Wild Horses on a Painted Desert


He left the party feeling pleased.  She had been too drunk to resist and he’d wanted her, just once, for a long long time.  He’d been polite with his tongue between her legs.  He’d done his best to raise an orgasm, but even she admitted, she was really too drunk to fuck.  So, he wiped his cum from her belly, raised his body up from hers, retuned his clothes, wiped his mouth on the hand towel, (he would shower later at home), and left the scene of drunken debauchery.  One less thing to do before he died.  One more tick on his list of things to do.  Shame she was semi conscious, but he doubted she would have him in sobriety.  He knew this, because she had turned him down before.

He licked a snowflake from his lip and tasted her musk again lingering like candle smoke in a darkened place.  He felt cold inside and out.  Hard man in his shirt in minus six degrees.  His guilt for leaving her there fucked and forlorn followed him along the street, down those dark alleys in the footprints crunching snow.  She’d complimented him on his new shirt.  She said she liked the pale yellow and white stripe with a contrasting checked pocket.  Some designer or other, she didn’t know which one, he could see that when her eyes defocussed and looked at something or someone else  over his shoulder.

He had seethed over her rejection for years.  Seethed because she wouldn’t let him touch her beauty.  The shower failed to warm him.  All he could see was her face semi conscious on the bed, supported by other party goers clothes.  Her eyes had been closed, her head to the side, her profile was almost as beautiful as her whole face.  The cancerous seething changed to guilt and shame and in the privacy of his shower cubicle he wept.  The revenge he had sought was not sweet, was not satisfying, and to his horror in that goosepimpled moment he was confronted with his own feelings of rejection and inadequacy.

If he’d been a man about it he would have ran back to the party, helped her under the covers, stroked her hair from her face.  Spooned her sideways to make sure she didn’t aspirate on her sick, salvaged her dignity and his and gave them both a reason to believe in love and if not love then something closely resembling.  But he didn’t, he shivered under his duvet, closed his eyes to sleep, relived his triumphant poke and cringed and cried till sleep dragged him down to its blackness where the demons shout and cry.

The party continued, another man fumbled with his zip.  An opportunity had arisen like his semi hard on, when he was inside he would stiffen.  She moaned for all the wrong reasons and he took this to be her consent.  He made a few thrusts and collapsed on her limp body.  He hadn’t had any for a while.  On exiting the room he wondered if any of his friends would like a go.  She wouldn’t remember anything tomorrow anyway and if he was lucky neither would he.  Later, unconscious on the dining room floor, the blackness took him down where the demons shout and cry.

The beauty that is most coveted can never be captured.  It gambols and canters on the plains with the wild horses.  Grace and strength and unquenchable fire.  By the time morning came she was galloping with them and when the paramedics covered her face and placed her in the ambulance,  she was bare hooved with the herd in the morning sun as they galloped and cantered in a dream worth having on a painted desert far far away.

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