Picture this… A hot desert afternoon, 42 degrees Celsius. You’ve been riding for days in the sweltering sun; the formidable power of your horse between your denim-clad legs. It feels good to stretch out, take your hat off, undo your braids. The breeze in your hair. ‘Good girl,’ you say, as you pat your horse’s sweaty black skin. Sweet, gorgeous ‘Courage’. She is everything. There is no plan, no destiny, just her rhythmic, hypnotizing breathing. You lick your lips and realise how thirsty you are. ‘Ice’, you think.
It becomes a relentless hissing: ‘Ice…ice.. thirsty.. ice..’ There is a tree, some shade! You lay down and unbutton your denim jacket, just enough to admire the curve of your own breasts, enhanced by your push up bra. As soon as you close your eyes, your lips open up. There is a stream of water, cold water. You drink greedily, giving in to shameless sustenance. Then, all of a sudden, you smell his sweat and feel his hot breath on your skin. “Drink from me,” he whispers. You feel your body opening up under the delicious weight of his embrace. The soft yielding qualities of flesh, its warmth, its wetness. Every cell of you is yearning for him. Now he drinks from you, and time becomes abstract. When you wake up, he is gone. You ride into the starry desert night, alone.