Photo: J.Robert Williams
Ditchbank [dɪtʃbæŋk], v., to drive to the country, park on the bank of a ditch and have sexual intercourse.
In the small farming town where I grew up, we have this fabulous phenomenon called ditchbanking. Having nothing to do for entertainment, we have a lot of sex. Having no where to go without familial units present, we are forced to have said sex in cars in the country.
You ain’t lived until you’ve been crammed into a small cab, country music crooning late hour love songs, Coors Light cans and shotgun shells at your feet, the smell of cow manure from the local feedlot mixing with essence of Marlboro, your head pounding from hitting the exposed door handle over and over again.
Those were the days.
I lost my virginity, some dignity and a few friends on the banks of ditches. My first kiss with a girl was on a ditchbank. As a farmer’s daughter in a desert, I always appreciated the importance of ditches, but it wasn’t until I started having sex that I realized just how dry my life would be without their banks.
While home for Christmas, a friend and I decided to relive our glory years by going back out yonder for a good ol’ romp. Normally this would have made a front blog news story as soon as it happened, but the emotional torrent surrounding The Wind distracted me just as it did my friends. I was so shocked by having mind blowing emotional sex, I momentarily forgot about the outstanding casual sex I had just days before.
Many apologies and penances to Chevy and Ford, the gods of ditchbanking.
The evening started out, as ditchbanking evenings often do, with a case of beer and a bonfire. Halfway through the beer, BD asked me if I would drive her to get a pack of cigarettes. I agreed on one condition—she smoked them in the country with me. Interpreting my not so subtle code, she happily agreed to my terms and off we rode.
I didn’t know they made Coors Light tall cans in shrink wrapped three packs until BD walked out of the gas station minimart with them.
Picking a particularly promising ditch, we drove along the bank until we were far enough from the main road to not be seen by the granjeros, a Mexican term we use for farm workers who come and check the water at night. After a surprising amount of effort, we opened our three pack, popped our tall cans and drank while staring at the thousands of stars speckled across the moonless sky.
A big fan of astronomy, I took this moment to educate BD on the celestial bodies of the Northern Hemisphere’s December sky at 1 a.m. I barely made it to Mintaka, the western most star in Orion’s belt, before she was topless pressed up against me.
For a large SUV, there was little room to maneuver as we hungrily ripped each other’s clothes off, immediately regretting our decision.
December days in the desert may be warm and welcoming, but nights often hit below freezing and this evening was particularly chilly.
Throwing back on as much of our clothing as sex allowed, we laughingly hopped from seat to seat, position to position, trying to find something that worked. For experienced ditchbankers, we sure were having an amateur’s adventure.
I relinquished control to BD, a dominant top hidden behind a femmesque exterior, and she put me exactly where I needed to be. Curving her fingers in an oh so wonderful arc, she pushed me against the door over and over and over again, taking me just to the edge of bliss.
Not allowing me to go over, she ended our romp with talk of handcuffs and officer outfits the next evening. Disappointed and excited all at once, I put my clothes back on and we headed back to town.
The next day I woke up with a killer cold and heavy breathing was definitely out of the question. I spent the rest of the holidays resting and left Southern California sans orgasm.
I’ve looked for places outside of my valley to ditchbank, but it’s never the same. The sentimental in me misses the sheer country value of it all. Green trees and fresh air are never going to compare with shrubbery and cow manure, no matter how hard I try. So, twice a year, as I make my seasonal pilgrimages home, I celebrate the country in me, pun intended.
I’m glad this year didn’t disappoint.
Blogger Bio: Queerie Bradshaw loves shoes, social justice and sex. Born a farmer's daughter, she believes everyone deserves a good roll in the hay, and feels empowered by her feminine sexuality. She frequently travels both domestically and abroad, exploring women and wine from all regions. Now a law student who dances burlesque on the side, she fights for international rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of good porn. You can follow her on Twitter (twitter.com/QueerieBradshaw) and become a fan of hers on Facebook.