Violent gawking engulfs the twisted pink bumps on her breasts, and the mountain range formed by two collar bones houses the hundreds of eyes. Try for a moment to focus on anything but the queen dressed in lust worthy layers of flesh, but look with respect if you must. She will ignore your stares. She dons nothing but a white sequined cowgirl hat resting atop a throne of black hair like silk. Her figure turns shards of beach heat into crystalline light with its beauty, and I must wonder if being an angel is hard. Hidden away in the dunes, I would not know. And though naked bodies fill the sand and the sea, eyes float towards her aphrodisiac body as she dives into the ocean. So many eyes on her. Sequins and all.

Slick lumps upon lumps spill over pink hotel bedding and dangle slim limbs above tile floor. Sleeping skin breathes life into my chest, and I stretch over to cover the small of her back, massaging deep circles into our body, up to the plump morning mouth under post Vegas eyes. Features shaded by a drunken “Vegas Princess” cowgirl hat, rhinestones reflecting my flesh as we sink back on the temporary bed as one. We do not reflect our hotel; we will wake up together for the rest of our lives. My sin city cowgirl.

“Urbanites gone country!” we ring off near the rooftop, scaling fire escapes like barn ladders in western movies where young rebels meet up to first fuck. Clad in Goodwill Hanes, we parade around fire breathing flowers as our mouths speak flames of millennial bulls***. Young dumb and drunk, we stumble through our personal urban jungle, fighting fatigue with our youth. What did we do to deserve such a city? What did we do to deserve each other? Arriving at the edge of our territory, we toss our black cowgirl hats into the moon, like graduating from our San Francisco Saturday night.