your mouth, my breathing matching for a moment the sway, the rumble of the subway car. My tongue touches, then pushes hard against your own—and everything, all of you, gets that much warmer, hotter.

“My hands are on your tits—” and they were, warm and rough, cupping her, squeezing her hard nipples between long fingers—“kneading them, working them. You moan—in that delightful way you do—and arch your back into the hard plastic. I get down off my own seat and kneel between your legs, push them apart. You’re wearing jeans, tight jeans, and you can feel your cunt get all warm and wet at just the thought of being there.”

Vi’s hand slowly smoothed her hip, a slow caress that started at the gentle rises of her ribs and ended at the fullness of her hips.

“Take me,” Clarette said softly, pushing herself back against Vi, mixing their warmth.

Vi kissed her shoulder, pulled her till she was lying on her back. “I will,” she said, kissing around the tiny rosebud of her right nipple. “I promise.”

A light suck, a gentle draw of nipple into mouth. Clarette sighed a heavy, wind-gust sound.

Vi looked up, for no reason, saw the alarm clock’s harsh red glow, one of Clarette’s medicine bottles, and the statue. “We’re outside, and it’s cold. The sky looks busy, filled with more than just stars—the dancing illuminations of the city, the mad glow from the famous streets. The wind gusts around us, pushing our coats this way, that. At our feet are stones; firm and stable—”

Clarette spread her legs, a loving, practiced motion, and Vi cupped her, careful not to reach too far down. She rested there, feeling Clarette’s furnace, the gentle heat from her cunt.

“Behind us, waves lap heavily on rocks, kicked up from great liners, huge vessels coming home after months at sea. Like I said, it’s cold, but we’re not cold. We’re hot, baby—we’re very hot.”

She rested there for a moment, a heavy heartbeat, then kissed Clarette on the tummy, on her gently rising/falling belly, and turned to the chest of drawers, selected a glove, and a small bottle of lube.

“Where are we?” Clarette giggled, spreading her legs wide and snaking a thin hand down to flick casually at a momentary tangle of long pubic hairs.

Vi smiled, nodded to the little statue next to the glowering alarm clock, the bottle of medications. “She’s there, huge and powerful, above us. Lit by brilliant—so brilliant—lights. She’s vast, big doesn’t come close. She’s a Goddess, Clare—as green as new grass. Her face is almost invisible, lost against the dark sky, but we can see her, Clare—we can see her smiling out to sea, looking out across the world.”

A little squeeze of lube on two gloved fingers, a gentle caress with same, from majora to a crease hiding a warming clit. A few strokes to open her up, to make her ready: downward, from the little forest of curly hairs to the opening lips below. Clarette hissed a primal sound of love and welcoming and spread her legs ever so much wider.