Broken People Pt 01 The Goddess

A huge thankyou to Mystress Syren for all her assistance in proofing and editing the "Broken People" story.

Broken People - Part I, The Goddess of Love

On Friday, September 3

rd

, 1971, Stan Lenczewski slept most of the eight-hour flight to KC.

The day before, the two university teams conducting the Cáhita field study held an after-action review. There'd been a similar event when they'd all first arrived in El Paso. Both these gatherings were in their hotel across the parking lot from the airport terminal. It had given the grad students a chance to meet and socialize.

When that final meeting was wrapping up, Marisol Florez and Carmen Peña offered to lead the group over to Juarez for a celebratory dinner. The young women were 'on loan' from two different agencies for the study. Because many of the students lacked sufficient fluency in Spanish, interpreters and coordinators were necessary while the teams were in Mexico.

He thought Marisol was about his age, and to him was by far the prettiest of the two. She was petite, had the most gorgeous smoldering brown eyes, and silky brunette hair. She was like a Hispanic Natalie Wood. When the girls asked who'd go with them to

Chihuahua Charlie's

restaurant, eight or nine team members enthusiastically raised their hands. Stan was among them.

That evening the group walked across the border where the interpreters flagged down two "Suicide Cabs." Marisol took part of the group in one cab, with Carmen and the others following in a second one. Suicide Cabs were panel vans, jam-packed full of people. During the ride it was clearly evident why they'd earned that name. Stan had been one of those half-squatting, bracing his arms against the van roof while they were careening down the streets.

At

Chihuahua Charlie's

, the food and atmosphere were terrific! They moved tables together to accommodate the entire group and Marisol and Carmen got them started by ordering margaritas for everyone. Served in translucent green goblets they were big enough to be used as goldfish bowls. During dinner, Stan downed two more of these huge glasses and thought he might have started a fourth. He vaguely remembered reeling his way to the latrine past dozens of amazing old photos. He recalled seeing images of insurrectos, female soldaerás, kid-soldiers draped with cartridge belts and portraits of Zapatistas, Villistas, Constitutionalists, and Maderistas among others.

Seeing the soldiers' idealistic, and sometimes innocent young faces, struck a chord. "Must have been fifty years or sixty years ago," he thought, wondering if any of them were still alive, and as messed-up as he was from his war.

There were all kinds of high jinks during the meal. For one, the interpreters told the waiters that Dr. Beth Pritchard, the USC professor, was having a birthday. This was just a ruse to have the staff come out singing, and bringing her a small cake with a lit sparkler. Marisol and Carmen told Beth she must blow it out blindfolded. Then a saucer of flour replaced the cake in front of her. Being ignorant of this she blew hard, sending flour all over herself and those nearby. This was all in the name of fun, and everyone thought it was hilarious. Beth was a good sport, laughing along with the rest.

The interpreters also impressed with their incredible stamina, seemingly immune to the tequila. When the dinner was over, the girls led the group wandering around Juarez on foot, and into a little cantina. A band was playing, but to only a couple of customers until the group came in and took it over. Then Marisol and Carmen got on stage. They began singing 'son' and 'mariachi' folk songs which the band already knew how to play.

Some of these ballads were sad, and with all the alcohol, it was making Stan morose. Dr. Pritchard seemed to feel the same. She went to the stage requesting something livelier. Surprisingly, they responded with a rockin' swing tune. She was already moving to the beat, approaching Stan's professor. Taking his hands, Beth coaxed him into dancing.

Transformed by the music, she appeared more youthful and lovely. Beth was a real dancer too, elevating her partner to a nearly equal level. When the song ended there were olé's and applause as the grinning professors bowed. When the band went on energetically, Stan enviously watched other guys from the field study start dancing with Marisol and Carmen.

Barely able to manage the two-step himself, Stan felt paralyzed, awkward, and afraid to join in. All he could do was to sit alone, trying to drink himself under the table.

Long after two in the morning the worn-out, and still inebriated group recrossed the border taking American taxis to the hotel. In one of them, Carmen climbed in the backseat, then Marisol, and Stan followed. The three scrunched in, with him squeezing his arms together to give her room. She was wearing a dark plum-colored miniskirt, her bare thigh plastered up against his. The hot flesh burning into him made Stan want to take her into his arms.

Fighting that urge, he thought to compliment her singing at the cantina. Just then, she turned to Carmen, saying, "¡Dios mío! ¡La pierna de este pendejo está ardiendo. Espero que no intente insinuarse!"

[My God! This asshole's leg is on fire. I hope he doesn't try to insinuate himself (make a pass at me)!]

When he'd been in Mexico, sometimes Stan found it advantageous not letting on he spoke the language. He knew exactly what Marisol was saying about him, but keeping up that pretense, he didn't react.

Back at the hotel with brief goodbyes to the group, Marisol hurried off to her room. It happened she was staying just down the hallway from Stan. As she darted inside, he gave a half-wave, wishing he'd had the guts to try and dance with her. Who knew where it might have gone from there.

The next morning on the airplane, there were empty seats in the very rear. With his hangover and upset stomach Stan moved to one, wanting to smoke and be close to the bathrooms. After weeks living in primitive conditions, having actual toilet paper again was pure bliss.

Worn out--and talked out, he'd spent nearly three months in the state of Sonora. Most of the time in the field he'd been camping rough, or staying as a guest of the Yaqui people. During the study, he'd immersed himself in their society. Listening to their legends, and learning about their native healing practices brought him to reexamine his proposed master's thesis. He realized he'd been too narrowly focused just on the linguistics and missing the social importance of their peyote rituals in healing, on a cultural, communal, and psychological level. It dawned on him that this was a much stronger and more relevant theme, and one he needed to follow and develop.

When he wasn't internally philosophizing, or dozing, he thought about Marisol. It was too bad they hadn't been on the same team. But she was down in Sinaloa with the Mayo people. He didn't yet have the ear to pick up where Marisol came from originally. It wasn't Spain, he was certain of that. Perhaps, Cuba?

"Well shit! No wonder!"

At

Chihuahua Charlie's

, someone said, "Hey, Che! How about passing the chips down here." It was an in-joke, something the team started calling him. No beret--but with his longish hair, scruffy beard, and often wearing his olive-drab field jacket, Stan did resemble Guevara.

If her folks were Miami exiles--no wonder she hated his ass. He couldn't help it if he looked like the infamous revolutionary. Hell, he'd enlisted to

fight

Communism. It didn't matter now, but, my god! She was so stunning! Remembering those eyes of hers, and her lips! Stan wondered if he'd ever meet another girl as beautiful as she was. It reminded him of his Puerto Rican friend's saying, "¡Perro cobarde no chicha en la plaza!"

[A cowardly dog doesn't (brazenly) screw in the [public] square!"]

Well, sure as shit, he'd acted like one with Marisol.

Hours later when the Frontier flight got on the ground, he was one of the last passengers debarking. He then took a shuttle to another of the three KC terminals for catching his connecting flight. Stan knew he looked rough as hell. Felt it too, sweating out the tequila and swearing to himself he'd never touch it again.

Check-in at his gate went pretty quickly, then he walked out to the aircraft. Soon they were taxiing along the apron joining the queue lining up for takeoff. When their turn came the plane was quickly airborne. There was an amplified sensation of flying in the small aircraft, one his stomach didn't appreciate. It reminded him too much of a slick lurching off a hot LZ.

He dozed again, and it didn't seem they'd been in level flight for very long before beginning their descent. The aircraft banked dizzyingly, and down below he saw the curves of the Kaw, and the flat plowed fields around Lawrence's regional airport.

In El Paso, Stan hadn't been certain of what time he'd be getting back. Because of that, it had just seemed better not to ask James for a ride. They'd been dorm roommates as freshmen, and now years later decided to share in renting a house. He'd long known James's thinking processes were very concrete and sequential. James disliked unexpected situations, or the need for rapid improvisation. So, at a bank of payphones, Stan called for a taxi.

Just after sunset, they pulled into his neighborhood. It was in the old part of the town, the houses either small cottages or creaking Victorians, their rooms rented to college students. The house he shared with James was on a backstreet. It had a deep lot running behind it, hemmed with tall cottonwood, oak, and walnut trees.

Thumbing through the wad of pesos in his wallet for greenbacks, he paid the cabby. At the door with duffle and pack hanging from his shoulders, he noticed a jade-green sedan in front of the garage. Naturally, his friend's 'Vette would be inside. Stan had left his old beater of a Jeep parked in the street.

With his hands full, juggling the keys he thought about ringing the bell. James didn't know when he'd be back, and it looked like he had company. He opted to just go in, surprise or no. With his eyes not adjusted to the gloom, a suddenly appearing figure startled him.

Realizing it was a naked girl grinning at him, he blurted out, "Holy shit! Who are you?"

Floating closer the apparition said, "The Goddess of Love! Who are you?"

"I..., I'm Stan...,

I

live here."

She began giggling. "Sorry..., my name's Laura. I was just trying to be funny. Didn't mean to freak you out with that 'goddess stuff."

"Yeah!" His heart still pounding, he said, "um..., Where

is

James?"

"In his room..., asleep, I think. We've been smoking dope and making love all day. I guess he was tired."

"Do you know you're naked?"

"Yes...," she said absently, looking down at herself while cupping her breasts, "I didn't see the point of dressing. Do you want to smoke some dope with me?"

"Well, yeah Laura, I sure do." He suddenly felt the weight of his baggage. "Right now, I wanta dump this stuff, and I really need a shower."

"Oh!" she brightened. "I'll take one with you!"

"The Goddess" followed him upstairs, even helping by carrying his backpack. In his room, she looked with interest at the photos tacked on the walls and the shelves filled with books. Upon seeing Laura, his dick had instantly gotten hard. He was unlacing his boots and stripping as fast as he could. Once free of his clothes, he took her hand, leading her to the bathroom.

Stan cranked the shower going full-blast and, in a few moments, they were in the stall together. She put her arms around him and they began a long, long, kiss.

"Ummm..., she said. "I thought you might be good at that; I was right!"

"You're a wonderful kisser," Stan said, "and you're the most beautiful girl, I've ever seen in my life!"

When she smiled, Stan noticed her irises were fully dilated. So much so he couldn't tell if her eyes were blue or brown.

"I think you're nice looking too. Let's make love after we shower!" Laura said, moving her hips against his groin; his upright cock pressed between them. He kissed her again, their tongues probing. Eventually, she started helping him wash his hair, the shampoo and soap suds making their bodies lusciously slick.

When they'd finished and quickly toweled off, they fell into bed. Stan still couldn't believe what was happening. It seemed another of the peyote hallucinations like he'd had with the Yaquis. But Laura was so real. Her body warm, skin so soft and smooth and she tasted delicious. Opening her legs, his penis easily entered as they both moaned with pleasure. He forced himself to try and hold back, he wanted to make it last. Their hands roamed freely over each other, touching--the thrill of it, exquisite. Her hard nipples were boring into his furry chest, and she rubbed herself against him like a cat.

With every nerve seemingly sensitized, their movements quickened, striving towards climax. They came together shuddering as he jetted, their voices joined in cries of pleasure.

Later, when Stan awoke, she was gone.

Pawing through his dresser drawers, he found a clean pair of old jeans, and a sweatshirt to pull on. Starting downstairs, he caught the scent of wood smoke. In the living room, logs were burning in the fireplace and James and Laura were snuggling in front of it. Their nude bodies half-covered with a knitted Afghan. She smiled at him--a beatific expression on her lovely face.

"Hello Len-cho-ski," James drawled. "May I introduce Laura? Or have you two met?"

"Um, yes..., she's already welcomed me back."

"I'm sure she did..., Laura's a very friendly girl," he said, arm around her bare shoulder.

She grinned, giggling, "Um-uh."

"What have you been giving her?" Stan demanded.

"A half of a quaalude, PRN--and lots of dick. I know it's very unlike me, but I feel like being generous--up to a limit. I hope you're not going to spoil my vibe, by getting all jealous."

It was a typically proprietary announcement by James. Certainly, Laura should be the one deciding what

she

wanted. Trying to calm himself, he said, "Okay..., I can share something too. How about some Mexican hash?"

"Sure..., that sounds cool. What about you babe?"

"What's hash? I've never had any."

"Hashish..., a more potent form of marijuana," Stan explained.

With adoration in her eyes, she said, "If

you

like it, I wanna try it too!"

"Okay, be back in a minute."

Upon returning he found James and Laura kissing; the Afghan fallen away puddling around them. It was hot in the room, especially so beside the fire. He peeled off his sweatshirt sitting cross-legged beside them. His torso was starkly white, compared to his gaunt tanned face and arms.

From a little matchbox he shook out a square of foil. Unwrapping it disclosed a quarter gram of hashish, the foil scorched from previous uses. Stan molded it over the half-open match tray, pressing it down to hold the chunk. Picking up a burning sliver of wood from the hearth, he lit the make-shift pipe. He then started drawing smoke from the open end of the matchbox.

As he held a toke in his lungs, he passed the pipe to Laura. She'd been watching closely, now repeating the way he'd done it. She'd only held the smoke for a moment, before coughing and trying to catch her breath. She grinned nervously, her eyes tearing. Handing it off to James, he re-lit it, and drew deeply. The three continued sharing the hash down to the last ember.

Slouching back, Stan leaned against the front of an armchair. In the hazy firelight, the amber glow sculpted Laura's body in chiaroscuro. If possible, it made her appear even more incredibly beautiful.

James was now sitting cross-legged too. Laura moved to lay her head back in his lap. He bent down kissing her, their arms entwined. Her legs splayed, allowing Stan's eyes to devour the sight of the slick swollen lips of her gaping vulva. Around her sex, the pubic hair was a fluffy bronze-tinged halo in the flickering firelight.

Seeing Laura with that jerk, and her laying there so lush, so wantonly provocative, it was too much for him.

"He's such a pompous ass!" Stan thought, "I don't get it. Why don't all these gorgeous chicks see right through him--is it just because he happens to be rich and good-looking?"

Unnoticed by the lovers, Stan got up and left, groping through the house and out the kitchen door. The night was balmy, and at the edge of the low platform deck, he sat down. His Salems and zippo were in the front jeans pocket. He fished out a slightly bent cigarette and lit it. The moon, nearly full, cast its silvery light making deep shadows across the overgrown back lot. He could tell James hadn't bothered getting it mowed since he'd left.

After stubbing out his smoke on the stairstep, Stan walked bare-footed out in the grass. He could make out neighboring dwellings in the distance, but no lights were showing anywhere.

Behind him, their house was just as dark. It reminded him of being 'in-country.' When he first came back to the States, it seemed very odd, having all the streets and houses lit up at night. Now in the quiet, he stood looking up at the bright moon and the constellations. He felt very much at peace in that moment.

Stan thought about other places in the world he'd been. Even far from home the night sky held this same moon. Always there, its repetitive cycle consistent for the millions that lived, and the millions yet to be born. It had seemed reassuring that people back home he loved, could share the sight with him.

Meandering further from the house, he heard a voice calling.

"Hey..., wait-up!"

In the moonlight he saw Laura running naked towards him. Holding the Afghan like a cape, it fluttered behind her. In a flash she was in his arms, letting the wrap fall away. Laura's soft full lips were on his as she hugged him tight. Holding her, and knowing she'd followed after him, Stan felt an overwhelming and indescribable joy.

When they had to take a breath from their deep kissing, she said, "Why did you leave? James and I wanted to do a three-way with you!"

Stan's throat seized, making him want to gag.

Didn't she know how he felt? He stared at her thinking it had to be the drugs James was giving her.

"I couldn't Laura..., I can't stand watching him kiss you, and making love to you!"

Now, she was the one who recoiled. "You may think I belong to him, but I don't! I don't want to belong to anyone! I want to live! I want to be free! I want to fuck, and enjoy myself! Can't you understand that?"

"All I know, is that I've never experienced this..., the way I feel about you..., not in my whole life! Laura..., I'm in love with you!"

"Stan! We just met!"

"I don't care about how little--or how much time--it's been! You're the most amazing..., wonderful..., beautiful..., desirable woman I've ever met! I know what I feel is true--I've been hoping and praying you feel the same way about me!"

"Oh Stan!" she said, sighing, and placing her finger on his lips.

"I don't want to hurt you..., I do care for you! Earlier, when we made love..., it was special to me too! But, let's get to know each other better. Let me assure you, I'm not in love with James. I like him, I like being with him, it's fun. But I have zero emotional commitment to him. Okay? I'm trying to make you understand something about myself. Right now, I want to live in the moment!"

Stan almost groaned, there was sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Laura took his hands, drawing him with her as she sank to the ground. She pulled the Afghan over for them to lay on. Snuggling in his arms, she began kissing him again. Their kisses grew deeper, more passionate. She tugged at the button on his jeans, then getting the zipper pulled down. Laura helped slide them from his slim hips, and all the way off. The skin of his penis felt so very soft, the shaft itself becoming rigid with the touch of her fingers.