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A Phoenix Fiction Writer Rising From The Ashes of Nonfiction




A Nevada Sunset
by Michael T. Martin

Walking in the garden with my arm around her waist, the scent of her mixed with the desert's fragrance to enliven my sensuality. I already smoldered with anticipation at her touch. Sharon's cascading long red hair fairly glowed in the reflected light of the sunset's brilliant red and yellow exuberance.

A lonely quail broke the silence from the dark shrouded underbrush. Fifty years of hard life seemed so much softer when I was with her, feeling her against me. I stopped and turned her towards me, softly putting my fingers against her thin delicate cheeks.

“How long have I been coming here, Sharon?” I asked. Touching her intimately this way further excited me.

She pursed her lips in a smirk, looking into my eyes.

“You know that's a pun,” she said, her eyes dancing.

I hadn't known, but now that she mentioned it I had to chuckle. I leaned forward to kiss her and she responded, pressing her lower body against mine. The warmth of her body enhanced the aura of her scent that enchanted me. A long caress of my lips against hers was part of the deal. I paid her to pretend to love me, to let me hold her, to kiss her, to make love to her.

She was very good at what she did. Little things, like that kiss in which she seemed almost to swoon, or the subtle shudder of excitement when I embraced her as if she longed for my touch, instead of the subtle shudder of tolerance too many women I met in bars displayed. She could pretend so well that I could pretend I was wanted.

Most of the women here were much younger. Many were students at UNLV working their way through college. Indeed, the students were the main attraction of this pussy ranch outside Las Vegas where prostitution was legal. Sharon was the housemother, the madam, who managed the women and the customers.

“Almost a year now,” she finally answered in her low voice, “nearly every week.”

“I spend a lot of time on the road. I can't always get back in a week.”

As a long-haul trucker I spent a lot of time alone, a lot of it longing for women, until I found Sharon.

“I know. Sometimes I worry when I don't see you though.” She lowered her eyes to my chest, creating a warmth inside me. Despite the artificiality, I felt welcome in her presence. Even if it was just a business for her, we had a business relationship that assuaged my loneliness.

“It's nice to know you think of me when I'm gone. My wife just found other men.” It didn't make any sense. When my wife had been adulterous I was infuriated, there was a divorce. Yet it was Sharon's business to be adulterous and I still had feelings for her. She knew something about men, about me, to enliven her presence.

“Marriage isn't suited for everyone. We just live our lives.”

“Do you remember when I first visited?” I recalled it was about a year after my divorce.

Sharon gave me a glance out of the side of her eye and leaned against me with her whole body. I put my arm around her waist, feeling her subtle shudder again.

“Of course. How could I forget,” she said with a chuckle.

I wanted her as soon as I saw her. She had just passed through the background of the brothel reception area and I was fascinated by her slender grace and beauty. She was almost my age, easily old enough to be the mother of the UNLV students, and they had seemed bemused that I insisted on her over them. But once I saw her, the students were of no interest to me.

“When I first saw you I was captivated. And you told me no. Remember?”

“I told you I wasn't available, I had other duties.”

“I'm glad you changed your mind.” I gave her a soft squeeze.

“You didn't give me much choice. You were making a scene.”

She turned with her back to me, looking into the dwindling sunset. I stepped against her putting my arms around her, nuzzling her neck and shoulder. She leaned against me, tilting her head back against mine.

“My first visit was only supposed to be a lark, but there was something about you. So I kept coming …, uh, I mean visiting. I love just touching you, holding you against me.”

“I've grown accustomed to your touch,” she replied melodiously and I recognized the old song.

“Like breathing out and breathing in,” I sang back to her. I slow danced her to the wooden glider on the porch and we sat down to watch the slow demise of the daylight, and the birth of the night. I leaned back and pulled her against me with her head against my chest. Swinging gently, the motion enhanced the feel of her body against mine. We would soon go inside and I would have her but for now my arousal sent my blood pounding more rapidly than the glider's soft repeating squeaks.

I took the opportunity to kiss the top of her head, inhaling the smell of her. Women's smells always intrigued me, the subtle differences between their fragrances and their scents of sweat and breath. Even as an ersatz lover she smelled of a real woman full of subtle fragrances filling me with excitement.

“It just feels so nice holding you.” I had my arms around her, holding her across my body. “Do you realize how desperate some men are to be in this situation?”

“You're asking me if I know how desperate men can be for women? It's my business to know.” She cast me a sidelong glance before putting her head on my chest again.

“Sometimes I get lost in my fantasy and forget.”

“Look, I like being with you too,” she said, “you've been such a gentleman. Some men here can be almost unbearably rude and uncouth.”

“I can imagine.”

She raised her head and shoulders away from my body to look at me.

“No you can't, really. Some men are just mean and dangerous.”

“You have a gun don't you?”

“You try getting your gun when a man has you by the throat and is slamming you against the wall. It's not that easy.”

“Okay. I'm sorry. I didn't know.” She lay down against my chest again.

“You didn't know I lived the same life before I got into this business, either, only then my husband slammed me against the wall by the throat. He got a sadistic delight out of hurting me. Then he wanted to have sex. Life is better here than it ever was being married.”

Neither of us apparently had a positive view of marriage. I stroked her voluminous long red hair repeatedly, partly because I had a fetish for red hair and partly because I loved the feeling that I was comforting her. She sighed and fell silent. I hadn't asked her about her past before. I felt a little closer to her knowing it. I kept stroking her hair, holding her, feeling warm inside, admiring her, growing in excitement in anticipation of having her, breathing in the aura of her.

“I always feel like I'm loved here with you, even though I know it's not real.”

We continued watching the red and gold sky quietly shading into black. I could feel her body relax. She snuggled gently. The sound of the glider was the only external noise.

“Would it bother you too much if it was real?” she whispered into the silence.

Stars suddenly seemed much brighter above the dimming horizon. The unseen quail called again in its characteristic whistle. An answering call responded.


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