The air conditioning in my modern spaceship-like car is too strong. It dries out my sleep crusted eyes, and the Sahara desert that is happening inside of my nasal passage, so rather than use the A/C I drive with my windows down at all times. During my three AM commute from Mid City to Hollywood, windows down, the inside of my car suddenly becomes very wet.

From what I have seen in my time here, rain is somewhat of an issue for Los Angeles drivers – the issue being that all knowledge of operating a vehicle rushes into the metaphorical flood drains. I use the word metaphorical because LA drains are just a myth. This city has such poor infrastructure that even a mere inch of water backwashes into the streets. Aside from the drivers I love the rain especially because it is such a rare occasion. 

Anytime I am reminded of the drought, I think about the four foot tall Canary Island Pine tree plopped along the side a hike that I often trudge through on some of my more inspired mornings. The sign in front of it reads “May I please have a sip of your water?”. In my first few months of taking this hike I would pour one out for this young sapling. As time has passed this city has hardened my soul and I have grown utter disdain for this glorified shrub. On top of the neediness that is oozing from where sap should flow, the sign’s rhetoric is all wrong. A city full of writers should have produced a better author. In the midst of my drought days, I find myself thinking of this tree often.

As a narcissist, it is very difficult not to tie the California drought to my own personal dry spell. The timing of this rain in particular is something that I am trying my very best not to make about myself, but I do find it intriguing that the drizzling began while the cum that was dripping OUT of the condom and INTO the faux velvet lining of my car’s center console was still warm. 

When I posed the issue of my dry spell to my coworker on the floor of her mid-century 2013 Tumblr girl aesthetic apartment she drunkenly offered me the advice “lower your standards, and the flood gates will open”. I would like to think that I was taking her advice. In actuality, there were no thoughts, only a crowded hot tub and strong hands stroking my inner thigh. 

“So you’re taking me back to your place?” I asked, cheerfully. The tone shifted immediately when he made a sound sucking air through his teeth regretfully.

“I have so much to do, with the camping trip I’m planning this weekend and all – but I’d love to see you again”.

“Okay then, I think we’re done here” is what I said aloud. But instead of getting in my car and driving away I stood still. This was a stillness that has probably only been achieved by the Dalai Lama once or twice on the side of a lush Tibetan mountain. This is a stillness that is only known by Lucy the hominid before the year 1974, and myself in this moment.

My subconscious took the drivers seat and snapped me from the stillness. My subconscious and my vagina must have great communication because they moved in a synchronous way that can only be described by the adjective “horny”. My rationality watches helpless from the passenger seat as I push this random man up against a gaudy mailbox and choke on his sizable tongue. Hands travel hungrily across bodies. A brief conversation about logistics ensues – the resolve being the top of my head getting rammed repeatedly into the seatbelt buckle of my backseat. I feel at peace with the choice I had made to continue the escapade for the .02 seconds that his face was buried in my bush, but once he abandoned that side project for more selfish engagement, I became extremely aware of the late hour and eager to end the encounter. This interaction ends with the words “that was incredible. I’ve only ever cum from a blow job three times” while I hoist my moist skims underwear to my waist on the side of the road.

Sitting in my drivers seat, rationality intact, the humor in the situation hits me all at once. The soundtrack on my drive from mid city to Hollywood consists of only the choppy laughter that I am emitting in my semi-manic state, and the droplets of acid rain that penetrate the interior of my car. The dry spell is over and all I can do is hope that Canary Island Pine tree did not get any rain.