My god pleasures in deserts. He loves the lights of Las Vegas in the desert—the seediness, the smoke, the greed, the bafflement, the sex—oh the sex: prostitutes, strippers, Madame Volenska’s gypsy girls… But he holds a special place for those who empty the wallets of their Johns—those who take more for themselves. He is no hypocrite. A thief is a thief and he loves them all, whether she’s stealing for drugs or to buy her kid braces—the joy, the love. They remind him of his heart’s desire. “Oh Persuasion, whose joy is in the bed of love,” he whispers to her, lying in a rumpled bed in another corner of the same desert. He calls her Peitho. When he kisses her, he encourages her to take more for herself, to empty his wallet. to suck his soul clean.
He also loves the darkness that surrounds the desert. One day he’ll buy a sports car and a car barn to keep it in somewhere out in the wilds. Coyote’s, his type—sneaky, skinny, fierce, hungry—will pass it by along with the tumbleweeds and jack rabbits so big they could keep a ragged pack alive for a week. The car will be sun yellow or mercury gray, not cheap silver or garish red. He will race it through the night, the motor humming in his core, hand on the gearshift, his dick half hard, rumbling wild in the arms of the Milky Way rather than treading upon them ceremonially in clean, sandaled feet. He’ll speed along the unkept roads until all the world is a flash of brown earth, black mountain, illuminated sky.
The air breathes in the desert and so does my god. It goes there to rest and wander, to spread out and play. To howl. To be quiet. So does my god.