She liked alt country and whisky and thought that qualified her to go to graduate school in the West. That was 1998, when everyone was into alt country and leather boots were in style. The tall, black leather boots, that is. No one told her you couldn't ride a horse in those heels. But never mind. As a girl from a wealthy family, she had gone to summer camp that had horses. And she'd even slept in a sleeping bag--on the floor--at her best friend's lake cabin in New Hampshire. So she was qualified, she concluded, to apply for and head West for grad school, in a creative writing program, one of the famous ones, she'd heard, where people go West, and write about the rugged but forgiving mountains and tough but poetic cowboys.
I was from the West, and so became her first fascination. My beat-up truck rattled us around the university town, where late nights we'd hit the VFW bar, waltz to Patty Page songs, and soak our metaphors in sour mash and the spill of neon.
She wanted what I had, to own it and wear it like pearlsnaps on a faded denim shirt. She wanted what I offered and as I guy, that was enough for me. I was flattered, too naivie to understand that she'd try me on like a shirt, and after a while move back home to big city stores that carried the new trends.
But for a time, the nights were slow country and scotch. The poetry of stoic sad that is the sky of the West.
She was a big girl--tall as me, and maybe as heavy. Dishwater blonde hair she liked to braid because she thought it more western. She had solid legs and some paunch to her stomach. Her breasts were large but soft: When she wore a jogging bra, she looked like a B-cup, but once she peeled it off, her natural D-cup breasts sagged from their weight. I don't mean that to be critical; in fact, she was one of the most natural girls I've ever met. She liked to eat and drink and laugh, and had an easy self-confidence of the rich and well-educated. She knew her body, and simply accentuated her strengths and minimized the rest.
On a hike, she'd wear an athletic shirt that gathered and shaped her breasts. But that action alone is not what made her sexy. She'd forgo a bra, so when she hiked, and stopped to peel off her jacket, the cool air would pinch her nipples. She knew this, and knew that I would notice. That any man would notice. She'd wear a black skirt and her black boots, so just a few inches of her thighs showed creamy and smooth. She knew how and where to draw the eye. She knew that on a hike, she'd get in front and as she slipped in her boots that she wore, knowing they'd slip, that I'd push her up the hills from behind. A carefully planned placement of my hands--not just to feel her butt--but to feel it and not feel any elastic band of underwear. I'd realize this and as we hiked, try to catch any excuse to peek up her skirt. She knew I couldn't see up it unless I lay on the ground looking up, or she sat and opened her legs. She had considered both options and picked her favorite.
We climbed to the top of the hill behind the university. She spread out a blanket, and pulled beer from her backpack. Concealed by scrub brush, we sat and drank. She sat cross-legged. I could just barely see the hint of her body in the shadow of the skirt. She knew I was trying to peek, horny as hell now, and getting drunk. She timed it well. Just enough beers to shake away any reservations, not enough to get drunk, sloppy, or sour. The spring sun soft in the bare brushes, the air warm and smelling of spring and new growth and damp earth. Enough chill in the air to want to feel a warm body against a warm body. "What glorious sun," she said, tilting her head back, the sun flashing on her face, and at the same time, her knees drawing up, her skirt lifting, showing me what I had desired. What she had built up to be desired. And desire I did.
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