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The Colorado Columbine has five blue-purple petals. Inside of those is a second set of lighter blue petals. The stamen are a bright yellow contrast. It’s Colorado’s state flower that likes to grow in shaded montane forests. There was a whole patch behind the Greyhound bus stop, that singular white post with the jumping dog sign on top. There was a spot of dead earth beneath it from people sitting on the ground and waiting.
Down below was an open meadow with knee high grass and Horsemint mingled in between. Horsemint is clearly recognizable by its dense heads of tiny purple flowers. Whenever the wind sent waves across the meadow, she’d hold her breath out to wait for the draft to touch her skin. Then, she’d inhale searching for that subtle aroma of oregano to be carried from the Horsemint to her nose. That would make her thing of roadside pizza, particularly the rich tomato paste in between the chewy dough and the layer of cheese. She’d rock a little on top of her blue REI backpacking pack that was packed to the brim and had a Mexican skull bandana tied around the handle.
The surrounding Douglas-fir stand placed the meadow at 6,000 to 9,500 feet. It was hard to see beyond the first row of trees. There was a little rise in topography behind like a hill. Yet, it could have obscured mountains or simply hillside high country. She was deeply inside of Colorado’s nature, like all the other backcountry she had travelled through, the Greyhound service was spotty. A bus would sometimes come 12 or 16 hours late. Who was to tell about the schedule anyway? Every or every other day, a bus usually arrived. Most of the riders were the sketchy and very poor sort that on occasion not only intimidated by presence but also acted out. For her patience and braveness, she only had to pay a few bucks and could reach remote places that nobody thought to visit.
She rolled the orange prescription bottle over in her hand. Her name was written on it with scraggly pharmacist handwriting: Jane Lopez. This was the reason why she was traveling. Every so often, she took a break from immersing herself into the awestriking and vivid experience of traveling to turn inside and reflect. That little orange bottle with the thin plastic that she sometimes wished to crush out of anger and sometimes held delicately for the lifeline that it gave her. She turned the bottle over on its head. There was no sound of pills tumbling on top of each other, that subtle raining sound. There was no weight to it either.
Hypopituitarism had the doctor said – that weird little word with barely any reference on the Internet. She had gone home from the doctor and tried to research it in vain. As far as she knew, she was alone with it. She had always been alone in her life. She was the weird one in school. Weird ailments befell her at random and kept her at home. One day, she had gone to the doctor early before her shift started as a young project manager at a defense contractor. The doctor had run a wide blood panel. He had emigrated from the Netherlands, a very ambitious bastard. She could feel herself being a mere stepping stone for him, another feather of pride to be stuck in his hat. He had a coldness and disregard for her that gave her chills. Yet, like a relentless blood dog, his eyes were full of energy and fire. Something that usually scared her to step out of such a person’s path. Yet, she had his target on her forehead. No matter her blushed or scared face looking to the floor. He had yelled at her, “Get a hold of yourself!”
That morning before the shift, he was calmer. At first, she had felt drawn to him for he had finally warmed up. Though, like any sense in life of a good news, it always was merely the wake ahead of bad news. He had lost interest in her. He had cracked the nut. A quick minute later, she was left alone to realize that her whole life had been explained.
Her pituitary gland didn’t create enough oxytocin. Low oxytocin is a common condition as women go through menopause. However, her oxytocin was so low that basic body function was affected. Oxytocin counteracts adrenaline. Without the break on adrenaline, her blood pressure would spike out of control, sending red rashes all over her body. Her blood sugar went haywire. Also psychologically, it explained a lot. She lacked that warm empathy, the pair bonding that made people have friends. When on occasion a high school mate had hugged her and cried, they’d always silently withdraw because they didn’t feel a warmth and cuddliness from her. Working at her defense contractor, the distant office etiquette had helped her fit in better. Yet, still she was the loner, the passenger in life that observed.
The drug had changed her. Sometimes, seeing a squirrel made her shudder with feminine cries – not the end of the world cries, simply these feeling of being overcome with emotion until all the emotions condenses into big, fat tears running down her face. And there is this elation in her chest, balgat escort that jittery feeling that is so refreshing. After the tears start to clear, her eyes are red, yet there is this feeling of clarity and cleanness. It’s like her soul has been washed clear. The emotions that she is left with are rosy, gentle, and pure.
Oh god and the terrifying life-and-death-emergency room visits are over. Her body is like that of any young woman in her mid-twenties, strong, dependable, and athletic. Her psychologist had her written a disability notice. She needed to be acquainted with her new self. It was too dangerous to let her run a small armada of drones armed to the teeth with hellfire missiles. The psychologist had sent her traveling. So, she had traveled up the Mississippi River through the rural backwaters. She was now traveling to see vast forests.
The one problem with rural travel was that pharmacies were long and far in between. They were also poorly stocked. She had been splitting her oxytocin pills in half to stretch them out. There was a red rash on her neck from the blood pressure rising. She had covered it to avoid freaking out other travelers for disease often traveled among the people of Greyhound. And like her, they simply covered it up. There was no telling what disease was on any given bus.
That fear let to her second problem: Paranoia. Without feeling the cozy safety of oxytocin, anxiety and fear often overcame her. The setting sun, the big, dark forest, and the sole weird other male traveler didn’t help her. She had kept her irrational fears at bay by telling herself that wolves didn’t attack people. There were no brown bears in these parts of Colorado. Yet, her gaze kept lingering at the forest edge searching for a snout to poke out. The rational voice in her head told her that the dark, lonely night would bring up all terrors in her head; she’d have to discount them all.
There was one home remedy to her dilemma: Sex. Sex creates a burst of oxytocin. When she’d be in a hard spot, she’d have sex with random men. As wild and crazy as that sounds, she didn’t pick the shiny stallions of men and have wild sex. She’d pick the young men that nobody noticed.
There was the library in South Dakota. A young man in Khakis had been studying at a desk. Nobody had paid attention to him. Probably nobody ever in his life had paid attention to him. His haircut was a curly $8 cut. He ironed his shirts. He tugged them in. There was nothing cool about him. He was studying an easy book about math suggesting that he was behind in life. Yet, he had kept plugging away, never becoming trouble and never shining.
She had bought him a cup of coffee. They talked about farming equipment. He was too shy to make a move on her or even tease her. After the cup of coffee in the cafeteria, she had taken his hand and walked him to a dark recess in the library. He kept opening and pursing his lips. He was so nervous about holding hands. He was afraid to say the wrong thing. His mind was racing to figure out something to do. She calmly walked him. She knew what was going to go down.
In the dark corner of the library was a beanbag. Probably, the cool kids had found it a great place to sleep and make out. She pushed him down on the beanbag. She took of his shoes, which he let her do tame like a lamb. Then, she lay back with him. Her face was so close to his that intimacy melted both of them. Any boy would have made a move to kiss her lips. He didn’t.
She opened his pants to find the hard penis. When she touched his penis, his face blushed so hard that it turned to a dark purple. Without any introduction, she slipped the penis inside of her. She kissed his lips. She planted his hand under her clothes on her breasts. Her hips started riding his cock. There was no condom because his sperm was part of what triggered her body to produce oxytocin. Heat enveloped them as their bodies were moving with intensity against each other. Then, there was the pulsing of his penis inside her vagina followed by the sense of wetness from his sperm. She waited lying to let the sperm rest inside of her before getting upright.
She gave him a last peck on the cheek before she left. He asked worried, “But did you come?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, which made her sound like the bigger person. Yet, she had gotten what she needed. She could feel her body calming already.
The air felt balmy at the bus stop. It was late summer. The ground and trees had been thoroughly warmed up, which gave the land a stable temperature throughout the night as the stored heat radiated off. With all the nature peace around her, inside of her body was a cacophony of systems going out of balance. As a teenager, the unknown happening to her body was terrifying and made her feel like her last day had come. Now, she knew precisely that there was only one thing wrong with her. And there was one thing to save herself.
She looked over ankara escort at the other traveler who had kept a polite distance. It was more like the distance of a dangerous animal knowing that it had to keep itself at a distance in society.
Dangerous, he had the kind of face that is leathered to show many thin, long parallel lines on his face. The whole skin was overcome with them. He carried a small mustache. His eyes were that of a hardened man, left in the gutter, fought in the train yards, living on food out of garbage cans. There was the terseness that one has to survive the street life to fight and hit when threatened. That readiness for violence was painted on him. He had a chain around his neck with a little bird that looked Native American ornamental. For some reason, it spelt poverty, like he had nothing else, and pride, like he was holding himself with it to show that he was better. On occasion, he had taken a knife out of his backpack. Greyhound travelers had a good share of murderers, rapists, and addicts.
Soiled, there was grime all over his hands. His pants had permanent gray stains that would not even wash out with repeated laundry. She had once seen such a pair of pants in a motel tub. The grime had filled the entire tub with cloudy, grey dirt. When the horsemint’s oregano aroma didn’t waft across the meadow, she could smell him. There was the smell of dirt. There was the smell of armpits. There was the smell of unwashed man. It reminded her of her brother’s room. When he had spent the entire Saturday afternoon wanking off and finally opened the door to sheepishly look if the path to the shower was empty, a whole cloud of that aroma burst out of his room. Her mother had muttered “You pig!” under her breath. With a dash, he disappeared into the bathroom. That scent, no matter how repulsive it was, had always made her feel close to her brother, had made her linger around the hallway when she knew that he’d soon be done.
Mentally unstable, the forty year old man had spent most of the afternoon counting his fingers. On occasion, he’d pause to firmly grip the ringer finger, pull it around like he was making a big point to someone, “You are late on your fourth payment!” Then, there was the time when he had dug around in his nose with passion for easily five minutes. At one point, he had paused knuckle deep with his finger in the nose. His elbow was raised high to reach deep. His lips did a strange dance like he was fighting a sneeze and trying to move his nose just a tad into the right direction. He’d gazed at the booger on his index finger with astonishment and gently poked it with a finger from the other hand to turn it over.
She seized him up. She weighed the danger of her disease against the danger of that man. He was aware of her. He had stolen his glances. She looked at the late sun hurrying her: “Better during the daylight than at night. You have to make a move, or it will get much worse.” She hemmed. Her mind was reluctant to throw her body at that man. Yet, the rational voice in her head told her to strip away the outward and focus on the penis, the sperm, and living. Her emotions made her hesitate. She judged him harshly as no better than a sewer rat. Who knows where he had stuck his penis.
Her hand reached under her t-shirt to reach the clasp of her bra. The seduction had begun. She didn’t consider herself a hot girl. Her height was a little too short for that. Her feet were nubby. She had a little extra speck around her waist. Her eyes looked a little withdrawn and like holes; glasses with big lenses usually covered them. Her hair was curly and simply kept in a ponytail with plenty of locks falling out. Her chest was pretty flat. A man could still grab them and play with them. Her pride were her big, thick, pink nipples, almost the size of a small cherry. She loved having them turned over between pinched fingers. While she wasn’t a looker, her skin was still smooth as that of any girl in her early twenties. Her figure was still taut without any flab. The extra speck around her waist was shaped nicely to make her look more juicy and feminine.
So, her breasts were free under the t-shirt now. Her almost small-cherry-sized nipples were upholding the t-shirt. She took her time showing the black lace bra while she was folding it. While he didn’t look directly, he had taken notice. His movements had become still, still like that of a hunter that is focused on something. She got up to stow her bra away in a side pocket of her pack. That way, she could bent over in his directions. The cutout in the t-shirt gave a deep look at her tits, yes tits, because in that position, they were hanging like cow udders. When standing, the breasts were flat against her chest, a little mound that peaked at about two niches. Bent over, her breasts stretched easily to four inches. The hanging made them skinner, kind of like sucking the air out of a pursed mouth makes the cheeks dimple inward. Was it a bad thing beşevler escort to arouse the stranger who might go out of control?
“What’s your name?” she called over with a friendly, feminine, and self-assured tone.
“Billy. I don’t have any drugs for you,” said the man looking eagerly, yet cagey with his words.
“Why would you think that I want drugs from you?” asked Jane.
“You young broods only talk to a man like me because of drugs. I recognize those big smiles and happy faces that get me excited. You are just trying to butter me up to get them for free. I tell you, I don’t have any drugs,” said that man with a sad, pained tone.
“I’m Jane. I’ve been traveling for four months across the country now. Right now, I’m in search of big forests.”
“I’ve been traveling for about thirty-five years. I ran away from juvie. As long as I stay out of Vermont, they can’t touch me. I’m on my way to Dark Creek to catch a freight train south. It’s much cheaper to travel that way. Though, freight trains don’t run everywhere,” said Billy.
“Want some happy hippos?” asked Jane. Without waiting, she stood up and walked over to him holding a pack of candy in her hands. She sat down next to him. Being able to take in his presence up close, she noticed the blue eyes first. They were washed clear by the sun. They also twitched suggesting an active mind. Being close, she could also smell ass like dirt left at the sphincter after a bowel movement and not wiping enough. The scent touched her brain directly and stirred up rich and conflicting emotions: Disgust, primalness, reminders of her brother, desperate bathrooms, oppression, and raw physicality with a misplaced hint of lust.
“Sure if you have some of my jerky,” he pulled out dirty piece of paper that was wrapped around the dark meat strips. He folded it open. He pinched off a piece and threw it away. “Don’t worry about the mold. The rest is still good.” He looked at her with eager eyes. He certainly wasn’t a poker player. It was very clear that he was testing her. He wanted to see how repulsive he found her. He didn’t believe that she’d eat food that had been in his sweaty pant pocket for days. It reeked of him by now.
“I’m not a big jerky fan,” replied Jane. She paused. She knew that to get her oxytocin, she had to put up with this. She had to force down the gag reflect and take one of these with a smile. Now, she lost her poker face skills as well. She gulped heavily and felt caught and embarrassed about it right away. Then, she reach out with her hand, “Though, I’ll try some.”
Billy watched her with a devilish smile put the jerky in her mouth and move it around with her pink tongue. There was the harsh taste of beef jerky. There was also a lot more in her mouth of what she had been smelling of him. The head being the center of our sense of self, he was right in her center. She was fighting with it. She’d bite down. It was almost like she was wrestling with a part of him inside of her mouth. She had to take him in. She had to open up and accept him. He easily enjoyed the sweet Happy Hippo candy. It was fresh from the store.
“Shall we go for a little walk down to the meadow? We’ve been sitting long enough at the stop. There is no telling if the bus will come at all tonight,” proposed Jane.
“Ah, a young lady likes flowers,” said Billy, almost an air of gentleman perking up in him. Going for a walk and the memory of flowers reminded him of man to woman activities. When she casually grabbed his hand as they turned to walk side by side, he yanked his hand back. “What is that for?”
“Nothing,” she said pretending like it was not a big deal. Billy kept his distance as they scrambled down the embankment of the road and watched her from the corner of his eyes.
“It might be good to sleep down here,” said Billy sharing his expertise. “The earth is softer here to sleep on. Trees to hand kill all the plants on the ground. And the dirt become very hard.”
“Oh, I have a sleeping pad,” she said without thinking. Then, she caught herself. She was betraying her attempt to diminish the differences between the two. “It’s just this old, used mat that I found.”
“You are new to the road. Don’t be embarrassed. Newbies always try to hold onto a pretense of traveling and having a home somewhere. Though, I can tell when they are on the road for so long that their city possessions were out and won’t get replaced. You are one of us long before you dare to admit it to yourself,” rambled Billy.
Jane felt alerted. This was not correct. She had a home. She kept pulling a disability check every months. This was a voyage of self-discovery. However, she also realized a good thing when it was going. That’s what she had wanted him to think to get close to him. Though, it was a little too close for her liking that she thought, she was one of those lost young women who didn’t matter to anyone. She had liked the sense of safety in him believing that if anything happened to her an angry dad would go looking for her and a high powered lawyer would go after him. As the road got out of sight above the meadow, she felt the danger of being alone without protection and help closing in around her.
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