The first sensexual piece to be listed in the new navigation bar heading for erotica. Sebastian has presented this series at the Erotic Literary Salon live for the past two month, and there are two more installments scheduled to be read. The Salon is so very privileged to have him along with many other gifted writers sharing their words monthly. Reminder, Jeremy Edwards and Helia will be featured presenters at this most special of events.
Saturn on Mercury, by Sebastian
The desert knows what you need. It reaches into the recesses of that crowded room, that hoarder’s delight you call your mind and extracts the raw necessities of life from your psyche. You thought what you needed was to get laid.
The night before your excursion into the heat baked wasteland you wander the casinos bent on starting out what you are certain will be a week wallowing in sweat and cum with a proverbial bang. Bar after bar you are met with couples drowning their sorrows, frat boys sowing their oats and geriatric dreams unsung. Your hotel key burning a whole in your pocket you make eye contact with a few prospective beauties, even dance hip to hip with a gaggle of women sharing a night on the town. But no one feels right, no one has that look of hunger in their eyes and you’re starting to feel like a wolf among sheep, a pariah circling the pack waiting for a pass to get closer and join the social circle once more.
A few words at a piano bar and a girl invites you to dance with her. Your hips close, in sync, you gyrate to whatever melody the piano’s keys can hammer out to a crowd plied with rum and Coronas. The two of you wander about, spending your waking hours dive to dive, song to song, taking a moment to whisper those introductory aphorisms you use to wine and dine the ladies at home and the occasional long deep kiss. Ah, those kisses, kisses you get lost in; hungry wanting moments of open mouths pressed longingly, darting tongues tasting one another in anticipation of what is to come. Occasionally you’re self-conscious over the public display, catching a coy giggle over the din of stolen lives and not caring.
In the wee hours you look with her friends for an open bar or diner. There’s a small joint you spot after wandering the cold desert night. A jukebox and an inviting dark corner beckon you all if only for another hour, but another hour until what? A moment where they realize she’s not going home with them? An awkward grin disappearing into the night as they wonder if she’ll be alright – disapproving, some broken hearted, a setup for rumor-mongering in the coming year – whatever they think you imagine movie romances, kissing in the elevators, clothes cast aside en-route, barely conscious of your efforts to not just take her in the hall bound to wake up in a corner, feet away from your door with a table cloth draped about your bare bodies – assuming someone doesn’t call the police.
Realizing you’ve let your mind meander you look over as they order drinks. You make a mental note that getting to the hotel before sex is a good priority. She saunters toward you swinging her long brown hair and sporting a wry smile – you cannot wait to see her sans her shirt, feel her breasts under your hands and hear that satisfied involuntary moan rise from deep within as you slide your hand between her legs – you shake your head to clear it of the anticipatory hallucinations and smile back at her.
“I’m having a really great time tonight,” she puts her hands on your chest.
“Me to,” punctuating your assent with a soft kiss.
She looks down shyly, “I just have to tell you, I sorta have this rule, I mean I thought you should know, I’m not going to have sex with you tonight, not after our first… date.”
You’re heart sinks, with it your fantasies wash down an equally imaginary drain, your chest tightens, and you try desperately to not let it show on your face. You sport a roguish grin and nod that you understand. “I just didn’t want you to be waiting around if that’s what you were hoping for and I’d release you, before it gets too late, to find greener pastures.”
You take a deep breath and look out into the night from the barstool, “I’m having a lot of fun and unless you want me to take off I’d love to stick around with you guys.”
She smiles, “I’d like that.”
“Just tell me one thing,” and you pull her close, “you want to, right?”
She bites her lip, looks up with wanton eyes and nods, “in the worst way.”
The desert knows what you need. It see through your mental facade, your confident veneer, the face you put on for those you wish to share your bed or believe you to be worth hiring. You thought what you needed was to feel a body close at night.
Flesh is all around you. All other colors are washed out, driven from the social palate by the proliferation of sun-washed sand and bodies in constant motion. You are adrift amid a sea of art, metal and plaster and paint baking under a yellow sky. Plumage on tanned bodies undulating to a stark, unforgiving rhythm.
Your first night in the desert wandering the playa campsites you aren’t so much looking at fifty foot sculptures and interpreting artistic commentary on the evils of urbanization. You feast your eyes on the bodies that lay before you and they look back. You feel like you are part of the display and you move with them. The energy is one of potential, unbridled hope, uncertain expectations. You wander to see what you can see. Feel what you can feel.
Dancing is the language you all speak here. You’re inundated with an undulating spectrum of colors, scents and sounds, all to the relentless thrum. Most of the time you remain anonymous, just part of the wave of flesh, fire and pheromones.
Glancing to your right you see her. Your heart races. Day one in this celebration of hedonistic expression and she looks at you like no one has ever looked at you before. Her hair cascades down her back, her hips sway her perfect bare breasts a signpost to remind you of the civilization you left behind. And those eyes. Those eyes that express a slow sultry moan that says “fuck me, please.” You can’t help but grin. Your eyes meet and you nod. Her hand beckons you. You look about at first then saunter her way. The music is maddeningly loud, allowing you leave to get close to her. You move in near her ear, her hair brushing against your face “HI! YOU LOOK AMAZING! WHAT’S YOUR NAME?!” you shout into her ear. She cringes and whimpers, “Too loud.” Your confidence drains, a friend of hers wanders over and scampers off with her with nary a wave.
Days pass like this. Barely clothed, sun-drenched goddesses splayed out, wanting, willing. A misstep here. A mishap there. A mixture of missed opportunities sending you into a frenzy of wanton desire. It’s not because you’re inexperienced or even because it’s been a while. It’s because you’re surrounded by it. It’s because the sexual tension fills the air in a palpable current, tendrils of lust billowing through a city bent on fulfilling your every fantasy.
Out dancing with some friends you come across an acquaintance. She’s decked out in the bacchanal uniform, a bikini and sunglasses to make Elton John proud, knee high boots and a pink synthetic boa. She collapses in a chair beside you and says “My, aren’t you cute.” Pleasantries are traded and you spend the evening parading about adult playgrounds. At one point you’re helping her onto a platform made of telephone poles and chains with a dub-step throbbing all around you. Fire gouts to the music from a twenty foot metal sphere above. So entrenched in it’s opulence you pull her close and kiss her. She smiles. With a bit of hesitation she looks at you and says, “Back home I have a boyfriend.” Keeping hormones in check you take a deep breath, a practiced pleasantness you’ve come to embrace and you bow to respect for her distant paramour.
After long she, like so many others disappears into the beat laden night leaving you longing for release.