Hey, Pretty

Kyrie suggested we go for a drive in her new 2-door BMW coupe

In the parking lot, we slipped into her bucket seats. Kyrie took over from there.

At nearly 90 miles per hour she zipped us up to that windy edge

Known to some as Mullholland, that sinuous road running the ridge of the Santa Monica Mountains where she then proceeded to pump her vehicle in and out of turns sometimes dropping down to 50 miles per hour, only to immediately gun it back up to 90 again. Fast, slow, fast fast slow. Sometimes a wide turn sometimes a quick one she preferred the tighter ones. The sharp controlled jerks, swinging left to right before driving back to the right. Only so she could do it all over again until after enough speed, and enough wind, and more distance than I had been prepared to expect. Taking me to parts of the city I rarely think of and never visit...

I can't remember the inane things I started babbling about then, I know it didn't really matter, she wasn't listening. She just yanked up on the emergency brake, dropped her seat back, and told me to lie on top of her—on top of those leather pants of hers, extremely expensive leather pants mind you, her hands immediately guiding mine over those soft, slightly oily folds. Positioning my fingers on the shiny metal tab, small and round, like a tear Then murmuring a murmur so inaudible that even though I could feel her lips tremble against my ear, she seemed far, far away. Pinch it, she said, which I did, lightly, until she also said pull it, which I also did, gently parting the teeth, one at a time, down under and beneath, the longest unzipping of my life...

We never even kissed or looked into each other's eyes. Our lips just

trespassed on those inner labyrinths hidden deep within our ears, filled them with the private music of wicked words, hers in many languages, mine in the off color of my only tongue, until as our tones shifted, and our consonants spun and squealed, rattled faster, hesitated, raced harder, syllables soon melting with groans, or moans finding purchase in new words, or old words, or made-up words, until we gathered up our heat and refused to release it, enjoying too much the dark language we had suddenly stumbled upon, craved to, carved to, not a communication really but a channeling of our rumored desires, hers for all I know gone to Black Forests and wolves, mine banging back to a familiar form, that great revenant mystery I still could only hear the shape of, which in spite of our separate lusts and individual cries still continued to drive us deeper into stranger tones, our mutual desire to keep gripping the burn. Fueled by sound, hers screeching, mine...I didn't hear mine, only hers, probably counter-pointing mine

A high pitched cry, then a whisper dropping unexpectedly, to practically 
a bark, a grunt, whatever, no sense anymore, and suddenly no more curves either, just the straightaway
Too bad dark languages rarely survive...