by Kristin M. Douglas
(09/29/04)

We splashed each other in the run-down resort pool with the broken waterfall. Or rather I splashed him so he'd watch me instead of the curvy brunette leading half-hearted aerobics on the pool deck. All the guests in this tiny resort must have imagined I was his young wife -- but I wasn't. More than once I'd been called Señora Clark or la novia, but I was neither. But it would have been hard to know the truth if you were watching us pull each other's bathing suits towards indecency: we looked like honeymooners. Who am I kidding? We fucked like honeymooners.

I had met him a few months earlier in a little café near school. Americans were rare here. He was another study-abroad student, from some tiny college in Iowa. I'm from the great city of Fresno, which I left as quickly as possible to attend school in Minnesota.

My wavy brown hair and Castilian look helps me pass as native, but that day in the café I'd been reading Gabriel García Márquez in English, enough to betray me as a tourist.

He came over and asked me in English if he could share my table since all the others were taken. I squinted up to see a tall man with a receding hairline, wearing a polo shirt and chinos. He looked like a Republican. He wasn't that attractive, but he didn't seem threatening either, so I shrugged my approval. It would be nice to speak English.

He surprised me by being a leftist. Before long, we were smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, drinking shitty coffee and debating Marx, socialism and how to fix this fucked-up world. He believed the necessity of revolution. The world needs to be taken down and rebuilt, he said. I had more faith in the human condition. Couldn't we just revolutionize the fucked-up parts? Why throw the baby out with the bathwater?

We took ourselves very seriously and kept accidentally on-purpose meeting for discussions on the finer points of revolution, every other afternoon in the little café with plastic chairs and sticky red-checkered vinyl tablecloths. It wasn't long before the shy wife of the owner was pouring our coffee as soon as we sat down.

As we argued about religion as the opiate of the masses he abruptly asked me to visit the coast with him over the weekend. Sucking the stub of his cigarette, maintaining a cool expression, he said he wanted to see the ocean. I looked at him for a few long seconds. He got visibly nervous, which made me wonder if this was meant to be a way of getting me into bed.

What the Hell. I had nothing better to do.

So we hopped a chicken bus to a cheap little hotel by the ocean. The place was straight out of a 70s porno flick, with plastic chairs and an orange-and-green décor. But our room was clean, the twin beds were safely neutral, and there was a nice little patio by the pool where I could watch the sun set over the water. I threw on a tank top and sarong and settled into a hammock to explore more of the general's labyrinth.

I'd barely gotten to the second chapter when he sauntered up to me, handed me a cuba libre and gave me a smirk. "C'mon, they're playing your song. You should dance." I tried to laugh him off but found myself drawn to the magnetic pulse of the merengue. He wouldn't dance with me: he never dances, he says, even when cute women entice him. But I'd taken a few Latin dance classes (and the locals seemed eager to feel my ass during salsa lessons), so I whirled onto the patio dance floor and went for it. At the end of one particularly fast cumbia, I grasped the bar, slimy with sweat, and urged a second tall drink down my throat. He said, "I think we'll liberate you yet!"

"Why thank you!" I exclaimed. I looked at him squarely and said carefully, "I think I've had a lot to drink."

Laughing, he signaled the bartender for another cuba libre. He started talking. I figured out later that when he talks nonstop like that, he's pretty sloshed. His words blurred past my consciousness like cars on a freeway. I could only catch a phrase or two: "She isn't really my type..." "God, I'm just a good for nothing slob next to her, she's practically a saint." "Men, we're all fucking assholes..." "I think I just like sex a lot more than she does...".

That third cuba libre was the tipping point. It made me officially sloppy drunk. Drunk drunk drunk. But it also made me more than a little turned on. All the sweaty dancing and hip shaking had given me ideas. I turned and leaned my shoulder towards him to give what I hoped was a sexy stare. I must have tried to say something, because he shouted, as if from a great distance, "What?" I tried to respond, but couldn't, leaving him to read the look on my face as drunk rather than horny. He slurred together words about getting me to our room and somehow we made it back there and I fell into bed.

Long after midnight an unquenchable thirst roused me. I fumbled the bed stand for my bottle of water with the dim awareness that the tropical air had covered me in sweat. My hair was matted to my neck, tangled over my mouth and face. I peeled the hair off and drained my water bottle. My mouth felt like cotton. I rolled out of the cheap sheets and stumbled to the bathroom to suck on a toothbrush and toothpaste.

A blissful breeze from the ceiling fan caressed me as I made my way back through the dark room. Neither bed was occupied; my brain slowly puzzled out that he wasn't in the room. I padded out to the patio to see if he was there. The cool concrete felt good on the soles of my feet.

He smiled a half smile at me as I emerged from the room. He was perched on a plastic chair, ashing a cigarette into the coffee can. I caught a quick look of lust. But it was quickly gone, replaced by something else: tiredness or weary solitude. He raised his eyebrows at my underwear and tank top and I laughed as I realized that I'd somehow lost my sarong.

"You went to the bathroom and didn't put it back on. I figured you were just going to bed... " He was worried that I wasn't going to believe him.

"I don't really care."

But I did. I wanted him to see me in my underwear. Or without my underwear. I wanted to feel free. I knelt down in front of him. He put his hand on my shoulder and stroked my neck.

"I really can't get involved." he said after taking a drag on his cigarette.

"I know."

"I don't want anything complicated."

"I know."

"I just don't want to hurt her..."

"Shhh..."

I moved to sit on his lap and he folded his arms around me. I rested my chin in the hammock of his neck and then reached my mouth up to lick slowly along his jaw line. I was still drunk, but I found something liberating about the intoxication. I could do no wrong.

He stubbed the cigarette into the coffee can while I sucked on his earlobe. He made a noise somewhere between a growl and a hum, and turned his face to kiss up my throat to my mouth. Our mouths connected and we kissed so that I tasted him, smoky and light. We fused, twining our lips and sucking one another's tongues.

His hand reached along my side and up under my shirt. I was headlong, lost in desire. He pulled suddenly away, looking in my eyes with an intensity I wasn't expecting. I got shy suddenly.

Something became different, more real somehow. He pushed me out of his lap, made me stand up. I wondered if he was trying to stop us, but then he knelt and kissed my stomach. He ran his tongue in a circle around my navel.

I didn't know what to do. A lump of hesitation lodged in my throat. But as the word Stop! was about choke out of my mouth, he moved down to nip at the mound of my panties. The word came out as a moan.

His tongue and teeth played with the cloth that separated him from my increasingly hard clit. The wet fabric was slowly being worked around my button, imprisoning it, holding my pleasure just inside its soaking threads. I was wobbling with desire.

I shifted my weight slightly and he took advantage of my position to lift my leg over his shoulder. I lost balance and caught myself on the plastic table while he kept working at me through the flimsy fabric. I could hear him breathing slowly, as if sniffing fine rum. I looked out at the milky early-morning courtyard, the first light of dawn smearing the sky. He slipped the saliva-wet fabric of my panties aside and plunged his tongue into me.

I made noise. God, I made noise. His tongue and fingers danced inside me, fucked me, strummed me. I didn't want him to stop, ever. He kept licking, up and down, dancing on my clit, slipping his fingers in and out of me.

He stopped and pulled his body up to meet mine. Any equilibrium I'd once possessed was gone. He grabbed me around the waist and threw me awkwardly into the room and onto the sheets. He licked up my leg to my hipbone and pulled my shirt off as he went. I grabbed at him, feeling light-headed and intoxicated.

Pulling his loose shirt and unbuttoning his trousers, I found him so hard that his cock burst through the fly of his boxers. I bent my head to lick the pre-cum from him, reveling in his gasps. I rolled my tongue around his silky smooth hardness, loving its feel between my lips and along the length of my tongue. God, how he moaned.

I could do no wrong. I no longer remembered the Cosmo articles on the right way to suck on his long fat cock. I just wanted to devour him, pull him into my mouth. I wanted this velvet spit-slick mouth fuck never to end. I loved the feel of his losing control, teetering at the brink of coming but desperate to push the moment just a bit further. The musky smell of him made my pussy clench. I stroked him with my hand covered in saliva and pumped until his sounds made me fear he was in pain. I slid up his body and let him cover my stomach with his sticky come as his body jolted in my arms.

He sighed and looked up at me again with that look, those eyes. He was beautiful and dreamy with the relaxation of release, no longer the militant revolutionary. I wanted to fuck him. Desire kindled a fire in my cunt. Rolling to the side, I snaked fingers down between my puffy lips to feel how wet and sticky I'd become. He pulled a pillow up under his head, watching.

I arched my back for him, pushing my breasts into the air, vibrating my clit. I teased my own entrance, slipping just one finger partially inside. His eyes widened and I kept at it, feeling the delicious movements of my finger. I rolled so he could watch me in the clearing light of dawn. As I turned, he reached his lips to my nipple and traced his fingers down my body, across my arms, along my ribs. His lips pulled at the knot at the tip of my breast, teasing and hardening it. I kept strumming my clit. He laced his fingers through mine, feeling me touch myself. I began to moan. He slicked his finger on my wetted thighs and plunged it inside of me.

I sucked in air and curled my body around his hand. I was still vibrating my clit. His finger was as long as a cock, curled inside my body. Kneeling, I began to fuck it, feeling the sliding lips of my labia. He slid another finger in beside it and I could barely breathe.

My intensity grew. He watched, awed.

My spine swayed and trembled. I was coming unhinged; my body trembled, writhed and clutched. I'd been soaked in kerosene and set afire. I could remember nothing but this instant, this fuck.

I burst.

Gasping my release, I collapsed onto him.

When I opened my eyes to see his face, I could taste something new, like an opiate, on my tongue.

I saw beads of sweat on his forehead, pooling the instant before they fell. I touched his heartbeat in my own breastbone. I breathed each blink of his long-lashed eyes. He moistened his lips and I felt his lips moving against his tongue.

We touched each other's faces. When the gravity of being in this place, in this altered state, together, hit us, we smiled. I giggled. So did he. We laughed, looking, riding waves of giddiness. We laughed until our faces were wet with tears and then held each other as we struggled for breath. Then we nestled among the scratchy sheets, sleepy and satiated. I don't remember falling asleep, just waking to feel his body cupping me.

All the next day we were insatiable, high on each other. We rocked our bodies together to start the morning, his cock deep inside me. We then sauntered out into the sea air with the authority of two people who fucked with merely a glance.

We claimed the resort as our own desert island. I fucked him by smelling the tang of his shampoo, he fucked me back with his low vibrating voice. I could feel him in my spine. I could taste him on my lips.

It seemed so simple to never stop, to just keep going in this beautiful constant movement of fuck. It would have been unnatural to stop touching his thigh or to avoid winking across the pool. Laughter was foreplay. Eating lunch was taking all of him inside my mouth and sucking at his hard cock. Swimming was fucking, weightless and untroubled. We talked deeply and felt the pulse of electric attraction between us. We entwined fingers when we had nothing more to say and that was a slow gentle fuck, the kind that takes hours and feels like silk.

That next night was a long beautiful dance. We moved from slow waltzes to joyous merengues and everything in between. Just before deep blue sleep, he nestled his hips between my thighs and propped himself up with his arms. Nudging the tip of his cock between the lips of my cunt, he stayed barely inside me, tense and hovering. Just barely inside. Neither of us moved. For a long moment there was no air to breathe, no sound to hear, nothing to feel or taste. There was nothing but the moment. The barest tips of our sex organs locked us together in pure grace. And in that moment I knew we could never be here again. In the next moment he slid deep inside of me and I came, crashing, like a wave.

Sunday morning arrived. We wordlessly packed our small bags and checked out. It felt desperate but real. Our long bus ride together we spent watching lush rainforest pass us by. The bus let us off near our little café, closed for the evening.

We were headed in opposite directions from there, and so found ourselves standing awkwardly looking at the tilted "cerrado" sign in the window. He glanced at me and suddenly I felt the weight of existence settling on his shoulders. And we had been so free.

He tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat. I shushed him, gently.

We gave each other a final hug. Our hands had somehow been locked together since we had left the hotel, hours before. With a sigh, we each took a small step apart. As we turned and walked away our fingertips slid apart.

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