a/n: freewriting. a random stream of consciousness that turned into a vignette.


flirting with a mirror. slide in slide out. waiting to get caught. waiting for the vast erosion of french kaleidoscope impressionism. eyes like the rio grande, red like the mexican border. taxi-driver eyes.

but he eyes the road as if it's the sea and he's oblivious to the fact that he's toting around a woman in a party dress, same steady-vast gaze that he studied my snaggled pantyhose, cremeskin like a bridalshrowd peeking through black latticework. like an invitation.

he doesn't take it, doesn't look back once. i am reminded that this is amerika, that i am no novelty; this is a rotund city bustling witih fastfever and he probably has legions of women dressed like hi end hookers fall in and out of his cab everyday at every imaginable hora. and they probably have more to offer: faux pearls above ample cleavage, women who dual wield breasticles like glocks or sabers. real women with fake tans, glass nails, sandblasted with french manicures, contagious lips, fake hair, eyelashes like splintered butterfly wings, calogen stuffed into every available flab of skin.

i keep my eyes trained on the disinterested visage in the rearview mirror as a hand slides up my leg, ghosting over my thighs. i think for a brief moment that it's you, but i remember that you got off at a stop a few blocks back, you couldn't deal with my crazy.

my breath catches in the place where my jaw is hinged, the hand sliding deftly into me a single finger testing, preening my rims, my hands splayed flat and sweaty on the plastic, -red seat. only it must be just one hand on the seat cushion because what about the one whose thumb presses against my inner thigh that must be mine as well because we left you at a corner a few blocks back and i don't think you left your hand in the cab with me . no, we left all of you a few blocks back.

we. me and the taxi driver. one entity, plowing through the guttural streets of a congested city. his eyes still on the road. does he know i'm touching myself? can he hear the murmuring of my sex?

A single digit crawls in, inchworming along to the second knuckle. My ears pop like windchimes. The taxi driver continues with the road, eyes kept forefront even as we slide into a red light. My own gaze has burnt 2 holes in the rearview. I'm angry with him. I want him to look. To pick up my smell and cradle it in his large, brown nostrils the way a mother relishes the smell of her infant's feces. Yes. Good girl. jerk off in my taxi cab. leave yourself spread out for me to clean off later. i will scrape my cowtongue along the plastic, plunder through the tastes of and savor the taste of gringa.

i am suddenly empty; it jolts me like a speedbump. the finger is gone. a plainting mewl rises and manages to beat at my tonsils.

before. justbefore. rattlesnakes purr in my ear.

"jeezus, you're wetforme, hmmbaby?"

my throat tickles, constricts. And I remember that, no, you didn't get off a few blocks back, because that was last year, last year left you standing on a corner in the belly of the city, and this year you stayed in the cab, sat with me on the plastic-covered seats, and this year you slid your hand up my thigh and told me how wet I was, hmmbaby?

"mmm, salty too. and, blessedgod, so sweet. hmmbaby?"

it occurs to me that you must have smeared your stick fingers over your mouth. mmm, murmured against the damp pads. my lower back tickles at the sound of my name, right under a birthmark shaped like a triangle. Hmmbaby.

my gaze lowers to my thighs where your spectral hand sits, halfsheathed by noirsateen. Poised against the black chainlink of my pantylace. Your heat leans into me, an overpowering warmth, breath hot and rancidly eroding my outer ear.

"want me to touch you? right now?" The hand spiders back up. My stomach tightens.

"ever cum in a taxi before, hmmbaby?" but it's not a question because your fingers are pantomiming along my edges and i want to scream fuckyouhmmbaby,fuckyou but my legs are shaking and theres tar in my esophagus. and your fingers crawling back home, fluid comehither dance against me, inside me, slicking me up and down. i shiver; glance at the rearview mirror

. . . .

he's staring back at me.