Tonight on the Road

I drive on but I am thinking about you. You’re home and waiting for me.

But I won’t be with you tonight. Instead I’ll be on that black highway, my eyes open wide into the darkness, caffeine in my veins and pulsing at my temples. I’ll have the radio up loud and the window cracked, and I’ll smoke four cigarettes in a row. I’ll pull over on the empty highway and get out. I’ll breathe into the dry night air and I’ll think of you.

I’ll lie back on the hood of my car and spread my legs across the nighthot, drivehot engine and pull my skirt up under the blanket of stars, like my blanket at home, cool and dark. I’ll see your constellation face smiling down at me, or maybe not, maybe not smiling but glaring, or cold dark like my blanket.

It will make me so very wet, your eyes like the crescent moon half closed on me. I will touch what isn’t mine, heat spreading across my ass and thighs and up into my cunt, climbing my spine and belly. My mouth is dry like the night air too, and my eyes are lightening bug flickers. I can see you in my dream, descending upon me like the heavy night sky, as I fuck what isn’t mine.

I can tell myself that I am a good girl, that I am lonely for you, that I am spread wide so you can reach me from so far away. But it is all a lie. I want you to fuck me and I am happy for even the cheap substitute, am happy to go home to confession and pain, am happy to be used like a slave or a dog to pay for my indiscretions.

I want you to fuck me so punishingly on that roadside. I want the heat of the hood under my skin; I want to be burned on the surface as my blood boils beneath. I want your hands searing, taking, raping, ripping, scratching, scathing. I want to be owned on the road with a lone trucker to testify.

And the night comes alive with my thoughts of you. Every sound, every fragrance is in the front of my mind. I am drowning in you, in thoughts of your hands and your mouth and your teeth on my skin. My pussy is dripping so neatly on the hood of the car as I fuck myself harder, turning my face into my hair, soapy ashtray in swirling strands, I can smell my skin in the dry hills, my cunt on the night air.

Can you feel me at home? Can you smell me there, trespassing on yours while I growl at that moon, at that squinting white moon, while I think of how you might make me pay? And I’ll confess at your feet because I want to pay, baby.

I want to be yours on the road,

yours in your bed,

yours in your dreams,

yours in my head.

But, tonight. Not tonight.