Highway 10, Arizona

As it turns out, the red doghouse would have been an improvement over Irene's mode of transportation.  They screamed down the dusty highway in a dented Chevy Impala that looked like it had once been green, but was now mostly an uninspiring blend of gray primer and flaky orange rust.  One of the headlights was busted out, and inside, no two pieces of the carpet or ancient vinyl were the same color of brown.       

The car was older than Irene.  Hell, it was probably older than he was, as well-- but it provided an interesting, if somewhat bizarre look into the intriguing woman driving with a lead foot and a wide mysterious smile.  Besides the mounds of clutter, discarded clothes, wrappers on the dash, empty Big Gulp cups and crumpled receipt stubs, the most noticeable thing was the smell.  The interior absolutely reeked of greasy fast food.  It made him hungry.  He almost made a comment about her ride, but upon reflection thought better of it.  Maybe it was all she had.  Maybe she lived out of her car.  He'd been that broke before.  More than that broke, actually.  The memory of it still stung. 

Trying not to be obvious about looking around, he idly picked at the peeling vinyl on the door where it looked like someone had, at one point, locked a dog in the car that had tried to scratch its way out.  The floorboard on the driver's side was rusted through.  Someone had nailed a cookie sheet over the hole.  His window didn't roll down all the way.  The back seat was even more interesting.  Among the odd bits of this and that littering the back seat, there were a few curious items that caught his attention.    

An ancient mustard colored suitcase sat off to one side.  There were several books scattered around.  The only one whose title he could read was 'Siddhartha'.  He wondered what it was about and made a mental note to pick up a copy sometime.  Tucked between the other odds and ends was what looked to be an expensive pair of sheer lacy panties.  They were the color of bruised plums.  He wondered if a man had bought them for her or if she was the sort of girl who just liked pretty underwear.  The fleeting desire to hold them to his face flickered deep in his brain.  It made him hard. 

He shook away the thought with a wry grin, rubbing his palms on his jeans and shifting a little in the worn seat, both to gain a bit of wiggle room in his pants and also because a spring in the seat was poking up awkwardly into his left buttock.  In the rearview mirror he could see the lights of the town disappearing and smiled inwardly when he thought of his mates' faces as they mustered everyone for the cars and discovered they were one man short.  Again. 

He had a habit of disappearing when the spirit moved him.  They wouldn't worry.  They were well aware 'the spirit' that moved him did, on occasion, take the form of a beautiful woman.  They wouldn't care that he hadn't told them he was leaving.  It was more likely they'd slap each other's shoulders, call him a lucky bastard (among other things) and drink to his success.  He always had a good story for them when he came back.  It was usually crude, entertaining, and not in the slightest bit true.  He didn't kiss and tell unless he had a guitar in his hand-- and even then he never gave away much.  Well, almost never. 

Every now and again he amused himself by slipping in a true story that was so outrageous he knew they'd never buy it.  'Oi, mate!  I'm rooted!  Fagged out.  Fucked myself raw.  Pair of bloody gorgeous sisters... twins... blonds with pert little titties and arses like peaches...I may never walk again.  God knows they won't....'  They'd all laughed and told him what a pathetic lying pile of shit he was and then they made him buy the next shout.  And all the while, he'd been laughing on the inside, thinking of how very much he'd enjoyed his naughty night with Emily and Olivia, a young pair of co-eds he'd met at a laundromat.  Ahh, the joys of menial chores...

Irene looked over and gave him the eye, as if she could somehow read all his dirty little thoughts.  If that was the case, he wondered if she was annoyed they didn't involve her.  That made him smile.  He pushed a hand through his hair and then laughed when a school bus passed them doing about ninety.  His mouth hung open and Irene shrugged with amusement.  "Yeah, they drive like that out here.  Res schools, you know?"  It pulled off the road in a cloud of dust, let some kids out and was back on the highway barreling along before he'd hardly blinked. 

He stuck his head out the window.  "Why couldn't you have been my bloody bus?!" he shouted.  The wind snatched away his words.  Irene giggled.  The bus turned off on a gravel road and disappeared.  He pulled his head back in the car, windblown and laughing.   

"You are crazy!"

He merely grinned wider.  "A little insanity's good for clarity, don't you think?"  

Irene thought of her insane dash away from her job, her degree and her responsibilities.  Insanity?  That definitely qualified.  "I think I'm due some clarity then," she said, thinking she sure could use it. 

"I'm not sure if inviting strange men to dance qualifies, love."

So she told him what she'd done that was so insane and he sat there, stunned for a moment.  Irene was a bit surprised when he burst out laughing, a rich booming sound that made her want to smile.  "What?" 

"I can't fuckin' believe it."  

"What?"

"You're on walkabout!" he exclaimed, grinning.  It was ironic.  He'd been in Australia for years and had never met anyone on real walkabout until just now-- in America.  Well, nobody on walkabout besides himself, that is.  Suddenly his impulsive decision to join her didn't seem quite so funny.  Maybe there was more here than met the eye?  Two people, both at a crossroads in their lives?  Odd their wandering paths should cross here of all places.  He wondered if it meant something.  It felt like it did, but he wasn't exactly sure what it could be.        

He offered her another cigarette.  They smoked in comfortable silence for a while, flying down the highway with the wind in their hair.  Irene turned on the radio.  He jumped when it crackled to life.  Frankly, he was surprised that anything in this junk heap worked.  She held the cigarette between her lips as she rapidly flicked through the stations, skipping straight over every song that gave him a spurt of interest and inevitably stopping on ones that made his eyes roll.

"You like music?"  She paused, her finger on the knob, humming along to 'Achy Breaky Heart'.    

He winced.  "I love music."  His tone implied he definitely did not think what was playing at the moment should ever be considered 'music'.

"Good."  She kept flicking through the stations.  "Who do you like?"  He named a few that had her eyebrows rising up but she flicked on, finally stopping on Right Said Fred's 'I'm Too Sexy' where she sang enthusiastically, though still pathetically out of tune. 

He groaned.  "I thought your people were supposed to be good singers."

Thinking of the eclectic bands he'd mentioned liking a moment ago, Irene snorted.  "And I thought yours were supposed to be square."

A low chuckle rumbled deep in his chest.  She was a strange one, all right.  And direct.  He liked that.  He liked her too, though he was beginning to wonder if getting in this car was a smart idea.  He hadn't seen any sign of civilization for half an hour.  Not a lamppost.  Not a house.  Not another car.  Not even any lights in the distance.  He felt an odd twinge.  Maybe he should have told someone where he was going. 

He looked over at her.  She glanced back and smiled.  He suddenly realized if anyone had something to worry about, it was her.  He could be a flaming head case for all she knew.  They were alone in the desert with nobody around for miles.  What if he had been a dodgy sort of fellow?  He felt a misplaced spurt of annoyed responsibility for her.  What was she doing picking up strange men?  Didn't she know better?  Christ.  She hadn't even asked his name.  He'd forced that on her.  That got him thinking.

"You said names have power," he tossed out into the silence, aware his voice still carried a hint of annoyance.  "So, why give me yours then?" 

Her smile was enigmatic.  She knew as clever as he was that he'd ask that one eventually.  "I gave you my white name, waischu."

He smirked, raised an eyebrow and said, "Woof."

She laughed.  "My auntie would adore you."

He left that one alone.  It smacked too much of 'going home to meet the family' and that sent up a few red flags.  He was not in the market for a relationship.  "I like your accent," he said instead.  She had an odd way of speaking.  A cadence he hadn't ever heard before; a rhythm he couldn't quite work out.  He had an ear for accents and languages and hers fascinated him.

"I like yours too."  She pulled the car off the road and onto the soft shoulder.  Everything appeared a strange raspberry color in the twilight.  He gave her a questioning look.  "Pee break," she tossed back. 

Irene rummaged around in the back, produced a flattened roll of toilet paper and climbed out, stretching.  To be honest, he was glad she'd stopped.  He'd had quite a few beers back at the bar, but he was surprised when she just wandered across the highway, unzipping her jeans as she went.  She didn't even hunt for any shelter before she pushed her pants down and squatted.  The wind blew her black hair back from her face and he looked away, heaving himself out of the car.  It made him feel a little unsettled.  He was the one usually pulling that sort of caper.     

Normally on this sort of pit stop in the middle of nowhere he'd just let fly wherever, even urinating at the rear tire for a bit of shock value or to show off in an endearingly outrageous sort of way, but an odd prickle of modesty had him taking a bit of shelter behind a saguaro instead, though the sharp spines in his line of sight made him shudder as he hauled out the thick length of his soft vulnerable cock.  He gave it a reassuring squeeze and took a childish enjoyment in peeing on the spines-- as if to say 'You think you're so tough?  Take that, mate!'

Irene heard his sigh of satisfaction from the car and wondered how men could possibly pee so much.  He might have turned away to give her privacy, but Irene wasn't embarrassed about watching him.  He had nice legs and broad shoulders.  She liked the way he stood as he attended this most intimate function; feet braced wide, back straight, head lolling back.  It seemed so very male to her.  She did not look away when he glanced up to catch her watching as he shook, stuffed and buttoned.  He found her earthiness and open interest in him erotic and arousing but he was glad that's all it was-- and that there was interest but not invitation in her eyes.  He might be a modern man but he was still old fashioned enough to prefer to be the one who made the first move.

His interest in her had taken a decidedly sexual turn, but he still held back where he normally would have pressed forward decisively.  Something was telling him the adventure was just beginning.  And he still wasn't entirely certain the best part of it would happen in a bed.

When he got back to the car, Irene was digging the mustard colored suitcase from the back seat. 

His lips twitched.  "Going somewhere?"  There was nothing but arid desert for miles in every direction.

Irene laughed.  "Yeah.  Dancing."  She waved a hand at her t-shirt and jeans.  "Just not in this."  Carefully setting the suitcase down on the trunk, she popped the stiff latches with a clang. 

He swallowed down a smile at her typically female behavior.  She might be foreign and mysterious, but she was still a woman. 

And he was still a man.  

She wanted to look a certain way... and he wanted to see her nude body.  Almost as much as he wanted to see what was in that suitcase. 

The way she handled the items inside it was a world away from the casual carelessness she had with the other possessions in the back of her car.  She removed a long narrow wooden box and gently set it on the car's dented trunk.  He couldn't tell exactly what the suitcase contained, but whatever it was was a soft creamy ivory color and made of a silky fabric with a satin-like finish.  It had accents of a deep rich gold-- and he could see blue, too-- from the palest baby blue to a deep rich midnight. 

Irene turned.  "Hold this?"  She didn't wait for an answer, but draped a large fringed shawl over his arm before pulling off her shoes and throwing them though the open window into the back seat.  He had little doubt she was about to change right there, whether he was watching or not.  It made him uneasy.  Had the moment been sexual, that would have been a different story.  He was as comfortable and familiar with the baring of a stranger's body for casual sex as he was with the idea of shedding his own clothes.  He was no prude.  But this nonsexual nudity put him off his stride.  It was new ground for him. 

He was experienced enough to get the sense that her casual attitude to nudity was more an Irene thing than an Indian thing.  He read women well and had the feeling she'd have had this same bohemian flair if she'd been white.  Or black.  Or even purple. 

It still put him off balance, though.  He was used to being the one who disregarded the conventional standards of behavior-- though what appeared like a wild streak of free spiritedness in his behavior was actually quite predictable.  He often acted out when pushed beyond his comfort zone.  Or when he wanted to provoke a specific response.  Some might even call him a bit of a control freak.  For all his wild ways, he was really quite well planned and methodical.  It was very unsettling to meet a woman like Irene-- who was, in essence, the true embodiment of his game face. 

It struck him then how very opposite they were.  He was a meticulous planner by nature who often masked that trait with measured impulsiveness.  Irene, on the other hand, had tried to mask her natural impetuousness with the rigidity of higher education-- but put the pressure on and they'd both reverted back to their core traits. 

But she was still a woman and he was still a man-- and Nature did not give a tuppenny damn for his small surge of satisfaction for working that out.  It was concerned with something altogether more basic.  He might have been uncomfortable when she reached for her zipper, and there might have even been a hint of disapproval in the pursing of his lips as he turned around and gave her his back.... but he still watched her reflection in the side mirror as she undressed.

Her shirt was the first to go.  He couldn't seem to look away from where the small mirror was giving him such a pretty picture.  He had a certain weakness for the smooth expanse of a woman's naked back.  She had bloody gorgeous skin.  It was a deep honey color, smooth and flawless.  When she put her arms up to pull a tank over her head he caught a flash of her right breast.  Her nipple was thick and brown.  The sight of it stirred a variety of images in his head.  Coffee beans.  Chocolate truffles.  Sweet tobacco.  He took little notice, unaware his subconscious mind was conjuring things that were brown-- that he also associated with his mouth.

Her jeans went next, tossed carelessly back inside through the open window.  It made him think of the underwear he'd seen in the back seat.  Had she tossed those in through the window as well?  A frown formed on his face as he thought of her standing naked beside her car somewhere, on some deserted stretch of highway.  She was nearly naked now.  Just a white tank and a pair of pale blue panties.  His frowned deepened.  He could be curiously moral when he wanted to.  His lips pursed in disapproval-- but still, he watched.  That odd streak of old fashioned morality he had was spotty at best, and quite selective.  Especially when it came to something that gave him pleasure. 

Still, he felt no sense of disappointment when she pulled on a calf length skirt of soft shimmering ivory that covered her naked limbs.  It had a row of golden sequins at the hem that caught the light and drew attention to the movements of her legs.  He turned to watch as she dug through the suitcase, unaware he'd just given himself away.  How else would he have known when to turn around unless he'd been watching in the mirror?  It made Irene smile.  Red or white, men were still men.  She wondered if he knew he was softly stroking the shawl she'd given him to hold for her.

His pale eyes watched with unashamed curiosity as she took out a wide beaded belt and tied it around her slender waist.  A beaded bracelet in the same pattern followed.  She draped something else over his arm, probably to keep it from touching the car's dusty exterior.  He couldn't tell exactly what it was, but it was heavily beaded and had lots of long ribbon fringe that made it seem pretty and feminine.  Except he was unprepared for the weight of it.  It had to weigh a couple of pounds at least. 

"It's heavy."  He felt a little silly for making that observation before he'd even asked what it was or commented on the extraordinary beadwork. 

"It sure is."  Irene smiled.  She was a Fancy Shawl dancer.  It was a style of dancing that was quick and energetic, meant to mimic a butterfly in flight.  And it had been a long time since she last danced.  Too long.  She was out of shape and she knew before the night was over that she was going to feel the weight of every single bead.  She told him so and he laughed.  "Laugh all you want," she teased, "But if you see me fall over... bring the oxygen!"

His smile was wide and warm.  He liked her contrasts; the juxtaposition of a cheeky modern woman with a sort of tribal timelessness.  It was just as easy for him to imagine her playing videogames as it was to picture her in a buckskin dress, living in a tipi somewhere.  He cocked his head and played with his lip as something else occurred to him.  Did her People even use tipis?  He suddenly felt a stick of embarrassment for making that assumption.  But how was he to know?  He grew up playing cowboys and Indians-- but he was always the cowboy.  Well, except when he was playing with his older brother and his friends.  They would always force him to be the Indian.  And nobody wanted to be the Indian... everyone knew the Indian always got his arse kicked.  He didn't care though.  He was always the cowboy-- in his mind, anyway.

He shook his head, remembering that.  It was just the sort of strange lateral jump his brain so often made.  It was ludicrous really, the idea of little Kiwi boys aping the Wild West when they had a wild place of their own they could have reenacted.  How interesting that even on the other side of the world in Australia, cultural lies were being absorbed of a race far away.              

She took the beaded yoke from him and slipped it over her head, giving it a little shake so the fringe would fall properly.  He was impressed by the beadwork that hung down over her back and chest.  "That must have taken forever."

Irene nodded.  "More than a year."  In truth, it had been closer to two.  Irene's beadwork was beautiful but she was pitifully slow at it.  Her auntie could have done it in half the time but it was something she'd wanted to do for herself.   

"Did you do it?  Is it your work, I mean?"  He tripped a little over his words, speaking quickly as he did when he was excited or unsure.   

She nodded again, busily braiding her shiny black hair into two long plaits that hung down over either shoulder.  

He wasn't quite sure what to say to that.  It was hard for him to imagine spending so long laboring over something whose gains would only ever be measured in centimeters.  And yet, the overall effect was stunning.  Ten minutes ago, she'd looked like just another starving college student with a bad car.  Now she looked like she'd just walked out of a natural history museum wearing their prize exhibit.  He thought it must be worth more than the entire salary he was pulling down for this film-- if one could put a price on it at all. 

It seemed a curious contradiction.  A priceless piece of cultural heritage pulled from a beat up mustard colored suitcase, owned by a woman who drove a rolling junk heap.  Who would have guessed?  She took the fringed shawl from his hands and slipped it up under the yoke, settling it on her shoulders.  The motion was easy, practiced and not at all awkward.  She was not wearing a costume.  It was a part of her.  As much an extension of her personality as his clothes were of his. 

She affixed a plume of eagle feathers in her hair with a beaded barrette and smiled at him as she pulled a few last items from the suitcase and handed them to him.  He turned the leggings and moccasins over in his hands.  The leggings were fully beaded and twice as heavy as the yoke he'd held earlier.  How on earth did she dance wearing all of that weight? 

His inner musings were cut off when she walked over to him.  Her feet were bare.  The sight was somehow more erotic than seeing her nude had been; more... earthy... more primal.  Brown calves.  Bare feet making faint impressions in the soft sandy soil.  The soft swaying of her skirt.  The way the fringe accentuated the gracefulness of her movements.  It made her seem strong, and at the same time, incredibly delicate.   

He didn't stop.  He didn't think.  He simply reacted.  Male to female.  He was not hesitant when his arm slipped around her back; he used just a fraction of his power to hold her against him far more tightly than he should have.  She gasped softly into his mouth as he kissed her, but even that didn't dissuade him.  The kiss was openmouthed, yet tender.  And at complete odds with the way he had hauled her up against him until the tips of her bare toes barely touched the warm rosy sand. 

Her tongue was soft and wet and he hummed in pleasure when she used it to softly stroke the underside of his top lip.  He suckled her bottom lip gently in response and smiled as he felt her hips shift against his in a slow almost imperceptible roll that would bring them into alignment. 

Clit to cock, he thought crudely, even as he softened the kiss and relaxed his hold on her.  His heart was thumping.

She stood on his feet.  Her arms were around his neck.  He was leaning back against the car's open door.  Smiling.  Not at all embarrassed to be standing there with her, his palm on the small of her back, hand spread wide to hold her against the big soft bulge of his groin as it swelled and stiffened.  He made no move to kiss her again.  They simply stood there, feeling the other sex's most intimate response.  She felt him grow harder.  He felt her body loosen and grow softer, more pliable where it melted into his awkward angles. 

A rowdy pack of exuberant coyote pups yipped in the distance, high pitched and loud.  They sounded for all the world like a pack of screeching young boys.  Irene smiled.  "You kiss good."

"For a 'wasichu'?" he asked, only half teasing.

"For anyone."

A smug smile spread across his face and twinkled in his eyes.  "I dance good, too."  Had she been one of the sure bets he picked up at the bar, he'd have leaned in and whispered in her ear that he fucked better than he danced, but something stopped him.  She wasn't that kind of girl.  And he didn't want to be the kind of man who said that to someone like her.

Even if it was true.

With her taste still on his lips, he watched, smiling, as she dusted off her feet, slipped on her moccasins and tied on her beaded leggings that covered her leg from ankle to knee.  The overall affect was stunning.  Like something out of a film, he thought with a bit of private amusement. 

Irene ruined it though, when after just a few steps she frowned, picked up her foot and swore softly as she stared at her sole.  His eyebrows went up as she swayed on one foot, holding his arm for balance as she inspected the worn hole in the leather of her moccasin, muttering under her breath.  He was even more amused when she hopped to the car, dug out a roll of silver duct tape out of the back, ripped off a square with her teeth and patched the hole just like that.  His mouth hung open.  It just wasn't something he'd ever expected. 

He'd used it for a thousand strange things; from mending his clothes to getting rid of rattle in his glove box by taping the fucker shut... he'd just never once considered that application.  It seemed almost irreverent somehow.  Like she should have some more... Indian... way of fixing it.      

Irene saw his horrified expression and laughed.  "It's my ceremonial duct tape, eh?"  Her eyes danced at the amused chortle her teasing drew from his wide chest.  She shrugged playfully.  "If you can't fix it--"

"Duck it!" he finished with a grin.  Apparently, some things are truly universal no matter what race, color or gender a person happened to be.  Like duct tape.  And dancing.

And kissing.

In the blink of an eye, Irene had the suitcase stowed and they were back on the road.  He loved the image of her behind the wheel dressed in her resplendent regalia.  It was just the slightest bit absurd, like watching a Victorian lady of old piloting the space shuttle or seeing a man with traditional Maori facial tattoos wearing a power suit and leading a boardroom discussion.  It was simply hard to marry up those two images.

He might prefer blondes with light eyes and fair skin, but Irene's wild beauty was growing on him.  He couldn't seem to keep his eyes from coming back to her again and again as the black road rolled on.  It wasn't so much the strangeness of her dress or the beauty in her face that drew him; it was an energy, a vibe he'd sensed in her even back at the tavern.  She had a wildness about her that just drew him for some reason he couldn't yet explain-- like the needle of a compass pointing to true north.  To the lay person, it seemed to just.... happen.  To those who saw with more knowing eyes, something else entirely was beginning to unfold.

Irene was back to flicking through the stations, trying hard to keep her attention on the road and not on her handsome passenger.  Her lips tingled where he'd kissed her.  She could still feel his stubble if she concentrated hard enough.  She liked it.  Most Indian men had very little body hair and even less facial hair, with perhaps a dozen or so whiskers they plucked out instead of shaving.  To kiss a man with several days' growth of rough stubble was exciting.  But not nearly as exciting as the feel of his heartbeat under her fingertips.  It had gotten faster when they'd kissed.  Irene wanted to put her mouth right there on his throat and feel it throb under her tongue.  She glanced at the heavy stubble growing down his neck.

Her auntie would have taken one look at him, pinched his cheek and exclaimed, 'Like a bear!'  Irene wanted to feel the rough sandpapery drag under her lips and tongue.  But even more, she wanted to dance with him under the autumn moon.  She was impatient to get there.  It made her flick faster through the stations.      

"Hey, go back to that."

"What, this?"  

He giggled as Sir Mix-A-Lot belted out 'Baby Got Back'.  "No!  Before that."    

Irene flicked it back one more and the soft melodic sound of an old man's voice filled the car.  It intrigued him.  The inflection and cadence was very similar to the mellifluous way Irene spoke English, but he'd never heard a language remotely like it before.

She watched his strong jaw work as he silently mouthed the words.  If he'd been alone, he'd have spoken them aloud, trying to reproduce that fascinating sound, but he felt a little self conscious about trying it on with Irene sitting right there.  He settled for memorizing the station number to listen to later and trying to form the words behind his teeth. 

Irene nudged him.  "Go on...."  He smiled sheepishly and then let fly with an impressively good imitation.  "Hey, that's pretty good!"

"Now if I only knew what the fuck it was that I just said."  He shrugged and grinned.  "What language is that?" he asked after listening to it for a few more minutes.

"Out here?  Probably Navajo."

"You know what he's saying?"

Irene shook her head.  "Not a clue."  The only other language she spoke was French.  She smiled over.  "He's probably giving peewee league reports or something," she said, thinking of the busload of kids that had passed them earlier..... Irene paused dramatically.  "It's tied, seven to seven-- and TwoPonies has the ball.... better watch him now, he's got strong medicine!"

She wiggled her eyebrows at him and he joined in her irreverent laughter.  "Ohhh no!  He's fumbled!  Bad luck, mate!  Here they go again... Oooch!  Poor bugger.  He took a cracking wallop.  That'll leave a mark!  Give him some air, lads...."  He somehow managed to make his exclamations match the speaker's cadence and Irene howled with laughter. 

They continued to ad lib as the miles rolled on, growing progressively sillier and occasionally venturing into the suggestive, but always in a clever sort of way that was amusing without ever being really crude.  She told him fables.  He told her stories.  They finally pulled into a dusty field full of cars.  He could see lights in the distance.  Her hand felt cool and small in his. 

The wind blew, carrying back silvery threads of laughter and the scent of smoke and frybread.  And on that warm desert wind, Irene could hear Trickster's voice whispering louder than ever...

Messy... messy... messy....