Before I forget your face.
I told her I thought she was pretty before I wandered off. She was pretty. Pretty so, Bambi so. Prettier still when she smiled at it. Prettier still when I returned. I was flying.
On moonrocks and Queens of the Stone Age wings through the crowd at the Main Stage. Wandering. Because MDMA makes me wander, and moonrocks are a good clean high. Strange to describe really, but I'll try. If I were a knight say, clad in armor head-to-toe, heavy and heaving, and stiff and clanking fine metal, then moonrocks be the squire that strips it all away. Takes the weight off with brave arms, steady arms of capped crystalline powder, off white, almost brown. That's how you know's it's the good stuff. The browner the better. Also the name. I don't trust Molly anymore, as pretty as she is. I just never know what she's hiding, she slut mistress. I'll trust the moon for now, but one thing about drugs, like the moon, they're always changing.
These moon rocks were good though. Muy bueno. Vraiment facile. I held in my mind last night as evidence. Friday was good.
But Stephanie. I still didn't know her name yet, I just knew she was pretty. I'd told her so.
Why? Blame it on the moonrocks. MDMA takes the knight and turns him into the gardener, sewing seeds of delight and and happiness across the plains. This girl in the crowd, on green grass in the long afternoon shade from the stage, she was fertile ground. I don't know how I found her, to be honest, but a good green-thumb just knows. Feels it under his skin, he does. And I felt her, man. I saw it in the way she moved free in the breeze. "You're very pretty," I said to her.
She was. She wasn't short. She wasn't tall either. When I danced next to her, the blonde of her hair brushed my bare shoulders as she threw it to and fro in the dry desert wind. Her skin was the same color, mais tanner. Just slightly so in her face, so that her tiny lips popped pink in my eyes, but her arms were fair. She wore a tight black tank-top and a paint-pattern tight skirt that stopped well above the knees. She had some thin shirt tied around her waist by the long sleeves. Her eyes were green.
Emeralds that smiled at me when I said to her, "You're very pretty." I meant it. She was.
There was a dirtiness too. A part in her little plush pink lips that mirrored my attraction. I think she wanted something. I wanted something too.
"You're very pretty."
She looked down and smiled, and with a rush of red to her cheeks in the late afternoon sun before cutting those greens at me. Bold green. Daring eyes. I had left and come back. I only wanted her. In that moment. Right then, she was everything. And Josh Homme sang us both a rock and roll lullaby. "Dance with me," I said, sliding two fingers into hers.
Red rush. She stepped in front of me, and stepped close. I spun her first though. I played fingers along her silk arms before me. What wonder, this place is. Who are you? "What's your name?" I asked over the roar, lips breathing on her ears.
"Stephanie," she said as I leaned in. She had a way with her hips, Stephanie. Truly. What a gift, was hers.
She danced with closed eyes, biting her lip with concern on her brow, and a hard thrust in her hips, I remember. Jean shorts, white tank-top grinding. The music was sex. The brutal kind that establishes an immediate connection in the sub-reality of everything. Some secret, was hers. She had me. And when she opened her eyes, she wore nervous desiring disbelief.
I sound like a cock, I know. But trust me, in that moment, two hits in and still climbing to the peak, cock's a big part of me. Take that as literally as you'd like to.
"I wanna make out. I wanna make out witchu." I sang to her. She obliged. She obliged in a very full way, in fact. Her friends watched. And we all danced still to rock and roll. Like devil children 'til the lights went out.
"Does anyone ever get this right? I feel. No. Love." It what she said when they sang, and the keys plucked strings with a longer tone.
Salt and Ginger, her skin and her hair. Ginger root more, not red, but that light yellow. With a bite to her, and a lasting sense.
This whole time, her friends just looked at us. Their friend and this flying high man in a big bucket hat and a flowing gold batik scarf. They were younger, sure. That really wasn't important at the moment. It was a passing thought.
On the way, walking to the next stage, the sun was getting low and sharp and harsh. Her beauty more defined. The soft of her skin, with all the tiny hairs in sharp relief. Porcelain fuzz. Tight skin. Hot skin. Fresh skin. Young skin. Pharrell was set to perform at the next stage over.
"Good God, I'm fucking high right now. You're like a sex sunflower, darling."
"What are you on?"
"A couple tags of molly. What about you?"
"Ugh. Nothing."
"That's a pity. Pharrell's going to be beautiful."
"You don't have anymore, do you?"
I looked at her and paused in her eyes, on her face. She blinked twice, three times, four times, each time more deliberately. Her chin rose ever so slightly as she stepped closer and put her hands on my chest. "Please," she mouthed with no sound.
I mean... What's a boy to do.
The plan was to take three that night and really fucking go there, but I only took two. The third, i put between my thumb and my pointer and onto her tongue. I left them in her mouth for not more than a second before she began to suck on them. Then she dragged me into the crowd toward the stage.
Girl on a mission. Man without a plan.
