Desert Trading Post

by Marilyn Foxworthy

  When Joseph came back, he had the cashier’s check. He had Courtney and I verify the amount and then Courtney gave him the address to send it to. We watched as he typed in the address and printed an envelope.

  I said, “Are there any other accounts associated with this Social Security Number?”

  Joseph checked the computer and said, “No sir. Both the credit card and checking account are now closed. I don’t see any other accounts or loans.”

  Courtney handed him the cards and asked him to take care of destroying them.

  At the end, I said, “Thank you for all your help. That’s why I do business here. One more thing. I need $2000 in cash for a vacation. Maybe half in hundreds and the other half in twenties. Will that work?”

  Joseph said, “Certainly. Let’s go up to the counter and I’ll have one of the associates get you what you need.”

  The girl at the counter counted out the cash and I asked for five sturdy envelopes that we’d put the bills in; I couldn’t put all of it in my pocket. And then, Courtney and I left, thanking them all again for their help.

  Outside, Courtney held herself close against my side and leaned her head against my shoulder.

  She said, “Thank you, Beloved. I feel better. But it’s like it will take a while to sink in. I wish we were going back to the motel.”

  I said, “Me, too. But I feel nervous about staying here. I think we should put some more distance between us and Portland for now.”

  Courtney said, “I do too. But I’m in your hands now. Take me with you wherever you think is best. Hey, there’s a charity collection bin over there at the far end of the parking lot. We can dump the purse and the dress there and then get on the road.”

  Before noon, we were headed east down the freeway. My plan was to take the next highway that ran directly south into the center of Oregon and then to the east side of California. Maybe we’d head toward Reno from there. I had thought about going as far as Texas, eventually. Maybe we’d drive all the way to Florida. There was no way to know yet. If we stayed on this road, we’d go through Boise. But I wanted to turn off the freeway that we had been on when those guys had chased us.

  As we rode, Courtney started to talk. It was warm and she had her feet up on the dashboard with her dress above her waist and the air conditioning blowing into her crotch. No, this wasn’t porn; this is real life. There was no lying about this.

  Courtney said, “So, about Tim. And before. Um, I had a business degree with an emphasis on Human Resource Management and Business Psychology. After college, I went to work for a company down in Los Angeles in the HR department. I specialized in talent recruiting. I know, ironic, right? After what I said, about recruiting Lisa? Anyway, I interviewed people. I was good at it. I knew when they were lying and when they were telling the truth, and how to spot undeveloped potential in a candidate. Tim was in finance and we started dating and after about two years, he proposed and we got married about nine months after that. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t great, but it was good enough. We had our jobs, and we got along, and we gave each other space, and it was all OK. We bought a house and stuff. It lasted two years. The sex was OK, too. I’m pretty sexual and orgasm easily, and he was good enough. I’ll tell you though, I don’t know why, but I never loved him as much as I loved you from the moment I saw you at the rest stop. And the sex was never as good as that one time in the shower with you.”

  I saw Courtney pull the crotch of her panties aside so that the air blew directly onto her naked labia.

  She said, “Can you believe that we’ve only had sex once, so far? And a great blow job this morning? I swear, I’d be doing it five times a day if we weren’t driving and I hadn’t been so tired yesterday. And lover, if we do it five times a day, I’ll be having at least fifty orgasms if how your first performance affected me is any indicator.

  With Tim is was maybe once or twice a week. I thought that was enough, but not now that I have you. So, a year and a half after we get married, I’m pretty happy and settled and safe, and I start taking better care of myself. Eating better and even walking a lot for exercise.

  One day, Tim asks if I’m losing weight. I was happy that he’d noticed and told him yeah. He didn’t seem happy though. Later, I was getting trimmer and looking and feeling better than I ever had, and he totally loses interest in me. I want sex, but he wants nothing to do with me. When I press him to tell me why, he accuses me of having an affair and says that he wants nothing to do with me and tells me that if I want sex, that I should go get it somewhere else. I wasn’t having an affair at all. He was the only man I had ever slept with. But he freaked out that I lost weight. I had been kind of chubby. Maybe 30 pounds heavier than I am now. He was a little overweight, but not enough to worry about. A week later, he files for divorce.

  The divorce wasn’t too bad and we split the assets, and I didn’t want any support from him by then. There was less money in the bank than I had thought that there would be, and we both made about the same money anyway, so it was finalized and we were done. As if we’d never been married at all. He didn’t spread rumors about me or anything like that. He’s not a bad guy. He admitted that he didn’t have any evidence that I was sleeping around and even realized that the reason he divorced me wasn’t because I was being unfaithful, but because he was afraid that I could. He started to feel like he was too overweight and that I wouldn’t want him if I got fit, and he wasn’t willing to do the work to get fit himself. I didn’t even care about that. And, it turns out that he’d spent a lot of our money on strip clubs and some girl that he was convinced was in love with him. It was the lie, again.

  It made me feel like shit. I tried to keep working, but we were at the same company and I just couldn't do it. I finally quit because I wasn’t doing a good job. I got a little studio apartment across town and couldn’t make myself apply for a job. My money ran out, and eventually, I lost my apartment and ended up on the street. Not really on the street though. On somebody’s couch. Then at the women’s shelter. They helped me get my head on. All that time, I’d never let my gym membership lapse. And by that time, I was doing everything but sleep there.

  When I started to think straight again, well, straighter than I had been, I went to the office at the gym and told them that I wanted a job in sales. They were open to it and they all knew me, and I did sales for the rest of the day and signed up six new members. Five guys and one woman. I just lied to them. It was easy. A few minutes a day and they’d look like me. And they’d find beautiful single women who’d love to have a drink with them. And there were so many successful men here that she couldn’t help but find someone almost immediately. I sold them what they were looking for, even if we couldn’t deliver it. I was good at seeing what they wanted, and what they were really looking for wasn’t a gym membership. The woman was never going to look like me and all the rest was lies, too. My body isn’t the product of hard workouts and plastic surgery. The workouts help, but a lot is genetics. Oh, my boobs are real, by the way, in case you don’t know the difference in how fake ones feel. And you haven’t felt them as much as you need to. The air feels really good on my clit. You can pet me if you want to.

  Anyway, I started lying for a living. Before that I made a living knowing when someone else was lying; now I was lying and I was good at it.

  The sales job paid the bills. Mostly. Commissions weren’t great, but I could just make enough for a place to live and food if I was careful. At work, I wore yoga clothes, so my spending on clothing was hardly anything. I was kind of the resident gym babe and everyone knew me. And that’s how they got me into porn.

  Another girl who was there a lot made friends with me and seemed to always be in the shower at the same time I was. We become friends and one day and she offers to wash my back. I wasn’t sure about it, but she tells me that I look tense and she’ll just rub my shoulders. It did feel good. Dave, I hadn’t been touched in months. So, the whole time she’s rubbing my shoulders with us naked in the shower, she’
s whispering things about how pretty I am. How great my tits look. How I could easily be a model. How she knows a guy who could take some pictures and how I could make some extra money. When we get out of the shower, she writes down her phone number and tells me to call her or just see her at the gym.”

  Courtney paused and I glanced down to watch her air out her privates in the seat beside me. I kept both hands on the wheel. Nothing she was saying shocked or offended or worried me at all. She was telling me her story. That was all. I didn’t need to judge it. But what she was doing, leaning back in her seat, cooling herself, was so erotic that I couldn’t believe it was happening in my car.

  We rode in silence for a few minutes.

  Courtney said, “Oh shit! I love you so much!” and she pushed her hand between her legs and started to masturbate.

  It lasted less than a minute. And then she threw her legs wide and convulsed and thrust her hips upward toward the stream of cold air from the dashboard. I was glad that there weren’t any cars or truckers driving near us.

  As she calmed down and settled back into her seat, she said, “You understand that right?”

  I said, “What? That you wanted to masturbate?”

  She said, “No, that I wasn’t just masturbating.”

  I said, “Um, but I don’t mind.”

  She said, “No, masturbating is something that I’d do by myself. I might think about you or some other fantasy and get myself off because I wanted a sexual release. That’s not what this was.”

  I said, “What was it?”

  Courtney said, “Babe, I was letting you fuck me. No, you didn’t touch me or say anything, but it was as good as if you did. Well, not as good, having you touching me would have been better, but I mean that you might as well have had your fingers in me for how real it was. You were driving. I wanted you to fuck me. And you did. Because I’m in love! Dave, I can hear your desire. You have both hands on the wheel, but your kindness is licking my body in ways that drive me wild. The way you listen to me and accept me is a huge turn-on for me. I told you that after my divorce that I didn’t have anyone to touch me. But you touch me all the time. I love it!

  Hey, are you ready to hear why I can’t go to the bathroom by myself? It’s because I’m a freak. No, not a sex freak! Well, OK, yeah, a sex freak, but I mean it’s not because I get off and having you watch me pee. It’s because, well, do you know about child development? About how when a baby is little, if they can’t see something, then they don’t know if it exists? It’s called object permanence. So if you play peek-a-boo with a baby, at a certain age, if you put a blanket in front of your face, they don’t know where you went. If you take a toy away, they don’t know if it still exists, if they can’t see it.

  Dave, something went wrong with me. So no, if I can’t see you, it’s like my brain thinks maybe you don’t exist anymore. And even if you do exist physically, my relationship to you gets lost and if I see you again, I have to start over. I’ve talked to a therapist about it and it’s what happens to me since my divorce. It’s never been like it is with you though. I functioned fine because I didn’t care if anyone else still saw me or not. I didn’t have any relationships that I wanted to hold on to.

  Before I met you, it was a blessing. I’d go to the bathroom and close the door, and feel like maybe the people and relationships, the bad relationships, didn’t exist anymore. Maybe when I opened the door, they’d all be gone and I could start over. But when I opened the door, there they were, waiting for me, never letting me get away and get free. But then I met you, and I was terrified that first time I had to use the restroom, that if I let you out of my sight that you’d disappear. Or that I would forget who you were and how I felt about you. Sweetie, can you imagine how terrifying that was? Probably not. If I go into a dressing room to try on clothes, you won’t be there when I come out and I’ll be alone again.

  That’s why I told you to dump me anywhere you wanted to. If you leave, this weird brokenness will make me forget that I ever loved you or that you loved me. I’ll sort of remember that I know you, and I’ll remember the things that we did, but I won’t remember how I feel about you. You can tell me that you won’t ever leave as much as you want to, but it won’t make any difference.

  Oh, for pity’s sake, Beloved, touch me! Ground me so that I know we’re here!”

  Courtney was desperate. I didn’t understand all of it, but I did understand enough. Her comparison to a baby’s development of object permanence made sense to me.

  I reached my right hand out toward her shoulder, but she screamed, “No! Touch me!” and she grabbed my hand and pulled it between her legs, forcing my fingers against her exposed mound.

  I pressed my hand against her flesh firmly, hugging her sex with my hand. Courtney moved her hips up and down in her seat, working herself against my fingers as best she could.

  She groaned, “Yes, Baby, tell me you’re still here. That I know you. Tell me I’m with you and that you aren’t going to be forgotten.

  I didn’t say anything. It seemed like she needed my touch, not my words. I dug the tips of two fingers into the sides of her pussy, along the outside of her puffy lips and stroked her firmly. I knew that her clitoris was already swollen and sensitive and feeling me along the outer bands would be both comforting and exciting in her current state of need for connection. I don’t know quite when her orgasms started. It might have been while she was still begging me to touch her, to give her something concrete to hold on to. As I stroked her slowly, she continued to grunt loudly and force her body onto my hand. I cupped her and held her. There was no tickling or teasing now, just the firm pressure of my reassuring presence. In a minute or so, my middle finger was curled up inside her, anchoring my hand in place as she rode me, twisting and grinding and bouncing her pelvis now and then as yet another evidence of her love and desire for me wracked her body. She wasn’t wild, but she was insistent.

  I kept driving with my left hand, keeping my eyes on the traffic, watching for cars or trucks that might see into the car. Courtney wouldn’t have cared. She was in a protected bubble somehow, and the world outside my little car didn’t matter to her. Not right now. She was feeling connected and loved, and had no visible intention of stopping for anything.

  Chapter 8 - Connection

  I let this go on for as long as I could, my hand between her legs and her having some kind of imperative sexual and emotional experience. But at some point, I was going to have to stop for gas and then head south on a different road.

  When the time came, I said, “Courtney, I wish we could keep going like this forever, but it’s time to stop and get some gas. Sweetie, I love you. You can hold onto my arm or something, but I need two hands to drive for a few minutes. And, I’m afraid that you need to put your dress down for a little while. You can stay in the car if you want to, but we have to make a quick stop.

  Courtney held her eyes closed and shuddered for several seconds and then reluctantly pulled my hand away from between her legs. It felt like she was struggling with some internal force, half of her wanting to keep me where I was and the other half forcing herself to do what we needed, instead.

  As she relaxed a bit, I moved my hand to my lips and stuck my fingers in my mouth, tasting her juices and showing her that I wanted to. Courtney watched me and then very seriously took my hand and sucked on my fingers herself. She went on much longer than I did. She was incredibly sensual about it. I felt like she was making love to me in a way that I’d never thought of. Everything about her right now was sex.

  I said, “Sweetie, I’m pulling off the highway, you need to pull your dress down and sit up.”

  She shuddered again and put her feet on the floor in front of her. Then she squirmed and reached under her skirt and adjusted her panties to where they were back where they were supposed to be. At one point, she grunted in frustration and I thought that she was going to rip the suddenly offensive garment completely off and throw it out the window like she had with her underw
ear yesterday, but she got a hold of herself and things settled down. As I pulled into the nearest gas station, Courtney bent down and slipped on her sandals and made final adjustments to her attire.

  The town we were in was small by city standards but pretty big for out here in the eastern part of the state. Not many people lived out here. It was ranch land and wilderness for the most part. But this was right on the main east-west highway at the crossroads to another that ran south from here.

  In Oregon, you don’t pump your own gas. When the attendant started filling us up, Courtney suggested that we both needed the restroom before we got back on the road. My car has a small gas tank and it would only take a few minutes to fill, so I told her that we would park in front of the attached convenience store when we were done.

  I thought about paying in cash, but I realized that there wasn’t a reason to hide my whereabouts by trying not to leave a paper trail on my credit cards. Courtney would show up on the motel record, but no one would know to look for me there, so it wouldn’t matter. And the bank could place us together, but again, even if they were looking for Courtney, they wouldn’t pay attention to me or connect us. If the police started looking for us for some reason, I didn’t want to look like I was purposely avoiding them anyway.

  After the tank was filled, I pulled into a parking spot and both of us went into the little store. Courtney held my arm tightly and when she asked the cashier for the key to the restroom, she didn’t smile at all. Courtney was serious and business-like now. Going to the restroom was business and the sooner it was over, the sooner we’d be back on our way.

  She opened the door and pulled me inside. Going to the toilet, she quickly dropped her panties to her ankles and sat down and peed. Then she wiped herself and stood up and adjusted her underwear. This restroom had both a toilet and a urinal and I used the latter while Courtney used the former.

  As we washed our hands, she said, “Restroom sex doesn’t sound fun at all. I’d do it if our lives depended on it, and trust me, I am pretty close to feeling like they do right now, but no. Not here. But believe me, if it was somewhere more comfortable, I’d be all over you. There’s so much more I want to tell you though.”