Peppercorn River really was disgusting. It was the kind of place that makes you realize how gross people are. It was originally intended for family recreation I suppose. A fun nature park where dads could throw on some tacky velco sandals and a visor and take their funny-looking kids to float down the river for three bucks a piece while their wives got their nails done or played bridge with their other house-wife friends. But eventually the college kids got wind of it and of course, nothing goes better with beer and weed than bodies of water and a slutty summer's day so it became known throughout the state as the best place to go to get wet and wild.
That's why my friends and I were there. In those days they buses that would take you higher up the barren desert mountain like a covered wagon train. We sat on the leather benches, clutching our black inner tubes, yelling to each other down the narrow tunnel over the sighs and roars of the bus engine. I distinctly remember Stacy's soft, tan shoulder sticking to my tricep and the two circles of hot moisture left behind by her ass-cheeks after she stood up to disembark. I wondered if all girls in bikini bottoms had left behind puddles of sweat like Stacy had and if so, how often the bus people wiped down the leather benches. Probably never.
No comments:
Post a Comment