Barstow

Barstow, California was named after W. B. Strong — B for Barstow. The place’s a drive-through; no one wants to stay there beyond the ten minutes required to get a few more Bulls, piss and have a cigarette on the way to somewhere else.

I get out of the car and breathe the impossibly hot air — 124 degrees Fahrenheit. The wind burns through me and dust clings to my lip gloss. I smile behind the aviators and head into the gas station. I walk through; people are too busy staring at the woman in the hat — Californian B in black, baby — they don’t notice that I’ve cut the line until the door shuts in their faces behind the Stetson.

Walk out, looking over them in their over-sized, faded t-shirts and beat up tennis shoes. I love Americans, even if they always look terrible.

My boyfriend’s waiting for me outside. I take a last puff, drop my cigarette and he puts it out before the heat gust can blow it away. Inside the car, the A/C’s blasting. Jenna Jameson’s comeback flick with Wicked, Hell On Heels is on in all five screens. The short playing features Jenna as a winged version of the White Russian Kahlua ad; she’s being caressed by two fallen angels in raven black feathers. In the background a song reminiscent of Enya plays, creating the most perverse illusion of sanctity a Catholic could lay eyes on. This, of course, makes it my favorite part of the video.

On to Needles, still California, 148 miles east.

When I blow my boyfriend, I use cities as landmarks; Barstow to Needles, estimated hour and forty-five minutes. Ready, set, go.

Some people suck dick because they like to, because it turns them on. Some people do it because they have to. Most are a combination of enjoyment and compromise. I’m in it for the science when I’m on the road. Technique and endurance. The signs dotting the roads and interstates are meters.

You think a lot with a cock in your mouth when it’s not there out of desperate want during an unorchestrated sexual encounter. Thank god for the monstrous things that are American cars. Hunter S. Thompson crossed the desert in 1971 in a Chevrolet Caprice convertible, but it’s 2006 and we’re doing it in a Suburban.

God bless American opulence: without it, vehicular oral sex would be a cramped proposition.

Image by Patrick Dirden. Originally published in Black Heart Magazine on December 6, 2007.