Negotiating the uneven asphalt of a deserted North Carolina highway, the car scuffled uncertainly over the undulating surface and vestigial potholes. Peering through the windshield at the halogen-covered terrain, the passenger in the front seat cast a furtive glance towards the driver's grip on the steering wheel and released a barely audible moan. He then caught a glimpse of his silhouette, unkempt, untamed, dangerous. The driver's shadowed semblance darkly bespoke (yet in quiet, huskily whispered hintings) of the erotic savagery lurking within, and the passenger hazarded a look towards the driver's bulging bliss, tucked just below belt and zipper, and mercifully slumbering beneath its denim cage.
The passenger avoided eye contact with his pilot, lest his own evidently longing stare (if he would just look) threatened to betray yet another honest attempt at fidelity with his wife, who , was, sitting in the back seat directly behind him. . How many more tears and infections would she have to endure for this to end? How many more trips to secluded rest stops would she be making to fetch the sobbing, sullen wretch she would inevitably find hunched underneath a leaking urinal? NO, he steeled his resolve against the pungent Aryan's siren song, checked his shoes—again— to ensure proper tying (he was wearing sandals), and just sat, an idiot in this familiar position, and suckled his hidden, restless tongue.
Yes, this urge could be fought, perhaps even ignored. Best yet, even forgotten. Yes. No.
Of course this would end badly; how could it not? Had he not observed, first-hand, the calloused indifference that the driver greets such prospective dalliances? Who was he to think he was so special? Did he deserve—or really even want—the agony of sleepless nights and self-doubt that surely would result from the inevitable rejection? How many half carafes of white zinfandel and valium cocktails could wash away the bitter aftertaste of copper, bleach, and tears? No, better close his wanting mouth and steel his resolve against the erotic mercenary sitting in the seat adjacent to his own.
The more he attempted to shut him out, though, the worse it became. He began to drift away, awash in fantasy and trembling in lust. Suddenly, things, events, shifted and the passenger awoke to find himself in a white-marbled room, barefoot and cold-toed on the chilly stone. As he slowly turned and examined the dispassionate and featureless walls, he noticed the draft creeping up toward his bared knees. Glancing down, as if through gauze, he wondered about the clinging silk kimono—thigh-high, no less—now clothing , the only garment in place between his freely perspiring body and the dreamscape. Oh.