SEBASTIAN
PLEASURE UNDER THE PALMS
Sun, sea, sand and sex
The whole situation reminded me of one of those Spanish soap operas. Some poor sucker catches his woman cheating on him and he cries passionately "Ah Maria...por que? Por que, Maria!" Except in this case it was Maria who had caught me balls deep in her best friend's cunt. It was no soap opera and Maria wasn't asking why. She was screaming, cursing both of us with that machine gun Spanish that only pissed-off Latinas can muster. I hadn't wanted to hurt her. Hell, in a way it was her fault for coming home early. If she'd kept to her usual schedule the whole ugly scene need never have occurred. And why did she go off shopping and leave me alone with her best friend anyway? We had been together long enough for her to know how weak-willed and oversexed I am. Poor Estelle was cowering in a corner with a sheet clutched to her chin while I was hopping about avoiding flying objects while trying to put my pants on.
I ended up out on the sidewalk with nothing but a flat wallet, my cell phone and the clothes on my back. The few meager possessions I'd had were not worth collecting under the barrage of abuse. I'm no slave to propriety and have used the word fuck as a verb, a noun, an adjective and an adverb but the names Maria spewed don't bear repeating. How easily love can turn to hate.
Maria's face was dominated by the dark intense eyes of her Indio blood. Great legs and a hard saucy ass. She had those apple-sized tits with pointy little nipples that beg to be sucked. She was also a brazen little twist who loved to tease and taunt. Laid out on a towel at the beach I had noticed wisps of pubic hair escaping the crotch of her bikini.
"It looks like you need a little trim down there, baby."
Instead of being embarrassed she spread her legs wide and reached down and twirled that escaped crotch hair. With a wicked little laugh, she humped her pelvis at me. Had it not been for a family of sun-pink tourists with noisy little brats nearby I would have mounted her then and there.
We had gotten together one Saturday night shortly after I arrived in Puerto Rico. It was at a little backwoods chinchoro in Quebrdillas. There was live music and cheap rum. I managed to make myself fascinating enough to be invited home. I'd been snug in her little nest ever since. No rent, great food and plenty of slinky sex.
Now I had fucked myself right out into the cold with a bit of randy foolishness. Maria was remarkable... lithe, tan and sexy, with a great laugh. Now I'd lost her because I couldn't keep my hands off her unremarkable best friend. Of course, it was stupid but we are what we are.
Estelle was a shade lighter than Maria but also Puerto Rican. She's a pleasant peasant of a woman, a smiling simpleton. None too bright but she had that aura of a fecund mare in heat. Great rolling haunches and bobbing breasts barely hidden by thin cheap dresses that accentuated her fat nipples. She came around often to visit Maria. Each time she showed up it raised my prick despite my best efforts to ignore her. The buildup of all those stifled erections had finally overcome my common sense. Maria was out shopping and Estelle was shuffling around the kitchen with me in a chair by the table. She leaned over to wipe away some crumbs and there they were. Those ripe teats and fat nipples jutting hard against the thin fabric. Before I could stop myself I pulled her down on my lap and attacked her lips ravenously. She struggled a bit at first but I got my hand up her dress. She had a thick hairy bush but my fingers soon made their way through to her pleasure pea. It got swampy down there in a hurry and her muffled "No pleases" died away. I kept on diddling her and grabbed a handful of head hair to walk her backward into the bedroom with my tongue still in her mouth. The buttons tore loose from the cheap dress and there was no underwear to deal with. Naked and wetted up she turned out to be one of those urgent ones. Her hand guided me straight in and those meaty legs wrapped around my ass. She was urging me on with her heels and moaning "Rico... Rico Poppi!" That was the scene when Maria appeared in the doorway screaming and the jig was up. Now I was out on my ass with no plan and very little money. Cunts were dangerous. The sharp sexy ones like Maria and the dull simple ones like Estelle. Each and every one of them was dangerous.
That night I slept on a bench in the Pueblo Plaza. I lay down fully expecting to be rousted by the cops but I must have gone unnoticed. They seldom get out of the cruiser unnecessarily these days. I woke up well rested considering but my body knew it had been on boards and my head was a bit crusty. Usually, I'd be rolling over in bed for a "Good morning to you" fuck but I had bitched myself out of that luxury for the foreseeable future.
There is nothing like a hearty breakfast to put a smile on the face of misfortune. Unfortunately, nothing much stirs early on the island and the little cafe across the square was no exception. I took myself down to the beach and watched the sun climb. I just sat on the sand watching the waves roll in and letting the time pass. In another year I'd be able to draw early social security. The check wouldn't be as fat for me as for most. You don't pile up much in the kitty when you spend your working years as an unsuccessful writer. Anyone who spends their life writing thinks they can write, but success is an elusive bitch. I have published a few travel articles and sold a couple of scripts for video promotions. I have 40 years' worth of unpublished pages and polite rejection slips. In a briefcase full of implausible plots and written rants. A collection only valuable to me and thankfully I hadn't kept it at Maria's. It was safe and sound in the soul food kitchen of Chef Jeff down at Jobo's beach.
Instead of giving up the dream and building a career to retire from I continued to type. Only when starving did I skip from one square nowhere job to another. This and that, mostly under the table. I should have plenty of stuff in print. Mine is better than a lot of the successful stuff out there. Maybe I should have invented a kick-ass anti-hero. A cool stud for the violent vicarious fantasies of frustrated readers. A sexy James Bond motherfucker who could kick the shit out of five ugly thugs single-handedly and then charm Queen Elizabeth into giving him a blowjob. I could change a few names and write the same story over and over. Lethal Cock 1 and then Lethal Cock 2. Just feed the franchise and trot to the bank.
Eventually, I was sitting rather dejectedly at a table. My wallet was too thin to bother with the menu. Instead, I was staring at the crust of some toast. I was saving it for last and sipping the dregs of a third coffee. The waitress had developed an air of impatience as if it was time for me to move on and make room for someone who might leave a tip.
I was mulling over the list of whatever friends I could claim after a mere year of acquaintance. I was trying to decide which one might be good for a little touch. It was a short list. As the names rolled through my head I found that I owed most of them a little something already. I couldn't go to Chef Jeff. He was already good enough to front me a meal on the cuff when necessary. Then I thought of Harry. His place was only a few streets off the plaza.
We had worked together doing inventory at a truck warehouse. Just another one of those dead-end jobs. At least it had been for me. Harry still worked there as far as I knew. He was one of those easygoing sorts who didn't expect much out of life. I'd been to his place once, a small second-floor apartment in one of those crammed together row houses.
Harry was one of those guys who liked to drone on about the details of his existence. Only when he mentioned that he lived with his
spinster sister did my ears perk up. Any word of a stray woman always caught my attention so I'd gone home with him. I figured she must be bored out of her skull spending lonely nights listening to Harry and since she was unattached why not have a look?
She had hardly shown herself during my visit. All I'd gotten from the trip was the bland dinner she served before disappearing into the gloom.
All these shoulder to shoulder buildings are much alike. It would have been impossible to tell them apart had it not been that each wore a coat of three bright colors. It cheered up the drab, pock-marked street. I checked the names at the doors just to be sure and there he was - H Snelling - Apt 4. I pressed the button and soon the door buzzed open without even a question. I climbed the stairs from a dim foyer.
