“As you know, California is an all-party consent state,” I say, putting the iPhone on the table. The banter around me dies down immediately. “I’m going to take the lack of screaming as consent. If you speak from this point on, you’re consenting to being recorded. All right, let’s hear that story.”

“What story?” Daniel* asks innocently. He takes a sip of his drink and begins: “We met on a cruise. It’s what I call a vacationship. The vacationship that went way too far. We went on a cruise to Bermuda in June, spent seven days together and stayed in touch over the summer. I spent the summer on the East Coast, so I’d drive to see her and we’d be involved. Sexually — if I need to announce that for the microphone.”

“Oh, yes. And later you can give me all the details,” I respond.

“It’s part of the deal if you’re friends with her,” Jordan chimes in, amused at the reaction. He’s hosting this evening, it’s a small gathering of writers and thinkers: Melanie, Daniel, Ethan, Rodrigo, Jordan and me.

“OK, by the point I left, she’d gotten very possessive, she kept telling me, ‘don’t misbehave yourself’ — shit like that.”

“Did she specify on this ‘misbehavior’?” I ask.

“Yeah, she said she didn’t want to come to L.A. and find I’d been bad with some middle-aged Israeli housewife.”

“Only Israeli ones?” A deep chuckle sounds on my right.

“I was like, ‘sorry, I wasn’t aware you’d purchased me.’”

“Where was she on the hot-crazy scale?” Melanie asks.

“Interesting, we were just talking about hot versus crazy versus smart,” Daniel says, looking at Rodrigo.

“Wait, did we miss something?” I ask.

“When did this conversation happen?” Ethan follows.

“It takes less than five minutes to cover all this information,” Rodrigo says, characteristically deadpan.

“She’s quite intelligent, she’d doing really well at university,” Daniel says, getting back to the conversation.

“Wait, OK, but how hot?” Ethan really wants to know. He has no interest in it whatsoever, but he likes to uncover the things people seem to be hiding, so he pushes.

“Eight?” says Daniel.

“I’d say seven,” Jordan rebuttals.

“So she’s insane,” says Rodrigo.

“She sent something in the mail,” Jordan says, leaning forward.

“Yeah, she sent me a big care package in the mail,” Daniel repeats.

“Horse head?”

“No, but it included several interesting things, one of which was a bottle of aloe moisturizer.”

“Oh, nooooo,” Melanie whines. “What’s that for?”

“On the cruise, I got sunburned. We had an inside joke for whenever we were around her family. If I said I was going to ‘put on aloe’ it meant that we were going to meet in her room and she was going to give me head, basically.”

“How old is she?” I exclaim. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“She’s twenty.”

“OK,” I sit back. “You can’t fault a fetus for being juvenile.”

“It gets better,” says Jordan.

“Each one of the elements may be simply juvenile on their own,” Daniel tells me. “But it’s the collective that makes her batshit crazy.”

“Oh, I see! Well, go on.”

“The bottle of aloe had a tag on it ‘only to be applied by Brittany.’”

“How did she spell it?” Ethan interrupts suddenly.

“Jesus,” Rodrigo says, rolling his eyes.

“There we go again with the names,” Daniel sighs.

“B-R-I-T-T-N-E-Y.”

“E?” Ethan gasps.

“Wait, what?” Melanie leans in.

“T-T-N-E-Y.” Jordan repeats.

“Britt-ney.” Daniel sounds it out. “As if this is in any way relevant.”

“Wait, what sign was she?” Jordan asks.

“Enough out of you, antagonist!” Daniel yells, theatrically. Neither one of them believe in astrology.

“Included with the bottle and the tag was an exotically-colored thong –”

“‘Exotically colored’?” I ask.

“Meaning it had all kinds of prints on it and leopard colors and seahorse scales.”

The horrified silence is punctured by a single question: “had she worn it?”

“No, it came in an envelope that said ‘get excited for my visit.’ As if I were in some way to worship this thong in her absence. Burn it with incense!”

More laughter as dessert is served. Chocolate fondue, with an assortment of fruits to dip. I place a piece of chocolate-dipped banana on my tongue like communion.

“Also included were seven or eight pictures, each individually wrapped in their own envelope and with a very specific message on the front. Each one unique. Each picture was a little bit different. As an example, one of them had a picture of her licking her lips in what I imagine she thought was a sexy way. The title of this picture was ‘Yummy.’”

As the laughter roared around me, I pull the iPhone close to me and made a mental note: “write an article on preparing a proper care package for a boyfriend.”

“In addition to that were three CDs. Instead of having the titles of the songs, each CD had titles of her making, which in some way related to our relationship. Which wasn’t a relationship, as it happened over the course of a week.”

“Wait, three full CDs?” Melanie asks. “Good lord.”

“Seven days or five?” Rodrigo pipes up. “Was this a true week or a business week?”

“Seven days.”

“Seven whole days,” Rodrigo says with mock wistfulness.

“Those extra two days make all the difference.”

“What genre were the songs?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” Daniel responds. “I never listened to them. They’re still somewhere in my desk.”

“Are they! Can I have them?”

“You love your emo longing,” Rodrigo says to me.

“I would give you the pictures too,” Daniel goes on. “But we used them for kindling for the fireplace.”

Jordan laughs, “yes, we did.”

“It’s actually quite fascinating to watch a picture burn. The picture — the film — shrivels up and the paper remains, and then the paper bursts into flames.”

“Did you find that very cathartic to burn those pictures?” Ethan asks.

“No, they just happened to be available. I needed to get a fire started,” Daniel pauses. “Do you want to see her picture?”

The world of Facebook.

“I apologize,” Daniel says, looking at his phone. “Her name is Brittany. B-R-I-T-T-A-N-Y.”

“You can’t even spell her name?” I ask, taking his iPhone. She’s tall, thin — statuesque even.

“I’m sorry. It shows how much she means to me.”

“But she’s the Batshit Crazy Girl.”

“Well, I guess she is… memorable.”

Moral of this story? Don’t be the batshit ex or you, too, will derail great discussions and turn them into a dinner-time carnival of lulz.

* Names have been changed.

“Tom DeLay made me a nymphomaniac.”

There it was: the truth. I am not a unique snowflake, I am the product of my environment. Politics define our country, culture, heritage, and through these things, whether we like it or not, politics define us.

So here I am. At my therapist’s. My new therapist’s I should say, having fired the last one. Probably not the best introduction, but I was deeply preoccupied with this and had no time for pleasantries with Dr. Ortíz y López.

“You refer to DeLay, the former congressman,” O replied, moving carefully over the words, as though he was still digesting my statement.

“Yes!” I said, flinging my over-sized purse down on a chair and ripping off my sunglasses. “It was him and the former lobbyist Jack Abramoff, and long before them, former U.S. Secretary of State Henry Kissinger — all of them, and more, like a domino effect going back decades, culminating in a high-voltage sex Olympics.”

“And… how have you come to this conclusion?”

“Can I read something to you?” I asked him, turning and opening my bag and pulling out a book without waiting for him to agree.

“Nobodies,” he read, looking at the title.

“Yes, Nobodies: Modern American Slave Labor and The Dark Side of The New Global Economy,” I flipped it open to one of the pages I had marked: “‘Pacific islands hold an understandable allure for city dwellers dreaming of balmy, uncrowded paradise. But the images of sun, sand, slide harps, and crystal waters usually belie a Third World backwardness and low-intensity squalor common, almost by default, to such places.’”

O was silent, waiting for me to tie it together. Or fling myself on the ground and start speaking in tongues so he could have me committed.

“This book,” I started taking a breath, “it details three case studies of modern-day slavery, gonzo style, and devotes an entire chapter to the Northern Marianas, where I grew up. It’s funny, in a review, Forbes opined this chapter was reminiscent of Hunter S. Thompson’s Rum Diary, a creative nonfiction work that exposed the insanity of Puerto Rico of the late 50s, Puerto Rico being another U.S. commonwealth.”

O nodded. He was still waiting for a conclusion. But I could not give it to him any more than I could give it to you now. You have to go back, far back, to understand the root of the issue. Because it doesn’t start with a lobbyist or a congressman. It doesn’t even start with the United States.

“What do you know of the Northern Mariana Islands, doctor?”

“I cannot say I know much,” he confessed. It hardly surprised me. Unless you’re a WWII Pacific stage veteran or trivia junky, the unassuming dots on your map east of the Philippines have no reason to mean anything to you.

So let me tell you a story. During that race for the Spice Islands between Spain and Portugal, Ferdinand Magellan “discovered” the archipelago. Skirmishes with the unruly locals who were fond of thieving from the intruders led the expedition to dub these islands “the Isles of the Thieves.” It wasn’t until Spain claimed them formally nearly 150 years later that the “Ladrones” were given the name of the Spanish Queen Mariana of Austria.

Post-Magellan, the islands were the possession of the crown until Spain sold them to Germany in 1899. After WWI, when a defeated Germany was stripped of all overseas possessions, the Marianas were turned over to the League of Nations to be administered by Japan. Less than two decades later, Japan annexed the islands and withdrew from the League of Nations. By the time war cast another shadow over the Pacific, some 29,692 Japanese military personnel were already stationed on Saipan, the main island of the archipelago.

Located at a strategic position, the United States wasted no time taking over. On June 15, 1944, they assaulted, leading to one of the most brutal and decisive battles of the Pacific stage of WWII. American forces eventually gained control and a year later a B-29 named Enola Gay took off from the island of Tinian and dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima.

At war’s end, the islands were devastated. They, along with other islands in the region, (collectively known as Micronesia), became the Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands in the care of the US, which had no idea what to do with them. (Kissinger, in fact, while discussing the fate of the islands then, quipped, “We’re only talking about 90 thousand people—who gives a damn?”)

Located 6,000 miles west of Los Angeles, 3,700 miles west of Hawaii, and having too small a workforce, the islands were difficult to develop, much less be made self-sufficient. Soon, they were almost entirely dependent on the US to keep them afloat with monetary aid, SPAM and other non-perishable goods. They became the ultimate charity case.

In the mid 60s, the UN admitted the islands were so remote as to be almost impossible to manage. E. J. Kahn wrote that a visitor was “likely to be struck less by their innate tropical beauty than by the shabbiness of their man-made establishments.” By the 70s, the United States was encouraging them to determine their political status: did they want independence? Did they want to be federalized completely?

The island of Guam, also in the archipelago of the Mariana Islands chose to defect and become federalized. The rest of the island chain chose to do things their way and become a commonwealth, which means they are technically ruled by the US and have to abide by the Constitution, but at that point were exempt from all manner of taxes and duties and had control of their immigration, wage laws, and land ownership laws as specified in the Covenant, a nifty document drafted up while the US was still feeling pretty guilty about practically destroying the archipelago’s ecosystem and frail infrastructure. (This is in the process of changing as of November of last year, but you don’t need those details.)

In fairness to all those involved, the labor, immigration and wage provisions were largely an effort to assist in the development of the islands: in allowing for foreign laborers from Asia to come and work, they were massively increasing the otherwise tiny and unskilled workforce native to the islands. The idea was that this effort would result in the rebuilding of an infrastructure and assist the islands in embracing modernity and thus moving into the future.

That was the idea, anyway. Things don’t always go as planned. Seeing an opportunity in what could only be described as the perfect environment for businesses, a lot of retailers began to move their factories to the islands. In the Marianas, they could pay people relatively little — $3.05 an hour was the minimum wage when I graduated high school in 2001 — and not be forced to deal with any quotas or duties. And tags on garments could say “Made in the USA” because technically, it is the USA — what’s not to love?

By the late 90s, the islands were the now-disgraced former congressman Tom Delay’s so-called “perfect petri dish of capitalism,” his own little “Galapagos island.” He and Jack Abramoff were up to their eyeballs in moves to protect the islands from full federalization that would raise wages and endanger the excellent business environment. Congressmen came and went on fact-finding junkets during this time and into the 00s, seldom doing more than golfing, partying and getting laid (The New York Times said it best when they titled a piece about it “The Came, They Saw, They Golfed.” Yes).

The islands were rolling in cash. Life was good. For 20 percent of the population, anyway. The other 80 percent, comprised of foreign workers, slaved away day in and day out, making what most of us would call a pittance.

People who argue that it’s better to earn $3.05 an hour than, say, a dollar a day are right. This is not in question. If that’s the argument, they’ve failed to understand the most basic principles of democracy. See, it’s not really about money, it’s about rights. If you have a place and over three-fourths of the people who live there are foreign and therefore not eligible to vote or really effect any kind of change in their benefit, you do not really have a democracy. These people — mostly women garment workers from Asia — hardly know the language, they don’t have any idea about rights, they don’t understand the law, they don’t know anything. Put simply, they’re second-class citizens.

In the ideal world it could work. We could host guest workers and treat them with dignity and be treated with dignity as a host country and all live like shiny, happy people holding hands. Sadly, our world is far from ideal. And so in the 00s, the Northern Mariana Islands were ground zero for forced labor in the United States of America and its outlying islands and territories. Workers were locked in their barracks at night, women were forced to make a choice between abortions and deportations, wages were garnished for things employers were legally responsible for — the works.

And so many women left the garment industry and took to the streets. Sex work, which had been somewhat prevalent already, what with all the congressmen visiting and what-have-you, exploded. At one point you could get a blowjob in the Garapan district of Saipan for US$6.00. Thus the islands formerly known as the Isles of Thieves, the petri dish, ground zero for forced labor, etc., became the Sex Islands.

Growing up there, you don’t notice. You have a bunch of kids your age, all sons and daughters of diplomats or business people, and you more or less live in a bubble full of your kid drama. It’s not until your hormones kick in and you move out of your peer group that you realize just how warped the female-to-male ratio is. I’m not kidding you. Even the CIA Factbook recognized the Northern Marianas as having the highest female-to-male sex ratio in the world.

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a huge issue if all the women were like you. But they aren’t. They’re “exotic,” and, to be perfectly frank, they’re desperate. No liberated and — I’ll be the first to say it — privileged woman can compete with an army of Chinese, Thai, Malay, Russian, Vietnamese and Filipina girls who are willing to do anything you ask to ensure their own survival.

It makes me think of Darwin, only it’s not really about being the fittest. It’s about fucking the hardest, the longest and wildest.

This kind of competition calls for meta-evolution among all participants, of both self and game. Which makes me wonder — did I become so sexually aggressive as a result of the constant competition? Did my skills sex and seduction originate with the need to continuously improve my “product” so as not to fall out of the running?

Imagine Sex And The City, but on an island and with all male protagonists, in a bar instead of a deli, talking crudely about the girls who love them, making incredible nicknames. The show wouldn’t last a week in the US. But that’s how it was out there. It didn’t matter if a man was a loser with no game, no ambition, no job, no assets, none of the things that make a man desirable in the US. In the Marianas, if you have a penis and a blue passport, you are god.

“Three or four blowjobs into Saipan, most white men’s reactions to the island evolve from, ‘Gee, this is wrong’ to ‘Well, it’s complicated,’” writes Bowe in his book. “I sat in on countless and endless conversations comparing the sexual merits of Thais versus Filipinas, Russians versus Chinese, replete with body parts and the likening of women to various breeds of dog and sex acts to animal behavior. Were people so bored by the smallness of island life that they had nothing else to talk about or do? I asked a friend of mine — a white guy from the mainland whom I’ll call Fred — about this…. He laughed at my confusion. What was it about Saipan that made everyone, particularly the men, obsess, dream, and talk about sex all the time? He grinned and barked like an old man, ‘It’s kulcha!’ It took me a year to get what he was talking about. During that time, I met a Bangladeshi who, in his own words, spelled out the same patently obvious thing: Saipan’s primary appeal wasn’t that you could exploit poor Asians. It was that you could fuck them. What was wrong with Saipan if not a sort of ravenous celebration of enhanced sexual power? Did I see it now? The Bangladeshi asked. ‘It’s not really about dollarland. It’s all about sexland.’”

I relayed all this to my therapist, somewhat frenzied. O said nothing. I studied his face’s symmetry — the perfect symmetry of youth, before everything starts to bulge and sag. His skin is taught and tan, his lips full. I turned to look ahead, at the wall, the boring landscapes.

“In mid-April of last year, some evolutionary biologists in Germany showed that some sexually reproducing mites had evolved from asexual mites” I mused, turning to him again, “This is a big deal, right, because we’ve been saying for over 100 years that evolution doesn’t retrace its steps and once a species goes beyond a trait, the genes that dictate how this works are scrapped and there’s no going back to previous drafts. These mites, though, that had once developed in unfertilized eggs and produced only sterile males were found to have taken up sex again, in what many consider the first reversal from asexuality to sexuality in the animal kingdom.”

“You’re full of different sets of data,” O said. It sounded like a diagnosis. You are full of stupid trivia. Not negative or positive. Just, you know, obvious. Like, hey, you’re a schizophrenic. It’s OK, that’s who you are.

“I mention the mite thing,” I hurried to add so as to avoid a possible ADD diagnosis, “because the evolutionary biologist heading the team, when asked what caused the return to sex, immediately zeroed in on the environment. If plenty of resources are available to a species, asexual reproduction becomes preferable. But if the environment is harsher, with more predators and scarcer resources, sex becomes the choice mode of reproduction.”

Such a harsh life, Katja Domes told LiveScience, “may also be an explanation for the origin of sex in the first place.”

“It just seems so appropriate for the oppressive, abusive environment of the islands. It all comes back to the sociopolitical situation. Birthed of colonization and reared by unchecked capitalism. So in closing, I’m not really the embodiment of Venus. I’m just a product of my environment like everyone else.”

“Does this bother you?” O asked.

“Who doesn’t want to feel she’s the embodiment of Venus?” I asked him. “In any event. How’s that for an introduction?”

O was absolutely no help to me. I’d eventually ditch him in favor of a Gestalt psychologist who tied me up in an effort to get me to relinquish my obsessive grasp on control. I suppose I might have mentioned to him I’m really turned on by bondage and restraint, but he probably would have imagined I was being uncooperative. I stopped seeing him after we became lovers. Oops.

I wrote the author of the book I mentioned above about all of this, and he told me: “I think especially after being raised on this island, it’s very hard to go into the world of functioning. Life is less sexy. Less sensual. More practical. [On the islands], your girl or boyfriend is halfway dressed all day long. To take those clothes off and have sex takes 15 seconds. Sex is always closer. There is less to achieve, less reason to be in the race. In the mainland, it’s all about the race. The payoff for being efficient is much greater, so efficiency, rather than, say, pleasure, becomes the dominant ideology. At least, until the ice caps melt.”

I never did get any answers, but then, I don’t think there is really a question. It’s just the way it is. So my apologies if you pull up to pick me up and I’m standing on the curb in nothing but a short coat and thigh highs. Apologies if I want your dick in my mouth at all hours of the day and sex inside, outside, in the car, on the car, all over the city. That’s how I’ve been socialized to keep you.

And if you can keep up, well, that’s how you’ll keep me.

Dream Girls. A lone building in the middle of this desert wasteland with a sign over it in pink. Dream girls. It’s a sick fuchsia, buzzing nervously against the night like the whole thing’s about to give out.

We’re not looking for a bar or a crazy good time. We’re looking for girls. Sounds like a simple proposition, but it’s worse than needing drink. When you needed drink, you’ll get drink and it won’t matter what it is, because anything will suit the purpose. With girls it’s different. You need beauty. Beauty is not always easy to find; beauty won’t hand herself over at the flash of ID and the twenty on the bar.

Beauty’s a cunt and that’s why you go to beat-up, tragic places where the girls are hungry for fresh blood and crisp bills.

Dream Girls is it — they don’t even have a liquor license. We walk in; the girls are lined up next to the door, most of them naked save for stockings, smiling like beauty pageant contestants. They’re greenies, I can just tell. “Hi, hi!” they say. One of them, a tiny blonde, probably five-two, braves to break the line. She steps forward with a shy smile and says, “you’re so beautiful.”

Darling little thing. I want to devour her; I look at her little hands in with those tiny, shiny acrylic nails and her little feet in those tragic, white PVC stilettos. Her belly is milk in a glass; no ripples of bones, muscles or tits. Were it not for the honey-colored landing strip, she could have passed herself off as a junior high-schooler. I bet she broke the heart of every teacher she ever had.

“Dance for me.”

“Oh,” she says, “OK.”

My boyfriend and I take a seat. He looks at me and says, “you’re going to leave me for a woman one day.”

“No.”

Men are straight-forward, clear and concise. Women are high-voltage labyrinths, confused and confusing. I only do confusing on purpose. Also, I can’t get on my knees for anything but a dick. And I must be brought to my knees.

Still, when she reaches down halfway through her set and pulls at me, I let the unexpected strength lift me onstage. She kneels and begins to run her hands over me; she cups my breasts, strokes my legs, down, then up, taking my skirt with it. The shiny acrylic nails glisten in the lights. I feel her breath in my ear, fast and hard.

Another girl takes her pole and another crawls up on the stage and begins playing with my hair. She and the nymph drag their lips over every bit of exposed flesh on my body.

Strippers are like married men: fantastic, impossible things. But it never matters — pleasure is a perfect hijacker. Just this once, just this once. Yeah. Just remember to catch yourself before you think this one will be any different than the ones before.

Image by Calamity Hane. Originally published in Black Heart Magazine, Fall 2006.

The car reeks of sex as we enter Laughlin on Casino Drive. We eat some place at the Edgewater. I tell them I want the meat blue and they have no idea what it means. You can always tell what kind of a restaurant you’re at if they know what “blue” means.

As predicted, it’s the worst filet mignon I’ve ever had. I order an Americano but they don’t know what that is either. I ask for two shots of espresso and warm water and make my own.

“Isn’t it hilarious that a ruined, watered-down espresso is called ‘an American’?” I ask my boyfriend. He doesn’t get it. He just likes that I’m a snob. I think it kind of turns him on, feeds his ego that a snob will fuck him. I better not tell him that I am trying to be more, you know, egalitarian.

Casinos are little bite-size Judeccas on earth. Everyone looks like hell sitting in front of the slot machines. People sit for hours here, fat asses spilling over the little stools, stubby arms pulling the levers again and again. Their eyes follow the spinning reels, like little hamsters inside their heads. Tragic.

As we’re leaving the place, I see a billboard over the Riverside announcing a Lisa Loeb concert. “July 1 & 2!” it reads, right after the menu specials flash. The picture shows her in her staple cat-eye tortoiseshell glasses; the old promo shot from 1994, the good old days when “Stay” was everyone’s break-up song thanks to Reality Bites. Pathetic.

A few miles away, we’re at our desert house, a small three bedroom in the middle of nowhere. He’d turned on the air conditioning over the phone hours earlier, so it’s a manageable temperature when we walk in. Technology is a fabulous thing.

The sun is setting behind the jagged mountains; pink and gold reflect over the pool. I’m on one of the ridiculously small chairs outside, reading. I try to light a cigarette, but the lighter has a child-lock and I don’t understand how to work it. I notice my boyfriend stirring in bed through the adjacent window and I walk over. I stand in front of the glass door like I can’t see him and look at myself. I pull the strings of my bikini top and it falls to my feet. I lick a thumb and rub it over my nipple.

I have his attention.

I turn around and pull down my bottoms, spreading my legs a little and bending forward. I put the unlit cigarette in my mouth and begin stroking myself. I can see my reflection in the living room windows. That’s hot.

When I look over my shoulder, I see my boyfriend standing behind the glass, jacking off. I turn around to face him, lowering myself to a crouch, legs spread.

At climax, he opens the door, takes hold of my hair and cums on my sunglasses. A second later, I hear a click as he lights the cigarette still perched on my lips. I push my sunglasses up to the top of my head and he kisses my forehead before tossing the lighter on a side table and sliding the door shut again.

I turn around and face the desert. Such a spiritual place.

Image by AV Flox. Published in Black Heart Magazine, Winter 2007, Issue #4, pp. 40-41.

Mojave Valley Highway. It’s the last leg of the journey between Needles and Bullhead City, Arizona. The place is desolate: there’re more adult bookstores than houses, not a person in sight. If it weren’t for the Harleys parked outside a saloon, passerby’d probably think the place was a ghost town. We find a Wal-Mart.

I jump in a cart and my boyfriend pushes me around the place. He wants to buy me sneakers.

“Does this mean I have to wear socks?”

I hate socks. He finds me some socks. I will have nothing to do with this plan to attain “comfortable attire.” Nevertheless, I’m amazed they have shoes and socks and just about everything in one store — it’s so American. Everything you could need or want, standardized and shoved into this box-like establishment.

It’s incredible to imagine — fifty years ago, this place didn’t exist. Hell, fifty years ago Sam Walton, the founder of Wal-Mart, was still working at JC Penney.

I’ve decided that I’m a Wal-Mart: a dilettante specializing in cheapening genius and beauty to the point of democracy.

Andy Warhol was right when he talked about the wonder of consumer egalitarianism in this country. You can still watch TV and see a Coke and know that you can have a Coke just like the one Dubya is having, and the one Paris Hilton is having, and the one Bill Gates is having. All Cokes are the same and all Cokes are good, isn’t that what he said?

Yes — if we have any sort of a legacy, this is it.

Having procured the sneakers and socks — which I flatly refuse to wear — we hit the hills and find a look-out as we near Laughlin. The population there is less than 10,000, but it’s always buzzing with people: it’s the third most visited casino-destination in Nevada, after Vegas and Reno. From the look-out, we see Casino Drive’s lights reflected on the Colorado River like a little Las Vegas right at our fingertips.

I jump out into the heat to take a picture and have a smoke. My boyfriend comes out and before I can light up, he’s opened the side door of the car and bent me over the back seat.

Low-rise jeans give easy entry: you don’t really have to unbutton or unzip them to get them down. You just tug, whale tail and all, and you’re in.

It’s like we don’t even touch, we just fuck. I need his cock and he needs my cunt. We don’t even have time to moan before it’s over. I feel him tighten inside me after a few savage thrusts and I come. When I come, I send him over the edge. He pulls out–pop shot on my back.

He leans against the side of the car, I get out and, jeans still mid-thigh, light that cigarette.

Image by Gregory Melle. Originally published in Black Heart Magazine on December 6, 2007.

Barstow, California was named after W. B. Strong–B for Barstow. The place’s a drive-through; no one wants to stay there beyond the ten minutes required to get a few more Bulls, piss and have a cigarette on the way to somewhere else.

I get out of the car and breathe the impossibly hot air — 124 degrees Fahrenheit. The wind burns through me and dust clings to my lip gloss. I smile behind the aviators and head into the gas station. I walk through; people are too busy staring at the woman in the hat — Californian B in black, baby — they don’t notice that I’ve cut the line until the door shuts in their faces behind the Stetson.

Walk out, looking over them in their over-sized, faded t-shirts and beat up tennis shoes. I love Americans, even if they always look terrible.

My boyfriend’s waiting for me outside. I take a last puff, drop my cigarette and he puts it out before the heat gust can blow it away. Inside the car, the A/C’s blasting. Jenna Jameson’s comeback flick with Wicked, Hell On Heels is on in all five screens. The short playing features Jenna as a winged version of the White Russian Kahlua ad; she’s being caressed by two fallen angels in raven black feathers. In the background a song reminiscent of Enya plays, creating the most perverse illusion of sanctity a Catholic could lay eyes on. This, of course, makes it my favorite part of the video.

On to Needles, still California, 148 miles east.

When I blow my boyfriend, I use cities as landmarks; Barstow to Needles, estimated hour and forty-five minutes. Ready, set, go.

Some people suck dick because they like to, because it turns them on. Some people do it because they have to. Most are a combination of enjoyment and compromise. I’m in it for the science when I’m on the road. Technique and endurance. The signs dotting the roads and interstates are meters.

You think a lot with a cock in your mouth when it’s not there out of desperate want during an unorchestrated sexual encounter. Thank god for the monstrous things that are American cars. Hunter S. Thompson crossed the desert in 1971 in a Chevrolet Caprice convertible, but it’s 2006 and we’re doing it in a Suburban.

God bless American opulence: without it, vehicular oral sex would be a cramped proposition.

Image by Patrick Dirden. Originally published in Black Heart Magazine on December 6, 2007.