Barstow, California was named after W. B. Strong–B for Barstow. The place’s a drive-through; no one wants to stay there beyond the ten minutes required to get a few more Bulls, piss and have a cigarette on the way to somewhere else.

I get out of the car and breathe the impossibly hot air–124 degrees Fahrenheit. The wind burns through me and dust clings to my lip gloss. I smile behind the aviators and head into the gas station. I walk through; people are too busy staring at the woman in the hat–Californian B in black, baby–they don’t notice that I’ve cut the line until the door shuts in their faces behind the Stetson.

Walk out, looking over them in their over-sized, faded t-shirts and beat up tennis shoes. I love Americans, even if they always look terrible.

My boyfriend’s waiting for me outside. I take a last puff, drop my cigarette and he puts it out before the heat gust can blow it away. Inside the car, the A/C’s blasting. Jenna Jameson’s comeback flick with Wicked, Hell On Heels is on in all five screens. The short playing features Jenna as a winged version of the White Russian Kahlua ad; she’s being caressed by two fallen angels in raven black feathers. In the background a song reminiscent of Enya plays, creating the most perverse illusion of sanctity a Catholic could lay eyes on. This, of course, makes it my favorite part of the video.

On to Needles, still California, 148 miles east.

When I blow my boyfriend, I use cities as landmarks; Barstow to Needles, estimated hour and forty-five minutes. Ready, set, go.

Some people suck dick because they like to, because it turns them on. Some people do it because they have to. Most are a combination of enjoyment and compromise. I’m in it for the science when I’m on the road. Technique and endurance. The signs dotting the roads and interstates are meters.

You think a lot with a cock in your mouth when it’s not there out of desperate want during an unorchestrated sexual encounter. Thank god for the monstrous things that are American cars. Hunter S. Thompson crossed the desert in 1971 in a Chevrolet Caprice convertible, but it’s 2006 and we’re doing it in a Suburban. God bless American opulence: without it, vehicular oral sex would be a cramped proposition.

Miss Peru: Jimena Elias (photo courtesy Miss Universe)

If you could read anyone’s diary, whose diary would you read? That’s the only question that really matters as I watch the Miss Universe 2007 contestants’ interviews. That question makes them or breaks them for me.

It started with Jimena Elias of Peru. I picked her as a favorite because I’m Peruvian and Peruvians stick together. Then Jimena said she wanted to read Anne Frank’s diary. “Anne Frank was a girl who fought for what she wanted,” she said, “and that stands as a model for youth today.” I began to doubt. Had she actually read Diary of a Young Girl or was she blowing smoke up my ass?

The gimmicks only got worse: Argentina’s Saniela Stucan, Poland’s Dorota Gawron, and Norway’s Kirby Ann Basken all said they’d read their moms’ diaries. Which could be interesting if it wasn’t such an obvious ploy to appear sweet and loving.

Miss Poland: "I love my mom!" (photo courtesy Miss Universe)

And they’re not the only Brady Bunchers: Lugina Cabezas from Ecuador sited her grandmother as the diary-writer she’d love to read, Switzerland’s Christa Rigozzi wanted to read her dad’s diary and Laural Barrett of New Zealand wanted to read her grandfather’s. While their answers were a little more sincere, somehow they still reeked of fake.

Maybe I’m cynical.

I’ll tell you this, though, when France’s Rachel Legrain-Trapani said she would read her brother’s diary, I totally believed her. She said it in a way that added a mischievous element to her already unbearable cuteness.

Miss France: unbearably cute (photo courtesy Miss Universe)

Agni Pratistha Kuswardono of Indonesia said she’d read Hellen Keller’s diary because she’s been through so many obstacles. I hear people talking about her so much recently in the present tense—there must be a movie out or something. Could someone clue everyone in that Hellen Keller’s been dead for over 30 years? Thanks.

Carolina Raven of Aruba, Renata Christian of the US Virgin Islands, Yoanna Henry of St. Lucia and Canada’s Inga Skaya would read Oprah’s diary, which is boring and generic, but at least it’s honest.

Jessica Jordan Burton of Bolivia wants to read Princess Di’s diary because she is such a model citizen, etc, despite being a bulimic headcase. No, she didn’t actually say that, and neither did Natalia Guimaraes of Brazil, or Ana Giorgelashvili of Georgia, or Sorangel Matos Arce of Panama, or Adelaine Chin Ai Nee of Malaysia, or Ly Jonaitis of Venezuela, who also picked her as choice reading.

Jewel Garner, Miss Barbados, is more fun—she would read Queen Elizabeth’s diary, mostly to get all the catty comments that run through her royal head when her family acts up! Rosa Maria Ojeda Cuen, Miss Mexico, wants to get a glimpse of Jackie O’s secrets, because she was so strong and persevering.

Jelena Marcos, Miss Croatia, would read Mother Theresa’s diary because she’s traveled a lot. That’s like saying you want to read Jessica Cutler’s diary because she worked for Senator Mike DeWine. Please. Puja Gupta of India and Massiel Taveras of Dominican Republic, would also read Mother Theresa’s diary, because, according to Massiel, “she’s a woman who gave her life to the poor and those who had nothing and that’s what makes her unique and I want to know what drove her to do this.” That makes more sense. Points for making sense. No points for picking Mother Theresa, though, gimme a break.

(L to R) Miss Croatia, Miss India, Miss Dominican Republic: suck-ups (photos courtesy Miss Universe)

Naemi Monte from Curacao wants to read God’s diary to see how he lives. She couldn’t say she wanted the diary to see how the universe was created or something—she wants to read what God had for breakfast and stuff. Weirder yet is Maria Jose Maldonado Gomez of Paraguay, who says she doesn’t admire anyone like she admires the Lord and she wouldn’t be interested in anyone’s diary but His. Hardcore. Sandra Faro of Mauritius, who also wants God’s diary, is more on the ball when she points to her head and says, “it’s complicated, I want to know what He has in here.” Did Valentina Massi of Italy say she wanted to read the diary of John Paul II, or am I just tripping on God now?

Annelien Coorevits, Miss Belgium, wants to read George W. Bush’s diary—she makes that little face all Europeans make when they mention him, but she won’t say why! Say it or keep your mouth shut, you pussy! Rachel Smith of USA, Nadine Njeim of Lebanon, Rosemary Chileshe of Zambia and Megan Coleman of South Africa want to read Nelson Mandela’s diary. Only Rosemary says she’s actually read anything of his—she’s started to, anyway.

Miss Belgium: pussy (photo courtesy Miss Universe)

Sharn Kenett, Miss Israel, would read the diary of Golda Meir, Israel’s first woman prime minister. The best one for political figures is Singapore’s Jessica Tan, who wants to read Margaret Thatcher’s diary because she’s one of the few female political leaders of our time and she helped England’s economy when she privatized industry, “and Ronald Reagan is one of her fans, so we have to admire her,” Tan concluded with a smile.

Gergana Kochanova, Miss Bulgaria, says screw diaries! She prefers to read tabloids, specifically about Brangelina. Now that’s FABULOUS. Greece’s Doukissa Nomikou, and Slovak Republic’s Lucia Senasiova would also love to get their hands on Angelina Jolie’s secrets.

Polyvia Achilleos from Cyprus would read J-Lo’s diary. Saneita Been from Turks and Caicos wants to read Whitney Houston’s diary because she’s a strong woman. Trinere Lynes, Miss Bahamas, is the gutsiest of them all! She wants to read Michael Jackson’s diary—to get into his head! Yikes! Maria Jeffery, Miss Belize, wants a peek at Bob Marley’s diary to see what he was feeling when he crafted his lyrics. Someone please just get the poor thing stoned!

Miss Philippines, Anna Theresa Licardos, would read Bobbi Brown’s diary because Bobbi Brown once said that make-up should be a part of your face and not stick out and Theresa is dying to know how the makeup artist had this great epiphany.

Xiomara Blandino from Nicaragua and Lisette Rodriguez from El Salvador want to go more profoundly into Frida Kahlo and explore her mysteries. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds hot and I wanna watch.

Miss El Salvadore: kinky (photo courtesy Miss Universe)

In a class all her own, Korea’s Honey Lee doesn’t monkey around—she wants to read primatologist Jane Goodall’s diary.

Riyo Mori from Japan, Wendy Salgado from Honduras, and Meleesea Payne from Guyana all want a piece of Donald Trump’s diary—Meleesea says she digs him because he has an eye for business and for beauty! Go get him, girlfriend! Give us something to read about!

Slovenia’s Tjasa Kokalj declined to pick anyone because there are so many interesting people in the world. Miss Ukraine, Lyudmila Bikmullina, doesn’t want to read anyone’s diary period—“it’s hard enough to get me to read what people want me to read,” she said when asked. Hungary’s beautiful Ildiko Bona doesn’t care whose diary she reads, as long as it’s a “historical person.”

Stephanie Winter of Antigua and Barbuda, Natalia Zabala Arroyo of Spain, and Viktoria Azovskaja of Estonia say they wouldn’t read ANYONE’s diary because diaries are supposed to be private! What’s worse, being a liar or a bore? Zaklina Sojic from Denmark has it down: she’d read all her ex-boyfriends’ diaries to see what they were really up to! Now this is what we can expect from the MySpace generation! Thanks for keeping it real, Zaklina!

Miss Denmark: keeping it real (photo courtesy Miss Universe)

Another child of MySpace is Uruguay’s Giannina Silva, who’d like to read her own diary. I read my own blog ALL the time, too. I TOTALLY think it’s a sign that we are introspective and ever in touch with our cores.

By the time I got to the end of the interviews, I’d seen a ton of eye candy and heard nothing of interest. I’ve been approached to do Miss Universe but I always said no… but maybe I should so we can actually watch something interesting on the TV. I mean, wouldn’t we all rather read an autobiographical account of Mata Hari’s exploits in sex and espionage?! Who’s going to stand up and announce, “I wanted to be a stripper when I was a little girl, but I sold out and became a journalist who takes off her clothes on the job,” if not me?

Mojave Valley Highway. It’s the last leg of the journey between Needles and Bullhead City, Arizona. The place is desolate: there’re more adult bookstores than houses, not a person in sight. If it weren’t for the Harleys parked outside a saloon, passerby’d probably think the place was a ghost town. We find a Wal-Mart.

I jump in a cart and my boyfriend pushes me around the place. He wants to buy me sneakers. “Does this mean I have to wear socks?” I hate socks. He finds me some socks. I will have nothing to do with this plan to attain “comfortable attire.” Nevertheless, I’m amazed they have shoes and socks and just about everything in one store–it’s so American. Everything you could need or want, standardized and shoved into this box-like establishment.

It’s incredible to imagine–fifty years ago, this place didn’t exist. Hell, fifty years ago Sam Walton, the founder of Wal-Mart, was still working at JC Penney.

I’ve decided that I’m a Wal-Mart: a dilettante specializing in cheapening genius and beauty to the point of democracy.

Andy Warhol was right when he talked about the wonder of consumer egalitarianism in this country. You can still watch TV and see a Coke and know that you can have a Coke just like the one Dubya is having, and the one Paris Hilton is having, and the one Bill Gates is having. All Cokes are the same and all Cokes are good, isn’t that what he said? Yes–if we have any sort of a legacy, this is it.

Having procured the sneakers and socks–which I flatly refuse to wear–we hit the hills and find a look-out as we near Laughlin. The population there is less than 10,000, but it’s always buzzing with people: it’s the third most visited casino-destination in Nevada, after Vegas and Reno. From the look-out, we see Casino Drive’s lights reflected on the Colorado River like a little Las Vegas right at our fingertips.

I jump out into the heat to take a picture and have a smoke. My boyfriend comes out and before I can light up, he’s opened the side door of the car and bent me over the back seat.

Low-rise jeans give easy entry: you don’t really have to unbutton or unzip them to get them down. You just tug, whale tail and all, and you’re in.

It’s like we don’t even touch, we just fuck. I need his cock and he needs my cunt. We don’t even have time to moan before it’s over. I feel him tighten inside me after a few savage thrusts and I come. When I come, I send him over the edge. He pulls out–pop shot on my back.

He leans against the side of the car, I get out and, jeans still mid-thigh, light that cigarette.

I understand lust, I understand pain. I do not understand this. Somehow, this is not right, I do not know how to feel about it and it bites me, the way I bite my lower lip when he asks me questions and listens to me speak–the way he said we were forbidden to speak when we met, about who I am, what I do, what I desire from life.

He listens, his eyes enlarging, he tells me he never thought he would meet a woman like me. It wounds me, it somehow makes me feel like less of a woman, though at once, my need to dominate, my silent rebellion rejoices.

I submit to her, become the lead in conversation, we fall into dialectic, arguing politics, economics. He listens as I explain my work on cultural revitalization. He tells me about his own pursuits. He looks tender, I lean over and kiss him.

It’s a kiss that falls out of line, out of place. It cuts me, I want him to slap me across the face, to turn me over and destroy me, unprepared for his engorged penis to plunge into me.

He does neither. So I take him in my mouth, I plunge him into me, down my throat so I cannot breathe or speak any more, or put my lips where they do not belong. He takes a handful of my hair and drives my movements, and I let him, on my knees, in penitence, worshipping everything his.

He releases me and pushes me on my back. He invades me, in quick strokes, and I am ashamed of my need of him that renders him so pleasurable to me. I want him to split me, to break me, I want my pain to contort my face and become his pleasure as my body makes way for him, and only for him.

But he is gentle with me, he kisses my neck, my lips, tells me he likes my pussy. I am pleased he enjoys me, but I want him to be fulfilled, and I feel undeserving of his attentions.

When he pulls out and flips me on my belly, using a single hand under my hips to pull me on my hands and knees and finally rams into me from behind, moaning, I feel complete, useful to him. I moan simultaneously knowing I please my Master.

–

AV Flox is the editor of Sex and the 405 and was the Black Heart staff Bad Ass, in a former life.