As always, Elise came through the door like a gunslinger.

She never has to say she’s home; I can hear her.

When I reached out to hug her, she kissed me long and slow, then slid her lips down my neck to bury her face between my breasts.

“Greeting the girls?” I asked, my voice catching.

“Hell, these are ladies,” she said.

“I think it’s funny that you anthropomorphize them,” I said. “Maybe they should have their own names.”

“Sweet old-fashioned names,” she murmured into my cleavage.

“We can call this one Chastity,” I offered helpfully.

“Perfect. Then we’ll call this one Irony.”

#100#

“Oh my heck, that was just what I needed,” Caroline said, polishing off the last drops of her margarita.

“Suddenly 40 is looking far more promising.”

“Anything for your birthday, Carly. After all, this is a really big one.”

Caroline punched her in the arm. “Screw you, baby dyke. It isn’t looking that promising.”

Kate laughed and ran her finger around the edge of the bowl in front of them, licking the last of the guacamole off her finger.

“The drinks are dry and the guac is gone. I think it’s time for us to move on.”

Outside of Maya, Kate hailed a cab, and the women piled in. Kate gave the driver an address on 18th.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re headed over to Tacy’s place to pick her up. Then I thought we’d all hang out in Delores Park for a while before we go dancing. It’s such a beautiful, warm night. It seems a shame to waste it inside.” The cab stopped and Kate climbed out, offering a hand to Caroline. Tacy was waiting for them on the curb.

She hugged Kate and clapped her on the back, then held out her arms to Caroline. “Happy birthday, baby girl.”

“Thanks, Tacy. I’m glad you could join us.”

Tacy winked at her. “Believe me, the pleasure is all mine.” She handed Caroline a folded quilt. “Would you mind carrying this?” Then she slung a backpack over her shoulder and nudged a large cooler with her foot. “Kate, give me a hand with this, will you?”

“Holy Mother of God, Tacy. What’s in this thing?” Kate grunted as she lifted her end.

“Just some supplies for an evening in park. Maybe you’d better hit the gym sometime soon.”

“At least we’re only going a couple of blocks,” Kate said.

In the park, the women found a grassy spot off the path, near one of the iron lamp posts.

“This looks perfect.” Caroline spread out the quilt and sat down, stretching out her legs.

Tacy busied herself unpacking her backpack. She pulled out a bottle of Patron tequila, tied with a bright pink ribbon and put it down by Caroline’s thigh. “A present for you… well, for us.”

“Thank you,” Caroline said. “But I’m still feeling a little high from the margarita I had with dinner.”

“Maybe this will be dessert, then,” Tacy said, playfully.

Kate began to unfold the portable speakers for her iPod, and soon Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black” was weaving through the evening air. “Our gift,” said Kate, placing a wrapped package on the quilt.

“I thought your gift was our dinner,” Caroline said, suspiciously. “And Tacy’s was this evening in the park.” She poked the lumpy package with her finger and it made a clanking sound.

“Tacy and I did a little shopping. Just something special for our favorite friend.”

“Can I unwrap it now?” Tacy and Kate looked at each other. Tacy shrugged. “Okay. Have at it.” She unpacked a plastic bag of lime wedges and a plastic container of bar salt.

Caroline tore at the wrapping. “What the…?” And then she began to laugh. “Oh, you guys shouldn’t have,” she said, holding up a set of steel handcuffs. “Really.”

“We though you could find a good use for them,” Tacy said.

“I’ll wear them tonight when we go out dancing. Or I’ll wear one of them. Maybe I’ll get lucky and meet a hot girl and chain her to my wrist with the other one.”

“That’s the spirit,” Kate said.

Caroline closed the cuff around her wrist. “How’s it look?”

“You know you can wear anything, and it’ll always look good on you,” Tacy said.

“Come here and dance with me.” She pulled Caroline up to her feet and they began a slow dance in the darkening park. Tacy held her tightly with her palm pressed into the small of Caroline’s back. “Sort of romantic here under the streetlight, isn’t it?”

“Mmm,” Caroline agreed, resting her head on Tacy’s shoulder.

Tacy backed her up against the lightpost and looked into her eyes. She took her by the hands. “Carly, would it be improper of me to ask for the privilege of a birthday kiss?” she asked.

“I think that would be nice,” Caroline said.

Tacy began to kiss her, pressing her warm lips against her friend’s and leaning her back again the light post. As their kiss grew more passionate Caroline became aware than Tacy was stretching her arms back behind her. She realized a moment too late where this was going. She heard a “click” as the other cuff closed around her wrist, fastening her to the post.

“Hey!” she said. “That’s not funny.”

Behind her, Kate began to whisper “Happy Birthday” in her ear, her warm breath brushing the back of Caroline’s neck.

“Nice job,” Tacy said.

“Thanks,” Kate returned. “You pulled off your part beautifully.” They exchanged a high five.

“You guys planned this?” Caroline started to laugh. “Oh, you’re so funny. Now unlock me.”

Kate kissed her lightly on the lips. “Hang on, I’ve know I’ve got the key here somewhere. Tacy, come here and help me find it.”

The two women dug around in the cooler and came up with a couple of beers. They opened them and toasted each other before taking a healthy draw. Caroline couldn’t hear what they were saying.

“Uh, guys… remember me? The one you’ve locked to a post?”

Tacy came closer with a shot glass. “You ready for a drink now?”

“How about a key?” Caroline said. She could see Kate searching her pockets. “Oh hell. Maybe I’d better.”

Tacy held up her finger with some salt on it. “Lick.” Caroline licked. She tipped the shot up to her lips. “Drink.” Caroline swallowed it down. “Now bite.” Tacy held out a lime wedge.

Caroline gasped a little. “Wow. That’s good. Now where’s the key?”

“You’re a little perseverative. You know that?” Tacy said. “

Here it is!” Kate called out.

She walked over to the two women and waved it in front of Caroline. “What’ll you give me for it, baby?” She wiggled her eyebrows wickedly and placed the little silver key between her teeth. But as she leaned in to kiss Caroline, she teasingly sucked it back into her mouth and pulled away.

“You brat,” Caroline said.

Kate laughed and took a swig of her beer. Suddenly her eyes widened and she coughed a little and reached for her throat.

“Tell me you didn’t…” Tacy said.

“I did,” Kate sputtered.

“Did what?” Caroline asked.

“I just swallowed the key… Wow. I didn’t plan that,” Kate said.

“Kate!” Caroline yelled. “You can’t just leave me locked up here!”

Kate grabbed Tacy by the arm and pulled her away for a moment. The two appeared to confer and nodded their heads in agreement. Kate went back to the ice chest as Tacy walked back over to Caroline.

“Kate and I talked it over, Carly, and well… um… yeah, we can.”

“Can what?”

“Can leave you locked to the post for a while. If we call a locksmith now, it will just be a buzz kill. After all, we’re having a good time. We’ve got music and drinks. It’s a nice warm night… Let’s just hang out and enjoy it.” She walked back over the ice chest.

In disbelief, Caroline watched her walk away.

Kate came closer. “I’m sorry I swallowed the key.”

“Well at least you brought me another shot,” Caroline said.

“Actually, this one’s for me.” Kate leaned into Carly and kissed her lightly on the lips. She then kissed her her friend on the neck and began to work her way lower.

“Hey!” Caroline protested.

“Shhh.” Kate put a lime wedge in her mouth. “Hold this for me.”

She began to unbutton Caroline’s shirt, untucking it as she went. Caroline made noises of protest, but didn’t drop the lime.

“Look at the black bra under this starched white shirt. You bad girl,” Kate said. She ran her tongue across the lacy edge of Caroline’s bra and began to sprinkle the tops of her breasts with the coarse salt.

Caroline’s nipples hardened in response to the cold air and the attention. Kate stood back to admire her handiwork.

“Keep holding on to that lime,” she said to Caroline.

“Tacy, come here and see this!”

Tacy took her time walking over. She surveyed the scene in the pool of light under the lamp post.

“Nice,” she said, nodding approvingly. “Looking good, Carly. Like I said, everything looks good on you.”

Caroline rolled her eyes.

Kate poured herself a shot of tequila and moved in close, slowly licking the salt off of her friend’s breasts. Then she tossed back the shot and crushed her mouth against Caroline’s, biting and sucking at the lime wedge there.

She stepped back with a wicked smile. “Happy Birthday, baby.”

Caroline tried to catch her breath.

“Holy shit,” she said.

“My turn.” Tacy reached for the bottle of tequila, but voices murmured in the dark, drawing closer.

“Hey, hey!” Caroline hissed. “You need to button up my shirt and find a way to get me unlocked. Come on, you guys.” Her voice was a little frantic. Tacy pushed a lime wedge into mouth, quieting her protests.

A trio of women stepped into the lamplight.

“Tacy, Kate, what’s up?” The girl in the middle with the buzz cut spoke first.

Hugs were exchanged all around.

“Looking good, Caroline. Happy birthday,” one of them said. “Let me get a picture of this.” Her phone flashed.

“We brought you some cupcakes.” The third girl held out a pink bakery box tied with white string.

Caroline was speechless, the lime wedge still between her teeth.

Tacy spread her arms wide in hospitality, like she was standing in the doorway of her manor house. “We’re glad you could make it. It’s turning out to be quite a party on this beautiful night. We’ve got good music, good friends, and best of all,” she said, gesturing toward her friend locked to the lamp post, “the drinks are on Caroline.”

###

Shari pulled off her fuzzy hat and shook out her hair, then unbuttoned her pink cashmere sweater.

“Take off your coat,” she said.

Nance shrugged and pulled off her wool uniform jacket, tossing it over the end of the bed.

“Now your boots.”

Nance complied, but something in the tone of Shari’s voice made her glance up.

Shari waited. Her arms, crossed in front of her, pushed her breasts together seductively. Her eyes flashed green.

“Leave the belt for me,” she said.

“It’s a leap year, which means I get to run the show. You ought to know that by now.”

#100#

I was walking through Jack London Square, thinking about going home, when I saw Brea sitting on a bench, her knit cap pulled down over her ears.

I intended to walk on by, but she smiled and lifted her hand so I wandered over and sat down. I didn’t really know her well. She’s the ex-girlfriend of my former roommate, but none of us were together at the same time. Still, in Bay Area lesbian culture, that means we’re practically related, so I figured I’d better be sociable.

“What’cha doing, Brea?”

“Just hanging out, looking at the water. You?”

“I had a late lunch with this guy I used to work with. Now I’m thinking about heading home.”

“You’re not doing anything tonight?”

“I never do anything on Valentine’s Day. It’s my own personal tradition.”

Brea took a long pull off the paper cup she was holding.

“So, you’re not going to the pillow fight?”

“Excuse me?”

“The big pillow fight in San Francisco is tonight.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

Brea took another pull and smacked her lips. “Double espresso raspberry truffle mocha.”

“Wow,” I said.

She smiled. “There’s a big pillow fight in Justin Herman Plaza at 6 o’clock on Valentine’s Day. It’s kind of an annual tradition. Wanna go with me?”

I thought it over. There was a frozen organic gluten-free macaroni and cheese waiting for me at home. That, and folding a mountainous pile of clean laundry was going to be my evening entertainment.

The decision was a no-brainer.

“Okay, sure. But you’re ruining my Valentine’s Day plans.”

“Sorry, but I think you’ll thank me for this.”

We sat, watching the bay, while Brea finished her drink. She removed the plastic lid and licked the whipped cream off the inside of it.

“Man, that was good. It was at least 2,000 useless calories of sugar, caffeine, and dairy fat.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want you turning into one of the Olsen twins,” I said.

She laughed and gave the lid a final lick. “No chance of that, lambchop.”

My stomach rumbled. “I just had a vegan lunch that was made entirely of local lawn clippings, and that raspberry truffle thing is sounding pretty good.”

She tossed the cup into a nearby recycling bin. “Well, at least your lunch was local. That counts for something. Come on. The coffee place is on our way. We can get you one there, and I might need another shot of espresso to get through the evening. But let’s hurry. We’ve got stuff to do before we hit the transbay tube.”

She took off toward Second Street.

“Where else do we need to go?” I asked.

“Pillows,” she said, raising her arm in the air like Buzz Lightyear. “To Bed, Bath, and Beyond!”

I laughed. “What chance does a girl like me have against a lesbian action figure?”

“Nice,” she said, nodding approvingly. “I like a woman who can paraphrase Buzz.”

She looked me up and down. “And I like your button.”

I looked at the black button on my jacket that said “Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I wanted to wear something special for the holiday.”

We stopped at Tully’s Coffee and Brea got another shot. I chickened out of the whole raspberry-flavored thing, and got a cup of green tea to go. Then we walked another three blocks to the bedding store.

“I scoped it out on line,” she said. “These are the cheapest feather pillows I could find.”

I held the door for her, and Brea walked straight to the counter. “Where are your Nautica queen-sized feather pillows?” she asked. The clerk pointed to a nearby aisle. “Down at the end of that row, on the left. That’s where they’ll be if there are any. We’ve had quite a run on them today.”

I followed Brea down the aisle. She was clearly on a mission.

“Check it out! We got the last two,” she said.

At the checkout stand, I started to fumble in my pocket for money. She slapped my hand away and put her debit card on the counter. “The pillows are on me. Too bad we won’t get to use them as they’re intended.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively. I looked away and thumbed through a sale bin of washcloths.

“Hey, I was kidding,” she said.

“I know. It’s just that you’re Karen’s ex, which makes flirting feel kind of skanky.”

“Karen was at least three girlfriends ago,” she said. “A virtual eternity. I’d like to think the statute of limitations has expired.”

“Maybe it lasts to eternity and beyond,” I teased her, although I was beginning to feel where this was headed. It was like a gut feeling, only lower.

“We’ll see,” she said, with a wink.

It was after 5 o’clock by the time we reached the 12th street BART station. We descended down the stairs clutching our pillows. Still wrapped in plastic, they were slippery and kept threatening to escape. I paid the BART fare and we sat on the platform waiting for the train.

“We’ll make the 5:30 train and get off at the the Embarcadero Station. That’s about three blocks from the pillow fight.”

The train pulled up. The car was nearly empty.

Brea looked around. “What a spaceport!” she said.

We sat down and she fumbled around in her jacket pocket.

“I’ve got a little music on my iPod to put us in the mood.”

She pulled off her mittens and set about assembling a tiny adapter and ear phones. “Look – the buddy system. I’ve even got a set for you.”

We plugged in and the music started with Doris Day singing “Pillow Talk.”

I laughed and Brea shrugged. “The theme was a little eclectic.”

As we passed under San Francsico Bay, in the dim light of the tube, she stretched out her arms and one landed around my shoulders. It felt kind of good, and by the time we pulled into the Embarcadero Center, I had my head on her shoulder. It was a 12-minute courtship and “All Night Pillow Fight” by The Late Joys was blasting in my ears.

We took out our earbuds and stood to exit the train.

“Gotta hustle now.” She kissed me lightly on the lips, barely brushing across mine. She still smelled like raspberry. “It’s gonna get ugly, babe.”

We ran the three blocks to Justin Herman Plaza and looked around at the other folks gathering there. People appeared to be streaming in from all over the city, most of them clutching pillows. Everyone kept glancing up at the clock on the Ferry Building.

She walked us to the middle of the plaza. “Three minutes,” she said. “Countdown.”

Brea pulled an inhaler out of her pocket and took a puff. She sprayed something in her nose, and then pulled out some plastic safety goggles, like the kind you have to wear in chemistry lab, and put them on. “I’m allergic to down,” she said. “Can’t be too careful.”

In her stocking cap and goggles she looked adorable, androgynous, and a lot like Rocky the flying squirrel. I thought about kissing her again.

“It’s six! Here we go!” she yelled and swung her pillow at me. The force almost knocked me over. Suddenly it was bedlam. Perfect strangers were hitting me and feathers were beginning to fly. Surrounding me was a sea of flying white pillows. I lost sight of Brea as I fought to stay standing. I held my pillow by the corners and swung it with both hands. I sensed that loosing a grip on it could be treacherous. People were shouting and laughing. The air was filled with muffled thuds and feathers. Against the darkening sky, it looked like a snowstorm as the feathers floated near the streetlights.

My heart was beating fast as I worked to dodge flying pillows and keep swinging my own. I took a hit to the right shoulder. “Ow,” I said. “That hurt. You’re using one of those fiber-fill jobs. That’s not nice.” I swung at my assailant and hit him in the side of the head. It was a glancing blow as he continued to move through the crowd. So I hit the woman next to me. She returned the blow and I used my pillow to block it. A few more swings and I began to leak filling. Every swing of my pillow trailed feathers and my weapon got lighter and less effective. Finally, I retreated to the sidelines and looked out over the crowd. It was a crazy sight – every size and shape of person imaginable swinging pillows and laughing hysterically. The crowed filled the plaza. There were hundreds of people fighting and just as many watching.

Finally, it began to slow down. People with empty pillow covers began to wander away, and within minutes, the plaza was virtually empty, frosted with a blanket of feathers spinning in the breeze off the bay.

Brea appeared by my side. “How’d you do?” she asked.

“That was wild. I’d do it again tomorrow.”

“We could do it at my house,” she said, grinning.

I reached for her belt buckle and pulled her in close. I wiped my face clean of feathers, then I slid the goggles up to the top of her head and kissed her gently.

She looked at me, eyes open wide.

“How dare you open a space ranger’s helmet on an uncharted planet? My eyeballs could have been sucked out,” she said.

I silenced her by kissing her again, a little less gently this time.

###

Two Valentine’s Day-themed stories from Geek Porn Girl:

Underwired and Chocolate Fondue

Enjoy & Happy Valentine’s Day,

GPG

What Pringles are to a steak dinner with scalloped potatoes, what an Oreo is to a warm chocolate lava cake, what a Fudgescicle is to a hot fudge sundae… these define the GPG 100. Tasty morsels of 100 words… indulgent, silly, but absolutely calorie-free. – GPG

Pulsar

Sam reached over and put her hand on Steph’s knee just as Steph pulled the shifter into fourth gear and the Datsun 510 lurched forward. The black gear-shift knob banged into her wrist.

“Ow! Careful. That’s my 1970’s Pulsar you’re slamming.” Sam released the clasp on her silver-toned band and rubbed her wrist where a red mark was already forming.

As the car slowed to the next stoplight, Steph reached for Sam’s arm and brushed her lips lightly across the inside of her wrist, pausing to gently suck the red mark.

“I hope I didn’t crack the crystal,” she said.

#100#

It had been raining all week and my shoes were wet.

I stood at the counter of my local coffee place, watching as the barristas rushed around clattering cups and spoons. The espresso machine hissed like the Vermithrax Pejorative demanding sacrifices from the people of Urland, and the smell of toasted coffee beans filled the room.

(This story has a soundtrack

I like the atmosphere of coffeehouses, but because coffee gives me heartburn, the designer-bean revolution has been completely wasted on me. I haven’t had a cup in at least 15 years. So usually I get tea, or cocoa, and take my place at a table where I can read and people watch. I’m always amazed at how many people have time during the day to hang out in coffeehouses. I suppose some of them are actually working, hunkered over laptop computers or scribbling furiously on legal pads. Sometimes I see people having meetings or conducting interviews. But so many people seem to be whiling away time, chatting, playing Scrabble or chess, and mostly, watching each other.

Today there was no escaping the ambient sound of rain falling and the pervasive damp. It gave the warm coffeehouse a thick, steamy air that felt almost tropical.

Since I was feeling a little sorry for myself, I ordered a fancy-schmancy chai latte with caramel syrup and whipped cream. It was a big, silly drink, with caramel swirls and cinnamon sifted over the top, and I felt a little conspicuous as I sat down at a table near the window to read my horoscope in the local weekly:

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, sulky Sag. This week brings you new understanding of how much love is like a ribbon or thread that winds its way through tangles and bows and straightens out again. Surprises are tied along its length. You need to be willing to step off the highway and follow that thread. It winds through all your desires.”

I snorted. I’d always thought of myself as sort of a straight-line girl. The shortest distance between two points, an true arrow shooter, straight edge… okay, gay blade… but that kind of girl.

When I glanced up, I saw you across the room on a red velvet sofa. You looked like someone I used to know and, yet, no one I’ve ever met before. I’m sure I stared at you for too long as I tried to figure out the familiarity in your face. You were sitting on the couch, knitting an impossibly intricate sweater, and barely paying attention as the yarn flew through your fingers.

I think you felt my gaze and you looked up and smiled at me once, and then twice, your fingers continuing to fly as your eyes left your work. I drained the last of my chai and walked across the room to put my empty cup on the counter and get a cup of plain green tea.

I think the warm spices in the chai were making me brave so I grabbed my soggy jacket off the back of my chair and picked up my cup of tea, thinking I would cross the room and introduce myself.

But when I turned, some guy was there next to you, filling the space into which I had already projected myself. He leaned into you and whispered something. You laughed and pushed your hair behind your ear. You both looked in my direction. I turned away quickly, caught in the moment of my awkwardness, and managed to splash some of my tea on my already soaked shoe.

The moment seemed to last forever. I heard the rushing sound as someone emptied the bean roaster, and the sound system playing the Cowbody Junkies’ cover of the 1930’s ballad “Blue Moon”. A slow melody for the gray day, it seemed to blend into the sound of the rain.

I felt frozen to my spot and couldn’t bring myself to sit back down so, finally, I took my mug to the counter. “I’ve changed my mind. Can I have this to go?”

While the barrista filled a paper cup, I looked at the clock on the wall opposite you. Then I headed to the door.

I was almost outside when you touched my elbow.

“Are you leaving already?” you asked.

You startled me.

“I was, but I guess I could stay.”

You were taller than I had realized. I followed you back to the sofa.

“That would be nice.”

The guy had gone. I settled into my spot self-consciously, smoothing out the front of my t-shirt.

There was a tentative silence.

Finally, I held out my hand. “I’m Amy,” I said. “I think I’ve seen you in here before. You seem familiar to me.”

“That’s funny,” you said as you looked at me intently. “You look familiar too, but I’ve never been here before.”

I took a sip of my tea.

“That’s a beautiful sweater.” I was making small talk but being truthful. I reached out and fingered the soft yarn as it unwound from the ball. “Is it for you?”

“No,” you said. “It’s going to be a gift.”

“Oh.”

I know I must have sounded disappointed.

I remember how you glanced sideways at me as you said, “I keep hoping the right girl will show up by the time it’s finished. I’ve been working on it off and on for years, waiting for that special someone to wear it. I guess I’m either hopeless or a hopeless romantic.”

The you held the sweater up to my shoulders and said,”Look at that. I’m almost done and it’s just your size.”

I’m wearing it today as I write this all down.

###

The clocking was ticking its way toward 9 p.m.

On Thursday night, February 14, I found myself not only miserably alone, but alone, bored, and restless. It seemed that everyone I knew either had a girlfriend, partner, or date, or had at least arranged a quick trip to a warm climate for the long President’s Day weekend.

I suppose I could have gone to bed, but after work I’d tried to drink myself to death with a large cup of French-style hot chocolate topped with a double dose of whipped cream. Calories be damned, I was celebrating Valentine’s Day by myself and desperate times call for desperate measures of chocolate.

So I did what a restless girl does in such a situation. I slipped into jeans and an old college sweatshirt, and went shopping for underwear.

Shopping for new lingerie for myself, by myself, on Valentine’s Day was so contrary to the established holiday protocol it could be considered anarchy. Or at least that’s what I told myself. I also calculated it was late enough that the department would be empty and I wouldn’t have to rifle through the racks alongside desperate husbands and sweaty-palmed boyfriends. And, it wouldn’t be a complete waste of time. I really needed new bras. Besides, I could come home and model it all for the dog.

I deliberately parked near the door of Macy’s that I knew was closest to the lingerie department. (When I was a child, the elevator in I. Magnin said “Foundations”. I always wondered how the basement could be at the bottom of the elevator buttons and the foundations much higher in the building.)

I spent a little time wandering around the department, gathering up bras and matching underpants. After all it was a holiday, right? I wasn’t going home with sensible cotton. When I had about 50 of those little hangers hooked on my forearm, I headed to the dressing rooms. The dressing rooms were quiet. There was no clerk to check me in, so I wandered all the way to the one at the back.

Normally, I never change in one of the back fitting rooms. I always assume those are the most likely to have one of those skanky security mirrors with someone parked on the other side watching me pull and tug at the stuff I’m trying on. I try to pick one near the front, against a inner wall that can’t possibly have an alley for peeping on the other side. I know I think about this stuff too much. At least that’s what my therapist says.

But this time I didn’t care. I wanted to be far away from the traffic of other shoppers and the door-tapping of the clerk. I wanted to try on 25 bras and matching panties in relative peace.

I took my time stripping. First thing, I took off my sneakers and socks (who wants to look at themselves, or anyone else, in lingerie and socks?), and dropped my jeans. I left my pink thong on. After all, in some situations, sanitation is everything. If I’m going to get something that will need medical attention below my belt, I don’t want to do it trying on panties.

As I pulled my California Maritime Academy hoodie over my head, I felt one of my earrings pop off. I gingerly shook the sweatshirt and saw the earring back fall to the floor, but I didn’t see the earring. I set the sweatshirt aside and removed my tatty old bra as I scanned the floor for my earring. Finally, I got down on hands and knees and began to look around. The dressing room walls didn’t come all the way to the floor, and I was there on my knees, patting the carpet, when I saw a pair of black motorcycle boots walk into the dressing room next to me. The flimsy louvered door slammed shut. At first I thought it was a man, but then I realized the boots weren’t that big.

I heard her hang some items up, and then I heard the distinctive creak of a leather jacket being removed. She must have tossed it on the chair because I heard the buckles clank as it landed. Something else hit the floor and skidded under the divider, sliding to a stop near my hand. It was an iPhone.

“Shit,” I heard her say.

I looked at the iPhone and slowly pushed it back under the divider.

She was already down on the floor and as we peered under the wall, our eyes met. Then I realized I was virtually nude and I yelped and jumped to my feet. I stood there, hands covering my breasts, and heart racing.

“Thank you,” she said.

“It’s okay,” I mumbled, trying to catch my breath.

She cleared her throat. “That was a little awkward.”

“More so for me, I think,” I said, still hugging one arm across my breasts. Automatically, I used the other hand to smooth my hair.

I took a deep breath. “You just startled me. I was looking for my earring, and I’m a little wired up on sugar, caffeine, and phenethylamine.”

“Hitting the holiday chocolate, huh?”

I laughed. “Are you a chemist?”

“In fact, ma’am, I am.”

I liked the warm timbre of her voice.

“You know, phenethylamine is supposed to mimic the feeling of being in love.”

“That’s what I was hoping,” I said.

I saw her hand reach under the wall. “Is this your earring?”

“Oh, you found it. Thank you!” Our fingertips brushed as I took it from her.

“Just doing my best to be of service. By the way, I really like your pedicure.”

I looked down at my toenails, painted a bright Valentine’s red, and wriggled them on the carpet.

“The color is called Chick Flick Cherry.”

“No kidding?”

“For real.”

There was a little silence and I turned away from the wall and back toward the mountain of bras and panties I’d selected. But curiosity was getting the better of me, and I had to ask:

“How do you like your iPhone?”

“I’m completely addicted to it. I love the thing. I can’t imagine life before it. I love it so much I want to have Steve Jobs’ baby.”

“Seriously?”

“No. But I really, really like it. Look.” She pushed it back under the wall.

I picked it up and looked at the screen.

“It’s Buffy!”

“It is,” she said. “The Valentine’s Day episode from season 2: ‘Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered’.”

“That’s pretty cool.” I slid it back under the partition.

“Want to watch it with me?” she asked. “We could get a cup of coffee or something.”

“Uh. I’m sort of in the middle of a project here.” I was conscious of my nudity. After all, we were only standing about two feet apart.

“Do you have things to try on?” she asked. “I could wait.”

“Don’t you have things to try on?” I asked.

“Just a couple of chastity bras,” she said. “The basic sport variety. One black. One white.”

“Are you asking me on a date?” I teased. “You don’t even know me.”

“But I’ve seen you naked,” she said.

“Oh, right.”

I reached for one of the bras and started to put it on.

“But I didn’t really get a good look at you.”

“Well, for that matter, I didn’t really see much of you. I just got the impression of a lot of bare skin,” she said. “It was very nice skin.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“And you have nice eyes. They’re green.”

She surprised me with that. “They are green. I’m impressed.”

There was a moment of silence.

“What are you trying on?” she asked.

“A ridiculously expensive European-made bra,” I said. “Definitely the non-sport variety.”

“What color?”

“Excuse me?”

“What color is the bra?”

I wondered if I should call security.

“Am I freaking you out?” she asked. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I love women in beautiful lingerie and you have such a lovely voice. I wondered what you picked out.”

Again, that warm timbre. Her voice felt like it could wrap around me.

“Well… it’s a black and brown bra, but that’s not a very good description. It’s black lace that’s been embroidered with cocoa-colored roses. The straps are brown satin. It’s actually a great fit.”

“Mmm. We seem to have a chocolate theme here.”

“I guess we do.”

“The chocolate that got you wired up earlier… was it a gift?”

“Are you fishing?” I asked, teasingly.

“I just wondered if there was somebody special in your life.”

She was smooth, I’d give her that.

“I was planning to take my purchases home and model them for Roger.”

“Roger?” she asked. “Husband, boyfriend?”

“Labrador retriever.”

She laughed a little.

“Are there matching panties?”

I turned back to the mountain of underthings and pulled the panties out of the pile.

“There are.”

“Would you put them on and tell me about them?”

“Um. They’re cut high on the leg with satin sides that match the straps of the bra. The front and back are embroidered lace. There’s a tiny brown satin bow on the front stitched with a pearl.”

“Ve-rry nice.”

I saw her iPhone slide under the wall. “This is me,” she said.

I picked it up and saw a picture of an woman with silver hair, cut blunt at her jaw, and tucked behind her ears. She had taken the photo into the mirror, from a slight angle to minimize the reflection. She was wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a black leather jacket. Even on the 2×3 inch screen of her phone, I could see the intensity of her eyes and the contrast of her dark eyebrows with her hair.

“You’re hot,” I said. “Wow.”

“I don’t suppose you’d return the favor. I could tell you how to work the camera.”

“No way,” I said, and slid the phone back under the wall.

She sighed.

“Would you describe yourself?”

“I guess I could.”

There was an awkward pause.

“I think we’re close to the same age. My hair is auburn and straight to my shoulders. I have bangs cut straight across. There are some freckles across my chest and shoulders from too much tanning in my youth. You already know my eyes are green. I wear bookish glasses, but I took them off when I undressed.”

“You sound lovely,” she said. “Can you tell me about your breasts?”

“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I feel a little weird about that.”

“Are they large? Small?” She pressed on.

“The bras I’m trying on are sort of medium, I think. A 36C.”

“Ah.”

“But I need good bras. My breasts are recalcitrant.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sometimes I think they have a mind of their own. It seems to be getting worse as I get older.”

“High spirited, huh?”

We laughed together, me wrapped in the luxury of her voice.

“Can I talk you into coming out of there?” she asked.

“I think so,” I said.

I picked out three bra and panty sets in the same size and cut as the ones I’d tried on and set them aside.

When I started to dress I realized that my outfit was about as un-sexy as it could get.

“I have to tell you something,” I said. “I certainly didn’t think I’d meet anyone when I left the house tonight.” I walked out of the dressing room carrying my items.

She looked me up and down and grinned. “You look fantastic. It’s wonderful to think there could be sexy lingerie under that outfit. I love a woman with a secret.” She took me by the arm and began to lead me out of the dressing room. “Let’s get some coffee.”

“I need to pay for these,” I said, holding up my little collection of bras and panties.

She took the hangers from me and kissed me on the forehead.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, they’re on me.”

“I couldn’t,” I protested, and meant it.

“No really,” she said. “Tonight the pleasure is all mine.”

###

I looked into my glass, swirling my the ice cubes around in my coke. The music continued around me, one song blending seamlessly into another.

About a year ago, a local lesbian group began promoting these monthly “Dyke Dance” nights at a club in a town nearby. The first hour of every evening is a dance lesson in a featured style, usually swing, foxtrot, waltz, or salsa – that kind of thing. Part of the fun of the evening is seeing all the butches and femmes dressed in their dance best, interacting. And naturally, all the butch girls are there to learn to lead.

I smoothed my rayon skirt over my knees. That night, I was dressed in a 1940’s style dress covered in a cherry pattern. Red ankle-strap shoes and matching lipstick completed the outfit.

“May I?” A hand was gallantly extended to me.

“Oh, Chas, I’d be delighted.” I took her hand and followed her to the dance floor. I just love the mock formality of the dance environment.

Charlene and I have known each other for years. She’s tall and handsome and a great dancer. A vineyard manager by day, she’s usually seen kicking around in boots and jeans. She knows how to dress to dance, though, and that night she was dressed in a black suit with a white silk shirt buttoned up to the collar. Her short, wavy hair glistened with pomade. Freshly polished black wingtips gleamed on her feet.

Even in heels, I don’t come close to matching her muscular frame.

Chas took my right hand in her left and gently turned me to face her, her right hand pressed to the small of my back. We began a smooth foxtrot, stepping and turning around the floor. She led expertly, using the slightest pressure of her hands to guide me. Sometimes I have to strain to remember my junior high ballroom dancing lessons. I can still hear the teacher counting in my head. But it comes effortlessly to Chas and when I’m dancing with her I never have to struggle to keep up. She makes me feel like Ginger Rogers. She led me through a series of tight turns, making the full skirt of my dress swirl around our legs, and dipped me for the big finish, her strong arms giving me confidence.

“Thank you, honey.” She led me back to my table and kissed me lightly on my cheek. “Always a pleasure.”

Looking around, I noticed that Kathy had arrived late and was leaning against the bar, nursing a beer. If Chas is Fred Astaire, the gentleman butch of the dance floor, then Kathy is James Dean. It’s not that she can’t dance, because she can. It’s just that she rarely unleashes her talent. I’ve seen so many pretty women compete for her attention on dance night, but she rarely favors them with a dance, preferring to slump back in her freshly pressed jeans and button-down shirt, black leather jacket hung on her shoulder, watching the couples moving around the room. She favored me with a dance once, and I know from experience that she smells like Old Spice and tobacco. Her body is hard and lean. Her arms and hands stringy and tan from hours spent on her motorcycle.

The DJ began to pick up the pace with a swing number. There was a flurry of activity as women scrambled to find a favorite partner. Chas came striding across the floor with a gleam in her eye. At first I thought she was heading for me, but she passed right by me and continued to the bar. I watched her in curiosity. Chas is never one to sit out a dance.

She and Kathy embraced at the bar, clapping each other on the back. I saw Chas whisper something in Kathy’s ear. Kathy shook her brush-cut head “no”. Chas whispered again and Kathy shrugged her shoulders. She downed the last of her beer, hung her jacket over a chair, and followed Chas to the dance floor. A second swing number was just beginning.

The two of them attracted plenty of curious attention: Chas in her wingtips, Kathy in her motorcycle boots.

They jockeyed a moment for the lead, both extending their left hands. I saw Kathy again shake her head. Finally they faced each other and joined hands evenly, their feet beginning the rhythmic “touch, touch, backstep” of the swing. They eyed each other with the cautious, unsmiling gaze of flamenco dancers, eyes narrowed. As the tempo increased, they began an in-and-out step, arms extended to the side. Finally, they broke hands and stepped back, dancing free for the moment.

The other couples eyed them cautiously, sensing a new tension on the dance floor. Instinctively, they moved towards the edges, giving the two women space.

Suddenly Kathy reached out with her left hand, grabbing Chas’s right and turned her quickly under her arm, swinging her out and back with a snap. Again Chas flew out and this time they passed each other as Kathy changed hands behind her back. Back, they extended to arm’s length and then spun, arms around each other’s waists, sweeping a circle onto the dance floor. And when they stopped spinning, stepping into a simple “push break,” they had switched places and Chas had ahold of Kathy’s right hand.

I stood to watch. Many of the couples had stopped dancing altogether, and clustered at the end of the dance floor.

It had become a dancing duel, as these two gorgeous butch women struggled to outdo each other on the dance floor, each waiting in turn to seize the lead. I could see the shine on Chas’s forehead. Kathy’s shoulders shrugged forward and her hips slinked with the snaky moves of a Reno cowboy, as she frowned in concentration.

Together they whipped and spun around the dance floor. Finally, as the music rose to a crescendo, Kathy reached for Chas, intending to dip her. Chas sensed her move and side-stepped, and in a move borrowed more than Bruce Lee than Fred and Ginger, tripped Kathy from behind, dropping her neatly over her knee for the finale, her right fist raised in victory.

The two women rose, breathless, to applause. They looked at each other sheepishly and began to laugh.

“Let me buy you a cold one,” Chas said, leading Kathy back to the bar.

I returned to my table and chewed my ice cubes.

I was just as breathless as they were.

###

Happy New Year!

I really wanted to finish this story in 2007. So, this is the last installment in a 5-part series. (Also, as a geek clarification, I should point out that my blogging service runs on GMT – Greenwich Mean Time – so although the post date is Jan. 1, 2008, I really did finish this story on Dec. 31, 2007, PST – Pacific Standard Time – as I intended.)

To read the entire series, in sequence, in one file, click here.

Part V

Kingman was fine.

Actually, it was exactly as I expected.

By the time I pulled up in front of Angelina’s place, the sun had dropped below the horizon and I was squinting at my printed sheet of directions in the dark. I sat there for a moment, double-checking the address, before I realized it was still 85 degrees out. My skin was hot and sticky, and my favorite traveling shirt was a rumpled mess. With some effort, I peeled myself off the seat of the car and began to climb out into the airless night.

Everything was so quiet and still, I was wondering if I had the right place, when the porch light suddenly came on and the front door flew open. Angie stood in the light spilling out onto the front walkway. In each hand she held a tall, frosty glass with a slice of lime hanging off the rim.

“Welcome to Hell or Arizona – I’m never sure which. I’d give you a hug, babe,” she said. “But I figured on this kind of a night, you’d prefer a margarita.” And with that, she handed me a glass, kissed me on the cheek, and took my bag into the house.

I took a tiny sip and wrinkled up my nose. “Wow. This is strong. You know I don’t really drink.”

“In this weather, it’s purely medicinal,” Ange said. “Trust me – I’m a nurse. We know about these things.”

We passed straight though her house and on to the back patio. “Voila,” she said, sweeping her arm around the tiny enclosure, darn near hitting the fences. “My domain.” She had arranged a couple of lawn chairs around a plastic wading pool that took up most of the patio. A pair of tiki torches lent smoke and flickering light to the homemade ambiance.

“Take off your shoes and make yourself comfortable,” she said. “I’ll turn on the stereo.”

She ducked back into the house while I cautiously dipped my toe into the pool. The water was cold and I quickly realized it was filled with chunks of ice.

“This is awesome,” I said, when she reappeared. “It’s a big margarita for my feet.”

“Four bags of ice, baby,” she said. “Nothing’s too good for my houseguest.”

“Thank you,” I said, wriggling my toes and feeling the chill creep up my legs. “It’s sure helping to suck the heat out of me.”

“If you want to lie down in it, we can get you ready for open-heart surgery,” she said.

“Nothing there to work on. It’s already been ripped out,” I said.

We sat in the torch-light, sipping our drinks, and splashing our feet.

“How was your drive?” Ange asked.

I told her all about it, starting in Santa Barbara and ending up with my topless encounter with the hot lady Highway Patrol officer. Ange laughed until she had to hold her sides.

“You’re making this up.”

“I’ve got the pictures to prove it,” I said, pulling out my cell phone. “Look.” I turned the screen toward her and held out the phone, lit up with a picture of me, sailing down the highway, topless, with the wind in my hair, light glinting off my sunglasses.”

“Now that’s what I call a vacation photo! Let me see that.”

When I reached out to hand her the phone, I dropped it into the wading pool, and we both sat there watching it float around, buoyed by chunks of ice.

My ringtone played – just a few notes – and then the sound faded away into a electronic hum as the phone sank.

“Oh, well,” I said. “At least I won’t be tempted to send those photos to anyone.”

(And that’s the real reason you never got one.)

“Darn shame,” Ange said. “Seems like a real waste to me.”

The night didn’t seem to get any cooler as it wore on. We hung out companionably, occasionally getting up for a bathroom break, or a glass of water, but mostly just hanging out in the dark, paddling our feet around in the pool. She asked me questions about what happened with you and I, and I reconstructed it as best I could. You know, in a breakup, there are always at least two main storylines. There’s the chronological one that details who did what, or said what, to whom. And then there’s the other one where you try and figure out what the other person was thinking, what you were thinking, what made each of you act the way you did, when you did. That’s the one that changes a little bit each time you tell it, as you keep trying to figure it all out. Believe me, the chronological story is the easier one to tell.

Ange was having a field day, putting all her years of therapy to work, asking me how I felt about things now, whether I had learned anything (that I leave teacups all over the house?), and if I thought you and I could ever be friends.

“I don’t know, Ange. I really felt like she was my family, you know? But we may know too much about each other to ever be good buddies. The tension that fueled the relationship and made us good lovers – the intellectual sparring – wasn’t exactly the comfortable stuff of friendship. I pushed her too hard and was more than she wanted to deal with.”

That’ s about it, right?

When we had finally talked ourselves hoarse in the smoke, and worn ourselves out, we put out the tiki torches and headed off to bed.

“I’ll sneak out of here in the morning,” Ange said. “I’m on the day shift tomorrow, but you may not see me until late. If they weren’t short-staffed, I wouldn’t be here.”

Truthfully, I think I slept most of the time I was in Kingman. During the day, I read and napped. I practiced a little yoga in the cool hours of the morning, and took a few walks, but mostly I napped. I lived on avocados, and tomatoes, and handmade tamales from the neighborhood mercado, and gallons of iced tea. At night I slept heavily in the hot, still air.

When it was time to go, Ange carried my bag to the car.

“Thanks for letting me do nothing,” I said.

“You needed the break,” she said. “Sure you have to go already?”

“I need to get home.”

“You’re leaving so late, you’ll be driving in the dark,” she said.

“It’ll be cooler,” I said. “And I won’t be tempted to take pictures.”

We hugged our good-byes and I fired up Mustang Sally and drove off into the evening.

Truth be told, I wanted to leave in the evening, because I was hoping that somewhere out in the desert, I’d find a little excitement in the form of the mysterious Desert Rose.

Before I pulled onto Route 66, I stopped for gas and some snacks for the trip. I loaded up my cooler with bottles of water and cans of iced tea, and bought some ice to make sure everything stayed cold. The woman at the check out counter looked like she was about 60. Her silver hair was cropped close to her head, and in her short-sleeved white uniform shirt, I could see her bicep sported a large tattoo of a pink flower entangled in barbed wire.

She looked me up and down and smiled a little.

“That’ll be $11.22, sweet thing.”

I handed her the money.

“Nice tattoo.”

“It’s a desert rose,” she said.

“That reminds me, ” I said. “Do you happen to know about a place by that name?”

“Out-of-towner, huh? I saw your California plates and the rainbow sticker. I wondered when you’d ask. The traveling girls always do. The local girls don’t have to.”

“That good?”

“Babe,” she said, leaning in. “The Rose is a legend.”

I smiled.

“You on a runaway road trip?” she asked me.

I nodded.

“Broken heart?”

“Something like that.”

Warming up to me, she said “I’ll give you directions, but you gotta remember this… the Rose is a well-kept secret. It only blooms at night, and you’ve gotta know how to find it. No sign will point you there. You’ve gotta look for a pink rock.”

I nodded. “Pink rock.”

“It doesn’t get lively until at least 10 p.m. and it’ll take you about 45 minutes to get there from here, so plan accordingly. There’s nothing else out there.”

I looked at my watch. It was quarter to seven. “Out where?”

She pulled an old cigarette carton out from under the counter and tore off a chunk of it, then flipping it over, she drew a simple little map on the blank side.

“So when you see the abandoned gas pump, pull over to the shoulder there, or you’ll miss the road all together. It’s dirt, you see, and hard to see in the dark. Go slow so you don’t kick up dust, and after the first bend, you’ll see the lights up ahead.”

“I’ve got a few hours to kill. What should I do until then? “

She reached out and touched the sleeve of my denim shirt.

“Find yourself a sexier shirt and see a movie,” she said.

She pointed me to the mall up the road, where I had found a cineplex and a western-wear shop. I spent a little time trying on cowgirl shirts until I found the perfect white rayon shirt with pearl snaps, baby-blue piping, and embroidered pink roses. I took the bag over to the movies with me.

I know you won’t believe me when I tell you that one of the six theaters was having a special showing of Desert Hearts in memory of Jane Rule. So I happily bought a ticket and a large popcorn and sat down in the air-conditioned darkness. Even in the dim light of the theater, I realized I was surrounded by scores of women, some younger, many older, all of us together watching a movie we’d all seen before. After days of resting and licking my wounds, I suddenly felt, in some primal way, like I was back with my people.

And, you know, just like the first time I saw it, Cay stirred something in me. I swear I felt my libido twitch for the first time since you and I split up.

After the movie ended. I took the bag with the shirt to the restroom and spashed some water on my face and checked my teeth for bits of popcorn. Then I went into a stall to change. While I was in there, I heard a group of women come in, chattering about the film.

“Whoo-ee, did that bring back some memories,” said one.

“When that film came out, I was in my first semester in a Catholic college. A whole group of us trouped down to the art house to see it, mostly because the Sisters had put it on the forbidden list, and it was the first time I had seen two women kiss.”

“And look where you are now,” the first one teased.

“Well, I never did become a nun, but I still like to think I’m doing God’s work.”

They laughed.

I came out of the stall, tucking the shirt into my jeans.

One of the women gave a low whistle.

“Real nice shirt, babe” she said. “I like the rose motif. Will we see you there later?”

“Thank you. I think so,” I said, and turned to leave the restroom.

“Save me a dance, okay?” she called after me.

Back in the car, I followed the cashier’s directions, and headed out Route 66 back into the desert.

I check my watch. She said if I drove 65 mile per hour, for about 35 minutes, I’d be getting close. I know that translates into miles, but I didn’t feel like doing the math.

The darkening desert seemed incredibly vast and for stretches, I felt like I might be the only car on the highway. There were butterflies in my stomach, the kind I get on the way to an adventure.

I couldn’t help but wonder what you’d think of this turn my trip had taken.

I flipped on the stereo and Kirsten Price’s “Freedom” poured out:

“It’s a ride. It’s a trip.

It ain’t right if it don’t hurt just a bit.

It’s a shot in the dark. Just might mean that it don’t hit its mark.

It’s a lesson that we’ve all got to learn.

It’s a fire that’s just gotta burn…”

I was bouncing in my seat and singing along.

When the night falls and day rolls back around, don’t let it get away.

Cause it’s your time now.

What you gonna make of your freedom?”

I was having such a good time, I almost forgot to check my watch. It had been 36 minutes. I hoped to hell I hadn’t missed the road.

Seeing no one immediately behind me, I moved onto the gravel shoulder and crept down it, peering into the darkness. I saw a rock, painted bright pink, that the woman in the filling station had said to keep an eye open for. And then, I saw a dirt road headed off into the desert night.

“Well,” I thought. “Here goes.”

Slowly, I crept down the dirt road and after about 500 yards, it suddenly turned about 45 degrees to the left and went over a little rise. There in the hollow below me was ramshackle low building with a pink door. Light and music leaked out of the windows, and around the pink door. A sea of cars were parked in the surrounding dirt lot.

I parked Sally and walked toward the door.

I’ve heard about mirages in the desert, but never thought one would look like this. A stage at the far end of the room was occupied by an all-girl country band. The place was packed from edge to edge with dancing women of every shape and size. There were women in dresses, women in jeans, women in uniforms of every shape and color, women in western wear, women in shirts and ties, and women in white undershirts and baggy jeans. Femme women, butch women, and everything on the scale in between. And they were all moving together to the boom-chink, boom-chink, boom-chink of the band’s drummer.

“I thought I’d find you here,” a voice said, close to my ear, and I turned to find myself face to face with my smiling Highway Patrol office.

“You’re out of uniform,” I said, eying the tight black leather vest she wore with tighter jeans.

“Since I didn’t get that photo, I figure you at least owe me a dance.”

“I dropped my phone in a wading pool,” I said.

“Lady, in my line of work I hear all kinds of excuses,” she said. “Come on.”

Taking me by the hand, she pulled me to the dance floor.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. She two-stepped me around the dance floor for a couple of songs, and then handed me off to the gas station attendant who, despite her age, could really swing. I remember dancing with both of the women from the movie theater restroom, a woman in a UPS uniform, and dozens of more women. I danced until I was sweaty and my new shirt clung to my back. I danced until I thought I’d wear holes in the soles of my boots.

I don’t think the band ever took a break. Someone handed me an unopened bottle of water, which I gratefully accepted. But no one asked my name, or what I was doing there, or what my story was. Everyone just kept calling me “babe” and asking me to dance. I didn’t sit one song out.

At the end of the night, the place cleared out quickly.

My cop friend appeared again. “Wait,” she said. “I’ll see you out.”

I waited and we walked out together. She linked her arm in mine protectively.

“Here you are,” she said, stopping at my car.

“I’d forgotten that you’d recognize it,” I said.

“It’s a cherry ride, and how could I forget?”

I blushed a little in the dark.

“Too bad you’ve got California plates. Maybe you’ll wander through these parts again.”

“It could happen,” I said.

She took me by the shoulders and kissed me slowly and gently. I felt parts of me awaken that I could have sworn were on permanent vacation.

“Think about it, okay? You’ve got my cell number.”

“I do,” I said, and kissed her another time, for good measure.

She opened my car door and helped me in.

“Drive carefully, babe.”

And with that, she was gone.

I looked at my watch. It was nearly 3 a.m. The lights were still on in the bar and there were a few cars and trucks scattered around the parking lot. I decided to shut my eyes and have a little rest before hitting the road again.

I woke to morning light streaming in my car window. It was already hot in the car and I was disoriented as I looked around the empty desert surrounding me. A bird circled overhead. At the end of the parking lot I saw an old beat-up building with a pink door. It looked completely abandoned. I swear, an actual tumbleweed rolled by.

Then I remember what the woman had said: The Desert Rose only blooms at night.

I started my car and headed back to the highway. As I turned onto the asphalt, I noticed that the pink rock was gone.

I turned west and headed for home.

###

(check out Kirsten Price’s video of “Freedom”)