Arizona Monsoon Nights

Monsoons scourge the Arizona desert, marking the end of the long, inferno summer.  Sweltering air made pregnant with humidity is so thick it can be sliced like the sexual tension of an eighties porno.  Nights like these always induce the locals to engage in all manner of sordid affairs.

The Van Buren professionals strut up and down the street, flaunting their wares for the highest bidder.  Ritzy snobs sneer at the promiscuity of the youth as they themselves entertain the eye candy their husbands hire as pool boys and handy men.  And university students gather en mass at hot spots and grind the nights away in spring break fashion.

And then there’s Abigail.

The unrelenting heat and clammy air leaves her desperate to inflict her unreleased arousal on another.  Abigail finds her outlet at the Underground Mic—a secret collegiate society of erotic poets who masquerade as exotic birds on this night.

There is an ominous silence.  Abigail takes the stage, and the stage lights silhouette her voluptuous figure.  For a moment, she is the most tantalizing and exotic bird the audience has seen since the cactus wren.  The lighting changes and the audience can now see her as clearly as if she were their own reflections.  From behind a sequined and feathered mask, mellow yellow-green eyes stare wantonly at the audience. Anticipation heightens. 

“Lonely hands,” Abigail’s silken voice oozes over the audience, announces the title of her poem, and momentarily lulls them from the discomfort of the weather.  She reaches up and removes her mask.  She tosses it to a man in the front row before donning a blindfold.  Her act tantalizes the audience.

         Soft silk slides
         across my bosom
         like butterfly kisses on smooth skin
         grazing across pink nipples
         and exposing the treasures beneath.

Abigail recites the lines of her poem.  Coquettishly, she unbuttons the top buttons of a pristine blouse, revealing her buxom chest as she continues her performance:

         Fingers blaze trails
         across my ample breasts,
         stopping to meander ‘round nipples
         before plunging to lacy panties.
         Thumbs hook around the bands
         slowly, sensually dragging them
         down past thighs and ankles.
         Lonely hands massage back up thighs
         finding again their starting point.

While she speaks, Abigail’s own hands mimic the movements of the hands from her poem as she publicly caresses herself. Excitedly, the audience anticipates what the poem will bring.

         Massaging and kneading breasts
         at first with both,
         but then one travels downward
         tracing circles and curves along the way.
         Reaching a soft tuft of hair,
         the hand continues the journey.
         Finally, fingers brush against moist lips.
         First, one finger explores
         a slit wet with desire,
         then another joins the cause,
         and shortly they are delving
         past the entrance
         into the succulence within.

Abigail’s honey voice huskily draws the audience into a state of arousal.  Were she not wearing a blindfold, she would see that a few supremely excited individuals touched and fondled self and neighbor.  As she renders her poem to the audience, beads of perspiration trickle across her warm, pale skin.  Whether her own excitement caused the sweat or if it was the muggy night, the audience neither knew nor cared.

         Fingers pump in and out,
         driving me toward insanity,
         I am insatiable,
         these exploring fingers are not enough.
         The second hand reveals
         my surprise
         as the first removes
         pleasuring digits from my womanhood.
         I gasp.
         The second hand positions
         at my opening
         a rubber head.

Abigail orates as from a pocket she produces a dildo.  As she continues her poem, she mime’s the actions of her poem.

         And with a rapid thrusts,
         delicious fullness sends me
         to my frenzied climax.

Abigail pauses.  In one swift movement, she removes her blindfold and drops the dildo to the floor where it clatters.  Abigail raises her hands to the audience and declares:

         These lonely hands
         are mine own.

As Abigail walks off the stage, the voyeur audience avidly applauds her performance.

*          *          *

691 Words

The poem recited by the character was specifically created by me for this short story.