Up For Review:
Monsoon
DrSpin requests that we show him no mercy in our comments. In fact, he suggests we pull out our knuckle-dusters.
Big river before, bigger one behind. Rain falls straight and heavy. Stuck, trapped, halted, stripped of purpose. Two days and no way out.
Everything is mud. The unsealed road is slow mud, the river is fast mud. The place in the sky where the sun should be is mud. The queue of cars and trucks is mud-spattered. Tomorrow, fuck it, surely the rain will stop and the bridge will re-emerge, covered in mud, passable perhaps for scarred and bush-bashed vehicles with a high wheel base.
Six vehicles and nine people, sticking in mud and not nearly dry beneath tarpaulins scornfully inadequate for straight-down monsoon rain. After two days mud stinks like rotting animal.
People barely talk. Relentless rain weighs down the shoulders, hunches bodies, turns talk inwards. Nine muddy, morose people grunt occasional acknowledgement, wait for the river to subside, wait for the rain to stop. Mostly they sit in their vehicles and wait.
Suddenly something different. Hoarse shouting, incoherent. A person wearing wet white clothes jerks and lollops down the line of vehicles, waving arms erratically, as mad as a cut snake.
It's a woman, hair plastered to her face. A man follows her in reluctant short bursts, calling out to her. She screams at him defiantly and resumes her dervish dance in the mud of the churned road. He throws his hand at her in a gesture of dismissal. He's had enough of her antics. He heads back to his van at the head of the queue, shoulders hunched, eyes down.
She's shouting at each of the cars as she passes by. The rain has got heavier and she's not making sense. She's performing to a dull audience. Inside their vehicles they watch with mild curiosity but don't try to understand. What's she saying? What's she doing? Christ, when will that fucking rain stop?
She grows desperate, thumping on windows and doors as she dashes past. She stops, lifts her face to the sky as the rain becomes torrential. Her eyes are closed. She gets to the back of the queue, and as she retraces her steps she starts taking off her clothes.
She might be mad but she's not so crazy she'd drop her clothes in the mud. As each item comes off she slings it on the bonnet or roof of a nearby vehicle. A tee shirt, sodden and heavy, slams down on metal with a thud. A bra probably white but rain-soaked grey hooks over an aerial. A skirt is flung over a bull bar. She throws the wet bundle of her pants at a windscreen but her aim is not good and it bounces away and falls off a fender and into the mud.
The woman stands naked in the pelting rain. She clenches her hands into fists and puts them on her hips, stands rebelliously with legs apart, bare feet stuck in mud. She's laughing her head off.
She's not a young woman, nor yet old. She's just a woman of less than medium height, with unremarkable breasts, broad hips and backside, and strong, heavy thighs. In the muddy light of a weakening afternoon she's all-over white, pasty white except for her bushy crotch, two dark nipples, and wild hair stuck in matted strands to her face. Take away the mad eyes and she's just a woman like most.
She resumes her harassment of the vehicles in the queue. She peers and grins into windows, slapping with her hands, flattening her breasts against the glass. She reaches the front of the queue and clambers on the bonnet of the blocky van, laughing and waving at her man. He opens the door but she scrambles off and dashes away. He doesn't follow her. He's had way too much of her in two days.
At the end of the queue but one, the front passenger door of a battered and patched-up four-door sedan hangs open. She plods through the mud, lifting her feet high. She bends down and looks into the open door. She gets into the car and closes the door behind her.
In the car a man sits with the driver's seat pushed back and tilted. His trousers are down to his knees. His cock is hard and he strokes it lazily.
The woman clambers across the seat, dripping water in streams. She takes his hand from his cock and pushes it away. She climbs into his lap, facing him, and wriggles and slides his cock into her so easily they might have been lovers for years.
She bounces on him with fervour and passion, shaking her head and spraying water into his face. Caramel mud from her feet stains the sun-faded upholstery. The man grips at her clammily-cold body. He has dark growth of beard on his face. He is wiry and weather-hardened, a man of remote distance. He snarls with pleasure, and he has a missing front tooth.
She batters her way to a sun-burst climax with outrageous ease and speed. She hangs to him limply, dizzy, stupid, while he pushes and grinds to his own satisfaction. He grunts and lets his head fall back. His mouth hangs open.
She looks at him. He has ratty hair and awful teeth. He looks rough and mean, a man of few manners and little education, a man accustomed to doing it tough and doing it alone.
She lifts herself off him and feels the sticky trickle of semen on the inside of her thigh. She opens the door and falls out of the car and into the mud. She gets to her feet and lets the heavy rain wash her down.
The perfectly ordinary woman walks back down the line of vehicles. She walks slowly, not looking inside them. She collects her skirt, bra, and tee-shirt. She walks to the van at the front of the queue, opens the door, and climbs in.
Somewhere in the queue someone toots a horn. Bip, bip, blare. Another vehicle takes the cue. Horns go off all over the queue.
They stop. The light is dwindling and the rain keeps falling in sheets. Another night by the swollen river. Tomorrow, maybe, the weather will lift and the bridge will open.
ENDS