I hate this farm, but Myrtle won't leave it. So I pretend that the internet and Fed Ex are the same as living in civilization, in places with movie theatres or gay bookstores.
Myrtle has tried to show me the beauty of farming. She loves the smell of soil, growing of plants, breathing air from the lungs of a gopher and not a man. She likes grass and insects and being small in the universe.
I like two outdoor things: barbecue and fucking.
Up here, far from my childhood South, it's only warm enough to cook outdoors in summer. Sundays, Myrtle goes off to church, and I stay home and play with meat and spices, potato salad and deviled eggs.
When Myrtle gets home, the farm still needs work. Sundays, I'll help her. I can get away from my writing, use my body, and be with her. She's home by three, but we don't finish until eight or nine. We hop in the shower, one after the other, and then I bring the meat out.
I love to watch her play with fire, see the light dancing on her black skin, and the sweat trickling behind her ears, dripping off the tips of her braids. Every so often, I'll feed her a deviled egg or a slice of watermelon, but mostly she stands in front of the pit, drinking her beer and sucking limes. (The limes are for me; I hate the taste of beer, but the gentle citrus transforms the musty, hoppy taste of her mouth.)
I get the tools for later, blowing up the air mattress, wiping down the camping pillows, going through the toy chest and pulling stuff for the bucket.
She'll cook enough meat for a week, but the ribs for tonight are on the hottest part of the grill, and soon she tells me to pull out the plates and potato salad. We tear into the meat, grease and spices rubbing all over our mouths, flesh falling off the bone, down our throats as smooth as butter but heartier, more real. The potato salad is cold and creamy, mayonnaise, spuds, and pickle relish combining for a sweet contrast to the fiery meat. We don't talk, just chew, but we don't rush through the feast
When we're done, I get the kitchen, while Myrtle cleans the grill.
I come out of the house naked, and Myrtle's standing in front of the mattress, facing away. I grab her biceps, hard and round and strong in my hands.
She startles, drops to her knees.
I put my hands under her t-shirt, grabbing her tits and getting in the way when she tugs at her zipper. A few minutes' squirming gets everything off except her socks. She's on her back, and I'm propped on one arm, running a hand up and down a belly the dark brown of the soil all around us. "Acres and acres, and it's all mine," I say and smile.
She laughs because I say it every time we're out here together. She pulls my hand up to her face and kisses, then licks, my palm.
I shudder and relax on top of her. I bite her shoulder, because I can, because it makes her buck under me.
She grabs the back of my head and pulls me to her mouth, kisses me, soft pecks around my mouth and nose.
I whimper. I don't like having my hair pulled. She knows it, but she likes the noises I make. I scratch my fingers down her side, not hard, enough to make her let go, make her kiss me on the mouth, wet and sharp and home.
She rolls us so she's on top. She puts her hands on my stomach, and skims her fingers on my belly, back and forth until I squirm and spreads my legs because it gets to me.
She laughs and licks my neck, her tongue travels slowly down my body: there's a spot under my ear where she pulls sobs from me; when she sucks my tits she looks in my eyes, and I know she wants to crawl inside me and I want to let her; and then she slides down to my cunt, and her fingers push at my g-spot while she sucks on my clit and I moan.
I struggle to sit up, to watch her work on me. I love to see her braids framed by my legs, working my body.
She hates being watched, so she pulls my ass up and throws my legs over her shoulders.
My weight rests on my upper back, and the angle of her fingers inside me is perfect. "Bite me!" I shout, one clear direction among a string of loud, wordless pleadings.
The shouting is good, she likes it, bites my thighs and works her thumb on my clit and I am pushing, pushing, pushing my pussy at her, because I want her to take. me. there!
She holds me as I shake my way down, petting the bites, slowly rolling me down on the mattress.
"Come here." I kiss her, and she tastes like girl, and I suck the flavor out. I know she doesn't want to get licked tonight, so this is the closest to eating pussy I will get.
I reach in the bucket and pull out her toy, a soft, purple butterfly. She takes it from me, slides the straps on, flips the switch, and twitches all over. Then she pulls me in her arms and licks my mouth until I suck her tongue in and bite softly. She puts my hands to her nipples and I yank them. She's not sensitive there but she thinks she should be. I grab her ass and get a thigh between her legs, push the toy against her hard. She shudders hard, then flicks it off.
We lie together, sweat cooling on our skin, stars twinkling at us the way they can't in a city. It is peaceful and perfect, and when a caterpillar crawls on my hand, I flick it off without any girly screaming and let the moment stand.
