Mojave Vignette

Jake drove me into the desert to fuck me. I’m not sure why. I would have fucked him anywhere. But we were talking, and somehow it came up that I liked the desert. We had been flirting at school and at the bar for a few weeks. He had broken up with Miranda, this tiny Japanese girl with blue eyes and a meth habit.

I’d gone over to Jake’s apartment once. We played Nintendo and joked around a little bit. He didn’t try to kiss me or anything.

That night, it must have been after some party because I remember I was wearing a dress with stockings, he said “let’s go to the desert.”

“Okay,” I said.

We took the 10 east. We passed through downtown and East LA. City lights faded into wide blank spaces as we drove farther east. I watched the tip of my cigarette glow red in the window’s reflection. I think we were listening to Bad Brains on cassette.

We merged onto the 15. I read the Barstow/Las Vegas sign and wondered how far he would take me. I had a little fantasy about checking into some dive hotel at the eastern end of the strip, going to the room, fucking, going downstairs and playing cards until sunrise.

Eventually Jake pulled off the road and drove into the dirt. I got out of the car and breathed in deeply. The wind was cold and sharp. I tasted the dust in my throat and nostrils.

I started walking away from the road. I could only see black and I wanted to disappear into it. But Jake caught my hand and pulled me back. “It’s way too cold. Let’s get in the car.”

We got into the back of his SUV. Jake pulled me down and we started kissing. He was gentle. When his hand moved high enough on my leg to feel the top of my stocking, he pulled his head away from mine and pushed up my dress. “This is so sexy,” he said, and bent his head so he could unclasp the garter belt. 

“You don’t have to do that,” I said, and pulled down my panties over the stockings.

We were still close enough to the freeway that when a semi-truck passed it would make the whole car vibrate. Rectangles of white headlight came through the back window and then passed, quickly, along the length of the interior wall, illuminating Jake’s face and body so that I saw him like an old fashioned filmstrip, in rapidly cycling frames.

We smoked the rest of his Marlboro Reds on the way back and listened to the other side of the cassette. I think it was Redd Kross.

Photo by Ken Lund.