The ripe, sharp scent of burning mesquite misted around her eyes, a gaze that tore down the canyon trees and landed like a hungry kiss on the glittering metropolis below. The night overpowered her; she breathed in deeply, breasts rising in the dusky purple depths above The City, and nipples taut as rope. Stars crested the maroon sky, then faded into rare flashes at the horizon. A massive full moon ascended like a bubble, amidst faint misting clouds. The heat was tropical.
She was a singer. Weren’t all women once? She had the calling of the Siren, a Lorelei, destroyer of men. Circe, sorceress, witch. A voice so steeped in magical chant and ecstatic, holy praise that God Himself would have seduced her just to listen as she reached her climax. In lilting jazzy riffs of moans and little pattering breaths; in low, agonized releases, in snarling, animal howls she was a singer. Awaiting a man to sing to.
Thinking of the man she awaited, often in the nights, her fingers would wind their way along her skin, over the slopes of her hips, to the center of her thighs; wet lips there that clasped at her hands, sucking them in slowly, a sharp twisting grind of her clitoris against the back of her palm. Thinking of the man she awaited, her mind went all Art Deco; herself a goddess draped in velvet and ermine, gigantic embracing hat akimbo, a svelte hound beside her on its studded leash. Thinking of the man she awaited, poetry ranged through her mind like stray remembrances of beauty and desire.
The silence of the night coaxed her voice to echo there. The canyon below was deserted; lightless; promising with deep shadow and revealing with fronds of moonlight.
"Blue..." she sang.
"Blue night in a blue city girl I’ve been known to accept pity...blue."
Somewhere, a man spins her around in his strong arms.