Redneck Pit Stop

“Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”

The tour de white trash made a redneck pit stop last night. Welcome to the funhouse that materialized.

I came prepared for the night; my past mistakes served as a tutorial on the proper dress code for the tour. I squeezed my burgeoning body – a consequence of the tour’s liquid diet – into ripped jeans and a grey tank top; my stomach emblazoned with an American flag. Middle-America humidity wrapped our bodies in moisture, our skin invariably damp. We drove in silence down a deserted highway, a Black Keys album fluttering in the night air. We had no destination; the GPS babbled incoherent sentences about U-Turns. My feet tapped into the lap of my backseat companion. My hands scratched descriptions of jean creases and retro sneakers into the now soda-stained pages of my journal. It appeared on our right, out of the open windows; there she stood, a lone bar camouflaged by a patch of warehouses and baseball fields.

“Look!” A gang of five fingers shot out the driver window. “Are you telling me you don’t know how to point?” A response made by the female backseat driver sat passenger-side. I jerked upright; my bare feet poised on their toes. “Oh let’s go,” I shouted. Stephen turned “Susan,” our GPS tour guide on silent before her voice could sing sweet songs of warning. “Alright,” he mumbled between chews of sunflower seeds.

We crossed through the heavy pinewood doors (Don't quote me on the wood). The lyrics “save a horse, ride a cowboy” signaled a 'yank' entrance. When we reached the half-moon bar it had skipped to “my lovely lady lumps.” The four exchanged inquisitive glances at the incongruous genres. An attractive “Miller girl” approached us with a sugared smile and valley of cleavage. She offered us a tray piled high with yellow and black covered books: "Promotional Work for Dummies." There was a band on stage; my affinity for musicians pulled at the strings of lust. A thick English accent cleared its throat into the microphone. He stood with legs shoulder width apart, both hands glued to the microphone, his stare fixed on the alcohol lining the shelves behind the bar. I stood paralyzed; a slow drip of perspiration, a vessel of pheromones, rolled down my neck and dropped. I watched it summersault across the floor, a flawless dismount at the foot of the lead singer. We had been in a hurry, chased by eviction from our hotel room, and the need for perfume had slipped my mind; it was a pure dose of my genetic scent, in its most potent form.

The next scene played in slow motion. He stooped to rub the toe of his boot; the drop soaked into his right index finger. His left hand slid across the fret board, the dark red body of the guitar shivered underneath his touch. A deep sigh filled my chest, pouring the path for a chill to walk along my spine, discharging breathe at the hairs on the base of my neck. A shudder pulled my shoulders back and my stomach in. He rubbed his index finger against his thumb smiling. I dug into my thighs, fingernails retracted, and purred. Jacob’s hand rested on my shoulder, “Easy girl.”

We ordered drinks and I rested my chin on the bar under strict orders to keep my eyes averted from the stage. The amps cracked and boots stomped - heralding the beginning of their set. The scratch of his cigarette dried voice called from the stage. I lifted my hair above the dampness of my neck, coiling it around my fingers, and rubbed my ankles together. Turning to Jane my eyes widened, “Oh please?” A trio of head shakes and a flicker of hands gave their approval.

I entered the Miller Lite contest. The participant to receive a tattoo in the most 'unusual' place would be proclaimed winner by the shouts of those affected with perversion. The band was to announce the winner. I hurried to the table, already picking at my bra straps. A man rubbed an ice cube against the backside of a temporary tattoo that rested in between my breasts. He breathed heavy into the crook of my neck as I muzzled my gag reflex.

The brush with a decaying libido had proved worthwhile. I stood next to him, consumed by a swarm of butterflies, cupping my breasts to expose the Miller Lite ink job. He shyly smiled and pulled my shirt back over the tops. Miller wanted to exploit my skin and he wanted to cover it. I was in love.

There was much to be reciprocated, love notes and bodily fluids, but I walked from the stage with my head hung low in loss. The declared winner had grown a Miller Lite brazilian, and my breasts were no match. His eager eyes bore into my back. I am forever a writer at a loss for words, and last night affirmed my reluctance with the spoken word. I knew not what to say as we stood facing one another – his hand on the seam of my shirt. I spent the remainder of the evening under the shoulder of Jane muttering words of regret into her neck. I stood in a corner without light, consoled by shadows, watching as they loaded their gear and drove away – because I am just that creepy.

Another day, another dollar-less, another lonely night.