Nevada
I sat down on a toilet missing its seat at a rest stop somewhere in the desert. The stall door was missing its lock. On the top right-hand corner of the stall's door, as if written on the corner of a page, was, "I would love to lick your pussy until you orgasm. Nice thick cock. Call or text." And a number.
The lettering was neat, all caps, the spelling was perfect, the handwriting vaguely feminine and architectural. So much so, in fact, that I thought for a moment a woman had written it before I scanned down to the second line. That second line that almost needed a 'P.S.' in front of it. Or parenthesis around it. Something to make it even more diminutive.
So in those few moments of pissing-reading-thinking, waves of excitement, conflict, confusion, and frustration swept over me. I loved the pre-technocratic nature of the message - an early version of craigslist existing where there was no wifi. In the stripped down parking lot and desert landscape there was this aching and fervent sexuality nested on that metallic page.
But then, the locklessness of the door, the fact that it was in the women's restroom, the cold stainless steel on my ass, all of this made me feel violated. He had been there. He had written it. He was watching and waiting.
And then I thought, well of course it was there, it was the only place it could be. He couldn't write it outside. And even if I would want to call him (because anonymous, spontaneous sex can be fascinating) I couldn't because I am a woman and he is a man and I'll be damned if I'm not (rationally) afraid of rape. And as usual the envy seeps in of men being safer (also subject to rape, obviously, but I feel like less so?) and more apt to have these kinds of sexual trysts. Open. Blatant. Raw. Fleeting.
But the power inversion of the message itself was gorgeous and hot and titillating. I tried to image who it was. And maybe it was a woman, the last line an afterthought, an exercise in masking the self.
Tron and I pulled into a gas station 100 miles or so down the road. The sun was nearly gone over the horizon. The colors were saturated and dark, lain over ancient geology. A deathly handsome cowboy stood leaning on his truck, arms crossed resting on the open car door. His chin finding home in one of his elbows. Watching the sun go down. Hearing the crickets like I heard them. Taking a moment to watch all that expanse condense on the retinas. Nice clean controlled cones of information that made me take such deep, free breaths.
And those words and that body came together in such a wave that suddenly Nevada felt like revolution.
The lettering was neat, all caps, the spelling was perfect, the handwriting vaguely feminine and architectural. So much so, in fact, that I thought for a moment a woman had written it before I scanned down to the second line. That second line that almost needed a 'P.S.' in front of it. Or parenthesis around it. Something to make it even more diminutive.
So in those few moments of pissing-reading-thinking, waves of excitement, conflict, confusion, and frustration swept over me. I loved the pre-technocratic nature of the message - an early version of craigslist existing where there was no wifi. In the stripped down parking lot and desert landscape there was this aching and fervent sexuality nested on that metallic page.
But then, the locklessness of the door, the fact that it was in the women's restroom, the cold stainless steel on my ass, all of this made me feel violated. He had been there. He had written it. He was watching and waiting.
And then I thought, well of course it was there, it was the only place it could be. He couldn't write it outside. And even if I would want to call him (because anonymous, spontaneous sex can be fascinating) I couldn't because I am a woman and he is a man and I'll be damned if I'm not (rationally) afraid of rape. And as usual the envy seeps in of men being safer (also subject to rape, obviously, but I feel like less so?) and more apt to have these kinds of sexual trysts. Open. Blatant. Raw. Fleeting.
But the power inversion of the message itself was gorgeous and hot and titillating. I tried to image who it was. And maybe it was a woman, the last line an afterthought, an exercise in masking the self.
Tron and I pulled into a gas station 100 miles or so down the road. The sun was nearly gone over the horizon. The colors were saturated and dark, lain over ancient geology. A deathly handsome cowboy stood leaning on his truck, arms crossed resting on the open car door. His chin finding home in one of his elbows. Watching the sun go down. Hearing the crickets like I heard them. Taking a moment to watch all that expanse condense on the retinas. Nice clean controlled cones of information that made me take such deep, free breaths.
And those words and that body came together in such a wave that suddenly Nevada felt like revolution.