Our log cabin, just outside of Big Pine, sits on the foothills of the White Mountains in the Eastern Sierras.  Our five acres and the surrounding area is beyond spectacular. Big Pine is a strange town, populated with the kind of folk we’ve fondly coined “the dirt people.”  Derogatory as the term is, it’s our family gag, and none of us can use the phrase without the rest of us doubling over in snot-shooting laughter. The drive from the house to town is 7.5 miles. About a mile down a dusty paved road from the house to the hwy, then exactly 6.5 miles beyond that to town. I know that because it’s the marker mile I use to tell people how to get to our place. “Turn right a half mile after the 6 mile marker.”

It was Halloween eve, the boys were 14 and 16 at the time. Sebastian had a learner’s permit, Jaxon did not. The three of us had had a weekend of rabbit trapping and puzzle making. The rabbit trapping was Jaxon’s thing, he’d set up a cardboard box in the orchard where the cotton-tails hung out, and with a rope attached to the box he’d wait at his upstairs bedroom window, rope in hand, for a rabbit to enter his bated cardboard cage. If one did, he’d yank on the robe to upright the box. Needless to say, he never caught a rabbit.

The boys needed costumes for school. It was about 5.30 in the afternoon. We piled in the car, the new SUV I’d bought the Friday before, for no apparent reason, and drove to the local K-mart where we hit the kid’s costume area for ill-fitting made-in-China outfits. Sebastian drove the 7.5 miles to town, and after a lot of giggling and fluorescent lit Zoolander type modeling, we settled on a ghost for him and a skunk for his brother. Sebastian was already tall, he was the only white boy on his high-school’s varsity basketball team. He’d worked so hard to make the team. They were to begin practice the following day. The polyester costume label’s read – Suitable for ages 4 through 7.

Jaxon had asked if he could drive on the way back. I’d told him absolutely no on the hwy, but sure, on the road up to our place I’d let him. He’d never been behind the wheel of a car before. I drove the 6.5 miles back to our turnoff, crossed over the steel cow grate at the entrance of the road and pulled over next to the metal fence that ran the length of an abandoned alfalfa field. After switching seats with Jaxon I pointed out the accelerator, the brake, and showed him where to hold the steering wheel. I turned the key in the ignition, instructed him to shift the transmission, and off we went.  Slowly at first, but gaining speed exponentially. This is where time slowed down. Like a ticking clock in a horror film. I recall saying “you must keep control of the vehicle.” At which point his brother parroted from the back seat, “yeah Jax, you must keep control of the vehicle.” And so, as a means to joke with his brother, and “keep control of the vehicle” Jaxon reached down to flick on the indicator, and in doing so took his eyes off the road. We swerved left, then radically to the right, and that’s where I checked out. The velocity of the swerve had slammed my right temple on the side of the door and knocked me out. I came-to as we tumbled. Metal to dirt. Metal to dirt. Metal to dirt. A loud, hollow thumping.

I opened my eyes to a cloud of gritty dust as the car came to sudden stop on it’s roof. I can’t help but liken the feeling to a ride the boys and I took together at the Pamona Fair. Strapped into to a metal grated cage, left hanging upside down for seconds – that seemed like hours. I turned to check Jaxon was OK, he was, then turned to the back seat.

His brother was not there.

“Sebastian?” I wiped the back of my hand across my right cheek. I was bleeding. “Sebastian?”

The top of Bart Simpson’s yellow screen-printed head peeked above the airbag at Jaxon’s chest. Jaxon was also tall, and very thin. He wore an extra-large men’s t-shirt in an attempt to camouflage his skinniness. He liked the Simpson’s, would sit for hours watching episode after episode. He appreciated the adult humor, often commenting on it’s inappropriateness for children.  My own airbag was pressing uncomfortably against the metal snap of my Levis, or rather my husband’s Levis. I wore them when he was away.

It was getting late, the mountain monsters had eaten most of the sunlight. (We talked about the mountain monsters when the sun suddenly disappeared behind the Sierras at around 4.30 in the afternoon; when we watched the ominous shadow creep across the Owens valley towards the house.) On the upholstered roof below us swarms of dust and last years dried alfalfa bits and pieces had settled next to my flip-flops and my silver locket. The necklace had been in the cup holder, I’d taken it off earlier that day at the hot springs. The boys had given it to me for my birthday a few years back. We’d gone through the boxes of family photos to find pictures small enough to cut out their faces and place them inside the silver heart.

Everything smelled brown. We were in the field, the seemingly endless field. But it all looked the same as it had earlier that day – the jagged mountain horizon, the cows in the distance, the thickets of Cottonwood trees lining the irrigation canals. It was as if I was the only thing that had changed – Like suddenly I was a spinning top inside an Ansel Adams photograph. An unstable spinning top, like I might wobble off the table at any moment. Where the fuck was he? Where the fuck is he? The car windows had blown out. The metal framing of one of the back doors had been peeled back like sardine can. It seemed like the back of the car had caved in on the front. . Where is he?

“I’m going to get help.” Jaxon’s voice was deeper than I was used hearing. It hadn’t completely broken yet. Then he burst into soprano tears. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

“I love you,” I wished I’d said that. I have no recollection of what words I actually used.

We clicked ourselves out of our seat belts, rolled onto the upholstered ceiling and crawled out the windows onto the prickly ground.  Jaxon ran in the direction of the horse ranch, I ran barefoot around the car in search of his brother.

It is hard to describe exactly how I felt at this point. I kicked into some kind of search and rescue one-woman show. All I knew was that I couldn’t lose it. My skin tingled. I felt no pain. Adrenaline. I tasted metal in the back of my throat. I circumnavigated the car a few times, expecting the worse – listening, searching.

I was on my third time around the car when Jaxon shouted from the road. Sebastian was lying in the middle of it, in fetal position, about 60 feet away from where the car had broken through the fence. Jaxon didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop, he told me years later, he couldn’t bare to face what he’d done to his brother.  He kept running up the road towards our “dirt people neighbors” who we’d never met, but had joked about.

I would have taken 17 hermaphrodite crack heads fucking me in the ass over this situation. I’d sign up for a life of pornographic exploitation. I’d have done anything to wake up from this. I felt like I was in a nightmare within a nightmare. That my legs had gone out from under me and the plane was about to crash. We were going down, no control, my drunk father had fallen asleep at the wheel. There was an ant infested hamster on a wheel, spinning, going nowhere in particular. I had to get to my son. The controls were out, my feet turned to jelly worms and wouldn’t hold me up. I was fruit loops, fruit roll-ups, fruity pebbles. A Spiderman lunchbox. I’d been fucked and sucked and exploited by weird German photographers, and was too high on balloon clown crack to get where I needed to go. To my son, lying just feet away.

“Where am I ?” Sebastian opened his eyes as I settled by his side. The road was still warm from the earlier desert sun.

His jeans were torn apart from his skidding along the road. His t-shirt was up over his chest. Every inch of his skin was ridden with sticky red and black and gravel. His curly blonde head rested in a pool of his own blood.

Distant police sirens.

6.5 miles.

“You’re in Big Pine baby. We had a car accident.” I leaned down to kiss his torn up lips and a drop of my own blood fell onto his cheek.

“Am I going to be OK?”

“You are going to be fine, baby,” I said.

He looked me firmly in the eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

I prayed I wasn’t lying.

I’m going out on a limb and voting f) All of the above.

Could be the bunny, white and fluffy and all, but frankly the idea of fucking a bunny is not appealing in the least. Besides, I am a chick, or rather a woman, and how would a woman fuck a bunny anyway?  (Come to think of it, could a man fuck a bunny? Ain’t it amazing how so much comes down to size?)

So that leaves us the egg. Those brittle, delicate yet thick-shelled creatures that are easily cracked, broken, beaten or fried… right!

Of course that makes me horny.

And so be it (or beat it) – if you will.

Stand by…

A quick aside: While he is in the kitchen cooking I am half way across the loft sprawled on my bed horizontally, lying on my very own wet spot.  Who knew when those ladies burned their bras in the 60′s it’d come to this?

Go 2011.

Not sure if it’s irony or just plain good fortune that I’d been fucked stupid by my very own favourite Spanish sausage just moments before my arrival.

There were 8 of us. We stayed two hours. In those hours we covered a plethora of topics including, but not limited to, the state of affairs in Egypt; the crazy factor involved in signing up for a half iron-man race; the pros and cons of falling in love with a married man who makes you squeal in the bedroom; the genius of a new food truck we’d call “Cock Tacos” (and it’s sister truck “Dairy Queens” that serves ice cream by elaborately donned Priscilla Queen of the Dessert type girly-boys); the hows and whys of homosexual verses heterosexual fisting technique;  the intimacy of sexual water play; and why the seemingly homeless guy standing like a statue in the center of the bar clutching a bible and a white broomless broomstick had managed to go unnoticed by management for a good half hour. Hmmph. Sticks, bibles and sausages equals invisible?  Maybe. Perhaps only true while discussing cock taco, fisting fun and pee play all at once.

Suffice to say, I fucking love my friends!

A note of gratitude January 23, 2011

Posted by Leah in Gallimaufry.
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The Anti-Cougar has written me a lust letter. We have never met, but I think she and I would have a grand time over drinks and then a long and sleepless night.

I am not to speak, she instructs. But there is a loophole in the lady’s command. I can still type.

Yes, Anti-Cougar, I want your pussy so very much. I want to press my tongue in your cunt and slake my thirst in the waters. I want to close my eyes and take deep sniffs of your feline scent while I suck upon your clit. I want to touch you with infinitely knowing fingers and reach inside for that deep spot that makes you gush like a fountain. I want the flavors of your orgasm on my palate. I want the soprano notes you make as your hands clench the bedsheets that we have dirtied together. I want to lift my arms up to cup your breasts and pinch those pebbly nipples. I want to screw the dildo inside and fuck you the way your young lover does with a hard, thick cock. I want to deepthroat the false glass penis once you have climaxed and then come myself in the very same manner as you. I want to fall to slumber beside you with orgasm heavy limbs. I want this.

Thank you for the gift of your supple words and the lovely images. I shall dream of you tonight.

As well, I simply must add a yo-yo to the toy collection.

Dear Leah,

We are naked. We are on my red velvet sofa. Outside an early evening Los Angeles sunset tosses a red-orange blanket towards a still downtown skyline. I tie your hands behind you then lay you on your back. Your breasts fall ever so slightly towards your armpits. The curve of your stomach and the hint of your hip bones make me crazy. I trace them first with my moistened forefinger, then with the tip of my tongue. You are not to speak. You know the rules.

I play with the negative space that is the arch of your back on the sofa.

I force your legs open with my knee, slide my tongue up and over your thighs until I smell you. Then I stop. Reaching up I twist one erect nipple and then the other. I expect your tattooed hips to rise, your pussy to ask for my lips. But, wait, you are the submissive. That’s not your role. I remind you anyway by pushing your hips firmly to the velvet.

My hand is covering your mouth now. Your teeth and tongue knock at my palm. “Shut-up,” I say.  You are not making a sound.

There is a wet spot on red fabric beneath us. I point it out. Your eyes apologize. So they should. “Good girl. ” I reward you with a slide of my mouth closer to your pussy. You struggle not to squirm as my warm sexually charged breaths seduce your labia.

I am in control. I am wet. You smell insane – tamed and feral all at once. If you had a cock I’d straddle it. You don’t. But for that, today, I am happy. You see, I love a woman once in a while. A hot bitch who may have sucked the sweat off a hot Adonis’ cock just hours before. I remove my hand from your mouth and straddle your face. Hovering.

“Do you want my pussy?”
You nod.
“How much?”
You nod some more, straining your neck to reach me.

I tease you for a while. Rising up and down on my knees –  just out of reach. Then I pull away, slide back and down your torso until I am sitting on your pelvic bones. A snail trail. I lick it up. Like lemongrass – sweet and citric. I move back and forth on the layer of sticky moisture between us. I can almost hear its gummy tack. I remember the white glue we used to paint on our hands as kids. We’d wait for it to dry, then peel it off in sheets. We’d have tent sleep-overs in my best friend’s bedroom. We’d take turns playing with each other in “sexy ways”. We were 8.

Our eyes meet. I dare you to break my glance. And so you hold it. I pull your hair away from your face until you grimace. I kiss you. Bite your bottom lip. Hold it between my teeth until a tear escapes the corner of your eye. I taste blood. “How much do you want me?”
A second tear falls over your cheek bone and rests on your chin. I give you my pussy.

I groan under your expertise.

“Good girl.”

Eyes still following me, I reach across the sofa for an ocean-blue glass dildo I’ve brought along.  Your hips rise. I push them down. “Shut-up.” You are not making a sound.

I roll you over, untie your hands. My kid’s Yo-Yo string has left deep welts in your wrists. I hand you our own toy. You know exactly how to play with it. I rub my clit while you trust the dildo inside me.

“Fuck me harder.” I tell you. And you do. My knees are up around my shoulders, and with each dirty thrust I grimace in the pain that is my uterus. I’m so close. I read about your dragging the guy into the bathroom at the gym, peeling off his shorts, taking his balls into your cupped hand and sucking his cock till he came. I read about your being collared, slapped and dragged along the floor until you cried. You write well. You turn me on.

My clitoris has tired of my own work and wants your tongue. Badly. “Suck me.” You slide your mouth around my busy fingers and like a good hungry little kitten you lap at juices that lubricate our glass cock. “Pull it out, and lick it clean.”

You do.

I devour my own fingers, my own womanliness. Delirious. I love the taste of pussy. The room smells like sex. “Suck me.” Hot, tangy, girl sex. “Put your cock inside me, damn it.”

Delirious.

You fuck me more. I squirt a warm sweet liquid all over your face.  You’ve done well.

“Good girl.”

Yours,

The Anti-Cougar