Buggy Lust

Buggy Lust

Big Sur coast highway
curves ahead.

You,
sporting white shorts,
bikini top,
brimming pink above,
below and in between.

Full stop.

Hop in.
Veiled lust and
dune buggy dust,
we roar up the road

I finger the shift knob,
gaze at your thighs.
You admire the canyons,
the tall timber.

I crave your
hills and valleys,
a scenic overlook.

Hot dry heat
squeezes moisture
from seams,
trickles down the landscape
between knolls
into navel pool.

We rise up the ridge,
pause in the shade.
No relief from the boiling
building in my loins,
the scorching glow
your flesh exudes.

With finger press,
I test the pinkness
on your thighs.
“Best get you inside”
I suggest.
“And you”, she smiles and sighs.