PUSS IN BOOTS by anonymous
I hold her hand on the way back to my tent. Her fingers are cold.
This side of camp is quiet. No one is around to see, judge or whisper. It’s a rare moment of serenity unburdened by the opinions of others. The anticipation I feel seems almost vulgar by comparison.
One of my favorite songs is blaring somewhere in the distance. A wink from the universe. This may be the pinnacle of my week.
Once inside the tent with the door zipped shut, our conspiracy feels complete. There’s no particular reason to hurry. But as we kiss, there’s an urgency that derives from an understated truth: We’re on borrowed time.
Burning Man is nearly over. We both sacrificed much to be here. I don’t know if or when I will see her again. But the desert has given us a window that we accept with haste and gratitude.
We roll around on my sleeping bag fully clothed until the kissing unfolds seamlessly in foreplay. Her skin tastes like sweat and playa dust.
I’m flooded with an inexplicable sense of relief when we strip off each other’s clothes.
She leaves her boots on for me.
I take a moment to look at her body and simply bask in what’s in front of me. How did I get this lucky? It’s like I’ve stolen something beautiful from the gods.
My condoms are still linked together along the perforated edges. I accidentally tear open two instead of one.
She tells me to go slow. She says she’s a little afraid. I promise to be gentle.
I click off the overhead light and end whatever shadow theater our silhouettes may be revealing to the outside world.