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

Published: FEBRUARY 1, 2022 | Updated: FEBRUARY 3, 2022
Vi takes Clarette on a sultry journey of imagination. 

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.

“We’re looking at her face, on her island, in the middle of the bay. It’s cold, but we’re hot, baby—so damned fucking hot. You’re wearing this beautiful leather coat, like smooth darkness, and it feels so good wrapped around you. I’m there, too, baby—because you know I’m always there.”

Another sweet hiss as Vi’s fingers dipped in, pushing gently till plump outer lips met second joints. Moved there, slow in-and-outs that made Clarette’s hips gently rock and clench around them.

“We’re there, baby—” another nod at the cheap little Liberty trinket by the clock “--we’ve made it that far and even farther. We’re standing at her feet, looking up at her.

“I put my arms around you, pull you close against me. You feel me, feel my tits pressing into your back, feel me there with you. I kiss the back of your neck, a butterfly graze that makes your skin dance with goosebumps, and your nipples get ever-so hard. One of my hands drops down and takes hold of one of your tits, squeezes it through the coat. It feels like someone else, like a great leather hand grabbing you, pulling hard at you. You breathe heavy, and you feel your cunt get real wet.”

The strokes become more familiar, simple little dance between them. Clarette’s breaths, too, became a tune that Vi knew too well, could have played in her sleep. Up and down, small circles around her clit, back down past warm, wet lips, and in—to tease the tight ring of muscles, then back up again. Repeat. Familiar, but still magic—a charming routine, a loving ritual. Part of home, part of them, together.

Vi bent, took a hard nipple into her mouth, and nibbled—adding a new tone to Clarette’s sounds. Between gentle sucks—just the way she liked it—she whispered, adding to the scene:

“My hands rise to your face, stroking your cheek. You kiss my fingers, suck them in—tasting my cunt on them. Holding you, I’d had my fingers down between my legs, feeling my own lips, my own hard clit, getting myself all wet and hot—for you.

“You taste me and know that I’m wet for you, baby.

“But there are other things to taste than just my fingers. I slowly drop my fingers down and slowly—almost too slowly—start to unbutton your coat. One, two, three—with each one, your body tingles, your nipples get even harder, your cunt gets even hotter, wetter. Four, five, six—and then that’s all. The coat parts and the cold slaps on your ... yes, it slaps on your smooth belly, that spot—right there—between your tits, your thighs. You’re naked, baby, hot and burning naked out there on that cold island. The coat hits the ground, and you’re before her and me—glowing with fire, cunt juice painting your thighs. I turn you, look at my own goddess, my own Liberty. I kiss you, hard and mean, tongues stroking each other, lips hot and slick. I kiss you, and my hand snaps up between your legs—”

Between her legs, Vi’s hand had moved a new way, still familiar—throbbing bead of a clit, a tiny hot bead, down to enter, full and deep into her, past the tight muscles, all the way till the rough spot. With each cycle, each tap at the down and deep down, Clarette’s voice changed, becoming bass and fundamental. She was lost, somewhere else, floating on Vi’s hand, her fingers and her words. She might not have been at the foot of the Statue of Liberty, but she certainly wasn’t in a tiny trailer in Taos, New Mexico.

“Feeling your clit, so hard on that cold night. You push down, trying to get all of me onto you—and into you. I do it, there—under the shadow of Liberty—put my fingers in you, so deep and hard. I start to fuck you, quick and firm, with my fingers—ending each stroke with a strong press on your magic spot, your G. You moan, making sweet music too deep and primal to escape on the cold wind. You buck down, too excited to be patient and passive. In the distance, you hear a lone fog horn—and you realize that anyone floating by, anyone with a good telescope, could see us, could see you, standing there, pale and naked, excitement painting your thighs. You’re on display, Clare; you’re out there on the island for the whole of New York to see.”

The motions of Vi’s hand in Clarette’s cunt became less formal, less simple as her own excitement started to pull at her. Too close to ignore, Vi moved a bit, feeling the silken skin of Clarette’s breast slid across her lips ... until the hard tip of her nipple was there, and then in Vi’s mouth. She sucked with shocking intensity, making Clarette arch her narrow back and put a thin hand on the back of her head. Sucking as she stroked, and stroking as she sucked, Vi felt like she was a great woman, a chain going from mouth to tit, from cunt to hand.

Breaking the pleasant suction with a soft wet smack and another punctured moan from Vi, she breathed deep (one, two, three, four), then: “You’re so hot, baby, so wet. There, standing on the cold flagstones in front of the statue, you push down, trying to swallow my fingers with your cunt, trying to get even more of my thumb on your clit.

“But I’m nasty—right, lover? You know that. Three fingers for your tight cunt, your wet cunt, thumb for your clit, and one finger—my teeny tiny little finger, that reaches back, between the cheeks of your tight—” a kiss on her sweat-slick belly “—ass and taps (one, two, three, four) on your asshole.

“Oh, yes, your sweet ass. A few gentle taps then away to take just the smallest amount of cunt juice, and then back—no taps this time. Not this time...

“Look up at her, Clare—look at her. Great and green. You look up at the statue—recognizing her from photographs, movies, your little toy there, on the dresser, but seeing her might and majesty for the first time. Maybe you wonder—the slut that you are—what her great copper snatch must look like. But whatever you think, you look up at her as I work at your own great cunt, and then your asshole as my little finger slips so neat and nice up into you.

“Oh, yes, baby—nice and full and hot, bare and shining in the hard lights around Liberty, starting up at her distant smile and the faint lights of the city beyond. You’re there, you’re right there, and you’re with me, and I’m with you—”

The come boiled inside Clarette, a rumbling body-come that opened her eyes, opened her mouth, and shut, clenched, her legs around Vi’s hand. The moans changed into a heavy avalanche of sounds, a growling bass escalation.

Within her, Vi felt her cunt grip her, matching for a long time the fluttering beat of her heart. Looking, smiling, happy that she was happy, Vi held her, stirring the last of her quakes with a few kind oscillations of her fingers. “Sweet, sweet baby—” she crooned, putting her heavy arms around the smaller girl, the so-much-more-fragile girl.

Sleep floated down on both of them—much more so for Clarette, but quite heavily for Vi after a hard day of work, and they crawled into a comfortable spoon: Clarette, as usual, facing the side, the dark window sprinkled with very bright desert stars, and Vi a warm comfort curled against her back. Before the weight pressed her down into a dreamscape, Clarette turned her head to receive a gentle, sweet kiss from Vi. “Thank you for taking me.” Vi waited till she had uncurled briefly to drop—carefully—the rubber glove into the trash, to curl back and say, “One day, I promise, I really will—”

To that, Clarette snuggled firmer into her lover’s arms and was soon breathing slow and steady. Vi followed, a few minutes later, hoping—not for the first, the last—she’d have enough time with Clarette to show her the real subway, the real statue, and the real lights of that distant city.

M. Christian

M.Christian is an author who has been published in science fiction, fantasy, horror, thrillers, and even nonfiction, but it is in erotica that M.Christian has become an acknowledged master, with stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and in fact too many anthologies, magazines, and sites to name. M.Christian's short fiction has been collected in many bestselling books in a wide variety...

Latest Sex Positions