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Shooting Star
Anonymous, 2003
Many years ago in San Diego I met a charming couple and fell into an immediate infatuation with the wife. Star was a lovely artist, and her husband, El Toro, a handsome scientist. Together they made a perfect yin-yang pairing of mind and spirit, and I was so drawn to them that I kept up a sporadic e-mail dialogue, even after they moved to another city far away. There was some thread between us that refused to break. Two years ago I learned they were at Burning Man, but never managed to find them, despite plenty of helpful burner guidance, like: "Yeah, man, I think they're with Gigsville, like, somewhere over there." Afterward, Star and I resolved, by e-mail, to find each other in 2003. When August arrived and our camps were sited, we sent each other details and arranged to meet. Our messages were so dry and matter-of-fact that their very restraint was evidence of a powerful, unstated current below the surface. I wandered into their camp on Tuesday, already dusty from a day on the playa, to find them struggling to erect an overambitious shade structure in the mid-afternoon heat. Star was as beautiful and charming as I remembered, and meeting them again seemed like hugging old friends who had been away for weeks instead of years. That night, we recruited a sweet but decadent schoolteacher from the camp next door, and the four of us ventured out onto the swirl of neon and glitter, sound and fury, flesh and fire that is the nighttime playa. Eventually Star and I found ourselves alone in front of a big outdoor dance club called WOW. El Toro and the teacher had succumbed to the gravitational pull of the dance floor, while Star and I remained outside in a drifting crowd, watching green lasers fan overhead in the smoky playa dust and listening to the pulsing techno music. "Come here, it's cold," I say, pulling her toward me so we can wrap our arms inside each other's coats. Our eyes meet for a long moment, and I lean in and kiss her. Her response shows that she's been waiting for this for as many years as I have. We don't come up for air for a long time. Eventually she puts her head on my shoulder, and we gaze out across the playa. "You know," she says slowly, looking out into the distance, where fire-spinners dance and whirl beneath the Man, "El Toro and I talked about this before coming out here…." My heart begins to beat a little faster. "About what exactly?" "About you." She turns to face me with a steady gaze. "And me." I smile. * * *
Since it was late, and everyone was tired, we decided to meet again the next evening, giving Star and El Toro time to think it over and make sure they both felt right about taking this step. She had explained that they were toying with the idea of an open relationship, and had even engaged in a bit of erotic play with other couples—but I had been chosen as The One to cross the final boundary. I felt deeply honored, and a little awed, by this responsibility. So here we are, the next evening, on the third night of Burning Man. The sun has set, and Star has cooked a mouthwatering steak dinner, and El Toro has plied me with lots of Guinness ale, and I'm sitting back, full and happy, marveling at these wonderful friends and brimming over with emotion at the love that they have shown for each other and for me. Eventually El Toro gives us each a hug and a kiss, then departs with a wry smile, saying over his shoulder "You kids be good." And with that, after six years of waiting, Star and I find ourselves alone and free. She's wearing a sheer white robe with traces of Asian embroidery on the front, and plainly nothing underneath. The sexual tension is humming between us. 
We decide to relax for a while in the Tazii lounge, a huge, beautiful
Moroccan tent which rests at the front of Sanctuary Camp, on the
Esplanade. Inside is a luxurious Moroccan-style chill room, softly
lighted, filled with cushions, low tables, oriental rugs, candles,
lanterns, incense, and tapestries. A DJ spins softly seductive
Trance Planet grooves. Two couples are lying amid pillows in the
corners, whispering, kissing, and languorously touching.Seduced by this atmosphere, Star and I take up a comfortable position on a soft futon near the back wall. We lie back on the embroidered pillows and stretch out together. We’re sipping from a flask of cranberry-flavored goodness and feeling a nice, mellow, sensual buzz. The atmosphere is blissful, and we lie for a long time kissing each other, listening to the music, and basking in the flickering candlelight. After a while—it could have been minutes or hours—three newcomers slip into the tent, gasping in the entryway as they admire its beauty. The last of the three is a strangely beautiful girl, and we all watch as she peels off her knee-high white boots at the door. She is exotic, with olive-gold skin hinting at a mixture of Northern Europe and a dash Spain or Brazil. Her eyes are deep brown, and her skin is tanned to golden perfection, but her face is fair with a faint trace of freckles, framed by straight shoulder-length brown hair. She seems almost impossibly beautiful, with the long, lean body of a model and a glowing, beatific smile on her face. She begins to dance slowly and seductively to the pulsing trance music. She is wearing thigh-high white fishnet stockings and a garter belt. Beneath the garter is a tiny silver G-string over razor-smooth skin. Her blouse is made of metal—a small, woven halter consisting of shiny, silver coins with a fringe of silvery tassels at the edges. It clings and shimmers as she moves. On her head, capping her straight brown hair, is a tall, white, fuzzy, wide-brimmed hat. It’s the perfect contrast to her brown/bronze coloring, and it’s the perfect Burning Man blend of Dr. Seuss and Paris runway fashion. As Star and I watch her from our cushion with undisguised awe, she slowly dances her way over to us. “May I dance for you?” she asks in a purring French accent. “Of course,” we say. “Please, do.” She glides up to the edge of our cushion and begins a slow, slinky, gyrating dance. She occasionally turns away and bends over to give us a view of her gazelle-sleek lines. She peeks at us between her legs and runs a finger along the silver G-string, smiling impishly at us. “You like me to continue?” she asks sweetly. “Please, dance as long as you like,” I say. “Dance all night.” I’m now tracing my fingers along Star’s robe, feeling her pulsing arousal, knowing our dancing girl can see this. “We think you’re beautiful,” says Star. “Please keep dancing.” “You are both so sweet and gorgeous,” she says in that delightful French accent. “May I kiss both of you at the same time?” “Please do,” says Star. I am now convinced that I have sipped too much from that little flask, that I’ve fallen asleep and I’m dreaming. But it certainly feels real as she kneels down on top of us, with her fishnet legs straddling Star’s and mine, and brings her sweet little French mouth down to ours. She smells of vanilla and tastes of musk, and smoke, and the sea. After a long while I pull away and say, “Now I’d just like to watch you two kiss” and they do, while I reach up to stroke the girl's cheek, her neck, and her hair, while her silver coins press down on Star's white robe. Eventually she leans back, still straddling us, the she runs her hands up under her shimmering halter, giving us a glimpse of her small perfect curves before letting her hands slide back down. “May I dance for you some more?” she asks, smiling in a way that suggests she knows the answer. “Of course,” we say. She rises and begins to gyrate again, even more erotically this time—which I would have thought impossible—occasionally tucking her finger inside her G-string or running her hands over her body. I say a silent prayer of thanks to Alexander Shulgin, just in case he deserves part of the credit. “I want to kiss you both again.” She kneels down on us, and three tongues dance together. “Touch me,” she whispers, and although we already were touching her, we are happy to find new ways. We all lie together, kissing and stroking like this, for a deliciously long time. “Now I’m going to dance some more,” she eventually says, “and then I must leave you.” “Please stay,” we plead, as she twirls above us once again. “It is time,” she says, smiling sweetly and sadly. “I must move on. But I adore both of you. You are beautiful and kind, and you have made me feel so good.” “It’s quite mutual,” I say. “But we understand that you must spread your good cheer. Go into the night and warm other hearts.” “I will love you always,” she says kissing us each one last, soft time on the lips. And then she was gone. “Well," says Star. “Well,” I say. “That was something.” “Are you as turned on as I am? Shall we go back to my tent?” “Immediately.” As we are putting on our shoes, I suddenly remember that there are other people in the big Moroccan tent, quietly, languorously watching all of this. Couples smile at us from smoky corners. The DJ, who has been sitting quietly, spinning his web of exotic grooves, smiles at me and says, “None of us will ever forget that.” “Only at Burning Man...” I reply. We both laugh quietly and nod. “Let’s go.” Star is tugging at my hand, eager to get back to her tent, where we lie beneath the artificial moon-glow of her tiny LED necklace, which swings from the roof bathing us in cool blue light, while she does, and I do, and we both do together until the sky begins to grow light. |
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