Rain Dance

Rain Dance

Okay, now I

know

I shouldn't have done this.

Let me set the stage for you: it's 95 degrees (a mere 89 in the shade!), and I'm 4800 feet above sea level. Not that there's an actual sea for hundreds of miles. Or any water at all, damn near. I'm sure a nineteenth century explorer or a Native American shaman or botany professor could scare up some agua by slicing open one of these plants or digging a hole or sucking the blood from a gila monster, but I'm none of these things. I'm an amateur hiker-- and a stupid one, at that, judging from my predicament.

Spring break in Arizona had sounded like such a great idea. Chicago was still getting flurries, and going home to Michigan didn't seem much better, judging from the plaintive noises my mother was making over the phone. No, getting the fuck out of this weather entailed more drastic measures-- and you couldn't do much better than the desert, I'd thought. My buddy Joel, who graduated a couple of years ago, has a house in Phoenix, and he had said I could crash there while he was in the Caribbean with his immensely hot girlfriend. I'd bought tickets for the earliest date possible, and after my last final had grabbed my suitcase and raced to the airport.

It had been evident I'd not been the only one with this idea, though; this town is packed with transients soaking up the sun before returning to whatever frigid environs they hail from. The end result is that everything is incredibly crowded and it's difficult to get the bartenders to even serve you unless you have something with tits attached to your arm. And who really needs beer when you've got something with tits attached to your arm? That's the way I see it, anyway.

The point is that I had gotten bored with the whole downtown scene in both Phoenix and Tempe, and I'd looked for something else to do. The city is surrounded by mountains, so I had decided to give hiking a try. I'm from a flat state, so it was all new to me. For which I hope some deity will grant me a plea of "guilty by ignorance", since what sane region of the planet has near-hundred degree temperatures in April?

So here I am, empty Arrowhead bottle in my hand, three quarters of the way up some feature dubbed "the Flatiron" by the local yokels, thirsty as hell, and there's a naked chick furiously masturbating in a pool of water.

A pool. A naked chick.

I've seen those old cartoons where Daffy Duck treads the desert, sees a beautiful pondful of refreshing water, and leaps into it, getting a mouthful of sand in the bargain. I've seen those cartoons, and I ain't playing. I may be ignorant of the desert ways, and stupid for not checking the temperature, but one thing I am not is gullible. And there is no pool at the top of this mountain, and no cutie getting her jollies in it, and she is not looking at me right now with a startled look on her face.

Which doesn't explain why when this mirage lady beckons me with her eyes (how else can I describe it?), I walk slowly but purposefully toward her. I stop several feet away, and try to look at her aqua-blues (not, not NOT her breasts!) as she looks me over, up and down. She nods once, barely, and for just that instant I can read into the back of her head and the words written there are, "You'll do."

I'm trying to resist, now, because I know this is not happening, this is some bizarre tailspin my head is going into because it's been hours since I've had water and months since I've been laid and it's not gonna help my thirst for either if I swim around in the hot sand and gravel and fill my mouth and lungs with dust.

Idiot Midwestern Hiker Dies Fucking Dirt

, the headlines would read. Or should. But, gods help me, I'm on my knees and splashing into her pool and drinking deeply of her. And it's refreshing, it really is; she tastes like summer, and I try to get all those warm days in my mouth.

She is silent the whole time, and I'd wonder if I'm even doing things right (you

can

forget after awhile; it ain't like riding a bike!), but it's evident my lips and tongue are having

some

effect, since her hips are actively rocking back and forth. I can't count the number of times she fucks my face, but I do know that as she comes down each time, she opens those eyes again and I just wait passively on my knees in the pool for her appetite to return. On the last time, she thrashes so hard her cunt drops into the depths of the pool, and I dive after it, and her thighs lock around my neck and I'm drowning, but I don't care, because it's cool, the drowning, and I'll be smelling summer forevermore.

I think I pass out, then, but it seems like instants later that I awaken to find her sunning herself on a rock near the edge of the water, looking down at me and humming something. I smile at her, and she smiles back at me, and it's then that I see that her teeth are sharp and pointy, like those of a shark. I back away, then. I can tell she knows what's freaking me out, but she doesn't care-- only grins wider-- and locks me in with her gaze once more. I freeze, and my half-crawl back slowly collapses into something more neutral. This time, it is she that approaches me, and I can't

tell

you how terrified I am when that set of blades in her mouth is surrounding my cock, but despite my terror I'm hard as hell for what I'm hoping fervently is not the last time.

She doesn't spend much time down there, just enough to get me pulsing with eagerness. Then she removes her mouth and slides up me like oil and she's wet (of course she's wet, we're in a pool, but that's not what I meant) and I'm inside her, absently hoping she doesn't have a matching set of scary teeth in other orifices, and I know that she doesn't need them, because if I tried to stop now it would kill me. This isn't lust or even mere desire, this is a ritual dance, its moves set eons ago, and there's been no escaping this eventuality since the moment she saw me. I surrender to her, and she rides me, eyes open and ablaze, watching my every reaction as if logging it for later perusal, and soon I am out of control. I slam her back into the rock she was lying on with a violence which surprises me, and which should have hurt her. She loves it, though, and wraps both legs around my waist, rolling me into the surrounding sand until I wind up on top.

I can see, at long last, that this is what she wants, craves, needs, and the look of triumph in her eyes makes me thrust down into her powerfully, repeatedly, not stopping until I've torn a scream from her throat. It's a low, guttural noise, belieing her femininity, and it hits me like thunder, and her smile is both sad and happy, and perhaps content. With teeth. And I'm exhausted and gone from the world, again.

***

When I come to again, it's the dark coolth of the desert sunset. This temperature is more like it, and I'm not thirsty anymore. Damned if I'm not actually a bit chilly! My head's clear again, thank goodness, and there is, as I said before, no pool of water, and no naked hottie. Which kinda sucks, and is rather embarrassing, as my cock is peeking out of my shorts in that flaccid way that cocks do when they're done being busy with something fun. I tuck it back in, and it's a little sore, no doubt from the sharp rocks I was lying on. Probably sunburned, too. Dis-fucking-sturbing. I can't help but look both ways furtively as I zip up, to see if anyone's watching.

Thankfully not. I start down the path again, hoping like hell I don't fall and break my neck on some rubble concealed by the slowly encroaching darkness, firmly convinced I cannot still smell summer on my lips.

***

I've checked the topo maps. There is no spring or well on that path, or on any other in that godforsaken mountain wilderness. What there is, most likely, is a small sandy hole containing dried-up DNA from a dumb hiker who got lost and in his heatstroke delirium thought he was doing the river goddess. Or not; the evidence was likely washed away by the rain which started late that night and continued for a week. I do know that the temperatures in Phoenix dropped almost fifty degrees the next day, and that those bastards had what is considered the mildest summer in the last twenty years. It never even got above 110, I hear; "mild" is apparently a very relative term.

"Brrrr! Thanks a lot, dude," Joel had joked, on his return from Cabo or wherever it was. "You brought the crappy weather down here with you."

And nothing in this world will convince me that's true. Really. But it's twenty years later, now; I'm divorced, and currently without a girlfriend. And I hear that Phoenix is having record April temperatures, with no end in sight.

I think I'm up for some hiking.