PCH

Posted: August 7, 2009 in Uncategorized

I stood nervous, restless amidst the heavy salt of the sea air, feet clad in fuck-me pumps and body wrapped in a tight mini skirt that hugged my ass like a drunk uncle at Christmas. The thinnest tank top I’d ever worn was clinging to my breasts and making my nipples look like dark sunspots on the surface of a pastel-pink star. So, yeah. It was cold.
It was my third night standing on the side of the PCH, waiting and hoping for someone to stop and pick me up. I didn’t have any choice in the matter; I believe that our destinies are chosen by a higher power, and right now that power had decided to have me by the highway looking like a desperate beach hooker. Not that I minded, of course. I like the way that my life has gone, to be entirely honest. It’s exciting and dangerous, and more than once it’s turned me on.
I can feel my nipples growing hard in the cold moonlight that cuts through the harsh sea air, both from the chill and the anticipation. I hope that God grants me a bounty tonight; he knows how badly I need it, how long I’ve been waiting.
I run my hands down my body, wishing I had a thick coat and yet still relishing my touch across cold skin. I wrap my arms around my shoulders, hugging myself. Hurry up, I think. I’m getting impatient.
I blink. Salvation ahead, perhaps? I can see headlights, the first pair of the night on the lonely stretch of beach. Surely it can’t be so easy, I ask myself and my lord, yet I can feel a strong sense of possibility with this one. I place a hand on my hip and raise my left hand, thumb jutting out.
A modest, humble truck pulls ahead of my casual thumb, its turn signal beating a steady metronome of light across my face. It rumbles over the rough dirt of the shoulder to come to a slow stop behind me, the red brakelights casting a deep pall across the dark ground.
I turn, sauntering closer, inhaling the dangerous scent of gasoline and exhaust, a highway aroma that conjured up images of rough and uncaring men that preyed on the innocent. The truck coughed to a stop; aged but still powerful. The lights beckoned me closer, like bright and promising trinkets that sparkle in the dark of a shrouded flea market.
The window creaks open, and a muscular arm rests casually on the car door. Beneath the cover of the shadowed interior, I could see white, sharp, predatory teeth fixed in a gleaming smile that lazily set its gaze upon me.
“Get on in, sweetheart,” his mouth tells me, but what I hear is “Come get me.”

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