Oasis

Oasis

We met the night before last, after a few weeks writing death threats to our congressman, suicide notes in the Personals Section.

I wrote to the Times, "This city's rains only wait for the lines of cocaine to become tiresome and the dope smoke to coil up and condense in the night. They wait only until fucking in the dry squalor of the city becomes a certain hilarity. The joke of this wasteland: the mirage of advertisement, the vapid oasis of each other's bodies in the dark. Be with me tonight; I need you, whoever you are."

She replied in a few days, "But when the rain comes; we will fuck in the mud. And we'll come. Come in torrents and laugh and wait for the clouds above your bed's terrace to return. We'll be new to this embassy of decay. We'll peel the wasteland from our bodies each night and simply laugh at the others!"

I wrote in return, "Tomorrow night, then, your dark hair, ripped and tighten around my fist, will have bits of shredded cheese dispersed throughout. I'll thrust and think of pizza. Then, sausage pizza. I'll think of sausage and I'll pull out. I'll consider my cock, laugh, look down at the fresh insertion then up at your eyes and smile."

Her last note: "On my cheek, then, a postcard from an earlier life--a splotch of tomato paste--the product of precipitation, our dirty love."

So we met. We had drink and drug, lively conversation and poetry. But still, no rain. As we huddled amongst the discarded cans of Budweiser and plates of Dixie, we talked about death like we would a commercial break, the city as we would a desert. Then, we made love.

Her ass was pale, bare, soft, and sticky with Coca-cola. Her tits, while large and supple, smelled of body odor; her smile was a beacon of Marlboro and Folgers. Still, on this brown carpet, I pulled out and shoved in as I said I would; a long absence of climax resolved before my ass got a cramp. A brief presence before a drop of rain hit the roofing.

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