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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: spanish.txt
Authors name: Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
Story title : Spanish Fly
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004. Please
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Spanish Fly
by Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
***
Cantharis Vesicatoria, la mosca española, Spanish fly.
Latin, Spanish and English. Below the noggin, though,
we speak the same. (Fm, ped, bi)
***
AUTHOR'S NOTES
Before we travel to this story's Latin American
setting, let's look at some Latin. You never took it?
No problem; I'm a teacher. (If all you want is a dirty
story, "Vale, idiota", farewell, fool.) Well, OK, I'm
not exactly a Latin teacher.
Remember that mysterious substance you heard whispered
about soon after you began anticipating the joys of
sex? "This boy takes his date parking and she doesn't
want to, so he slips her some Spanish fly without her
knowing. He leaves the car for a minute and comes back
to find that in a frenzy she's impaled herself on the
gearshift!" Neat stuff, you agreed over the cafeteria
table.
But before you buy some, get the real info.
"Spanish fly" isn't a fly at all. It's the dried,
crushed body of the meloid green Cantharis Vesicatoria
blister beetle. (Our first Latin, but just for
biologists.) The active ingredient is the terpene
cantharidin, which can blister human skin. Spanish fly
was used in the 1800's to treat pleurisy. Applied to
the chest, 12 by 6 inch blisters were thought to draw
liquid from the lungs. In more recent times (and more
legitimately) cantharidin was used to dissolve external
warts.
Severe gastrointestinal pain and nephritis can
accompany ingestion. There were cases of manslaughter
or malicious poisoning by Spanish fly in Victorian
England. In Regina v. Hennah, 1877, the victim didn't
die and the defendant was acquitted for lack of proven
intent.
But back to sex. Ingested cantharidin excreted by the
kidney irritates the urinary tract and causes blood to
rush to the crotch area. But the resulting itching does
not whip us into sexual frenzy, guys. There's a
difference between having the hots and getting a rash.
In men, the increased blood flow to the penis can
result in priapism, a sustained, painful erection not
associated with sexual desire. Maybe the folklore's
backwards. Horny women should be giving Spanish fly to
uninterested men.
The fact of the matter is that cantharidin does not
work as a human aphrodisiac, according to a 1989 FDA
report.
But what if you're an insect? (Some guys are.)
"Cantharidin really does seem to function as an
aphrodisiac," for pyrochroid (i.e., "fire-colored",
thank you, Latin) beetles, says Cornell biochemist
Jerrold Meinwald. But entomologists who once suspected
that cantharidin mimics the female sex pheromone were
wrong. The male Neopyrochroa Flabellata beetle feasts
compulsively on meloid carcasses and may even milk
cantharidin from the blister beetle. Why? Because his
sweetheart says so! Before submitting to his advances,
the female Neopyrochroa checks her mate's head gland
for cantharidin and transfers the irritant to her eggs,
protecting them from predation by Coleomegilla Maculata
larvae.
In structural Latin: Cantharidin having been obtained
from Cantharis Vesicatoria, Neopyrochroa Flabellata
defended against Coleomegilla Maculata. (If you've
studied Latin for real, you catch the ablative
absolute, e.g., "Supplies having been received from
Geneva, Caesar defended against the Gauls.")
Perhaps Romans observing the beetle mating drew some
inferences. Probably not, though, as Centurions weren't
much into science.
You human guys will score quicker with booze. Spanish
fly is also a cocktail, an ounce of tequila, an ounce
of Cuarenta y Tres, garnished with cinnamon. Alcohol,
the seduction drug of all cultures! A few related Latin
words:
"Vino" -- You got that one.
"Imbibere" -- Imbibe, not a new word if you read.
"Crapula" -- Well, I didn't say you'd get them all.
Drunkenness.
"Amor" -- Passionate love, same as Spanish. See, you
do know some Latin. More later, if you're interested.
Still want to try ground up bug body? The Web
advertises Spanish fly, "A stimulative extract
guaranteed to put spice in your love life. Want her to
do everything you desire from a fiery, wanton and
willing woman? Try these." Would you trust your credit
card number to such bad writing?
Or how about the 1996 Penthouse advertisement, "Spanish
Fly -- improved with ginseng. Now you can enjoy sex
with anyone you desire, wherever you wish. 2, 3, 4
times a night regardless of your age. Our inert formula
SPANISH FLY will turn-her-on -- gets her motor going --
makes her eager to say YES to your secret desires --
puts her sexually in your power on the double. Works on
young and older women alike. Use secretly or with
partner's knowledge. Works fast! Lasts for hours!
Strong but perfectly safe! Use some yourself!"
Crapola, crapula; pick your language. "Ginseng" is
Mandarin for "man root", due to its shape.
Cantharis Vesicatoria, la mosca española, Spanish fly.
Latin, Spanish and English. But we say, "Libido" the
exact same in ancient Rome, modern Costa Rica and
central Nebraska. Interestingly in Spanish, as it ends
in "o", it's feminine.
OK. Now to my story. (I wouldn't have made you read so
much up front if my plot were just about this girl on
the gearshift.)
EDUCACIÓN GLOBAL
Teaching Social Studies didn't exactly coincide with my
Language Arts licensure but I'd been close. Summer
school "Multiculturalism for Community-Based
Educational Foundations" provided reputedly-different
pedagogical insight than what I'd been fed in
"Multiculturalism for Communication-Based Educational
Foundations". I just resubmitted my old homework with
find-and-replace editing, "Communication" to
"Community. Professors just scan for certain words.
Actually, I found Social Studies rather fun. The
teacher need only stay a few chapters ahead in the text
and the content's more subjective. You can travel many
places. In English, I'd never give high marks to a
woefully-spelled essay, even if the writer were of a
socially protected stylistic heritage. In Social
Studies, however, it's easier to abandon "two" vs.
"too" to the Language Arts faculty and concentrate on
whatever keeps a student engaged. If we do it right,
there's always something.
The EduTour advertisement in NEA Today featured Costa
Rica. So Close in Distance! So Rich in Culture!
"EduTour Travel Professionals arrange all
transportation. EduTour National Professional
Associates accompany local learning modules." All we
National Education Association Professionals need do is
recruit and shepherd the clients. The fact that I speak
passable Spanish seemed like a plus, though the
publicity assured that the Tour Leader needs no
particular tongue.
The ad included enticing "leadership incentives",
ranging from transport/accommodation for recruiting
eight students to an "organizational reimbursement", a
kickback for a bigger party.
Compton Springs Middle School has the affluence for
which EduTour (which also manages such AARP tours as
"English Royalty" and "Parisian Night Life") aims. A
teacher and bevy of wide-eyed Anglo youth would traipse
through Spanish Colonial history, a rain forest, a
working coffee plantation and do "marine biology
exploration", i.e., EduTour provides snorkels. The
students get Spanish conversation lessons, help out in
an orphanage, expand their global citizenship, etc. and
etc. The teacher gets a free ride and minimum wage.
EduTour makes a bundle.
I knew that the route would be choreographed to relieve
us of hard currency. But the kids would at least see a
world not Compton Springs. They'd hear native Spanish
and could practice their uno-dos-tres. EduTour assured
that safe water and sanitary restrooms would always be
at hand. We wouldn't want diarrhea.
EduTour's eye-catching posters (beach scenes for school
notice boards) and safety assurances for parents got me
into recruitment before I'd even decided if I'd go
through with it.
Eighteen students plus one teacher (me) were signed up
for a 14-day Costa Rican adventure before I could take
the posters down.
I'd happily avoid the mantle of "travel expert", though
I'd done a junior semester in the UK. I'd be able to
negotiate my charges through the challenges of
bargaining for castanets and finding restrooms, but I'd
leave the rest to my National Professional Associate, a
professor of indigenous botany or something, I'd
predict.
COSTA RICA
Arriving in San Jose (Costa Rica, please. I wouldn't
lead a tour to California), I was surprised to find my
associate to be Stateside-educated, of my own age,
even. Maybe an inch shorter, a little bit darker and a
super amount pettier. Juanita Flores, BA in Music,
Florida Atlantic University, hadn't assumed that her
North American degree would open opera house doors, but
at least with EduTour she out-earned the going rate for
undiscovered vocalists in Central America. Actually,
there was no rate.
We'd be Juanita's fourth group, she told me as we
waited for our luggage. Tons of luggage. Preparing for
her first group took 26 hours a day because she tried
to be North American. She presumed, for example, that
we might wonder how many species of monkeys there were.
By group three, she'd realized that we weren't
concerned with rainfall depths, preferring a walk
through the flora, hearing how a monkey stole her lunch
when she was little. She'd sized me up pretty well.
"Absolutely no rainfall depths," I agreed, "and, by the
way, you have really lovely eyes."
Juanita seemed pleased to be assigned to an American
who knew enough Spanish to ask where's the bathroom.
She loved my flash cards and would occasionally slip
one in with what she'd call a "local term". "Holly, I
tell you, there are more flautas than bullfighters. Do
I write 'prostitute' or 'whore' on the other side?" I
taught her "hooker".
Group dynamics need to be ascertained.
Who needs a door-bang to get to breakfast? Bethany and
Marie.
Who brought too much makeup? Nicole.
How long for lunch? 35 minutes.
Once you figure out those sorts of things, things march
right along.
By day three, American educator and National
Professional Associate realized that we could eliminate
corporate EduTour, cut the price and come out ahead.
Students are students, my expertise. Costa Rica is
Costa Rica, hers. Just an idea, of course, not for now.
Juanita earned her keep logistically, of course, but
where she really came through was in her (how can I put
this?) personnel management. North American education
certification is pretty North American.
EduTour, in Juanita's mind, didn't know half of what
touring responsibility entailed.
"Grilla's what we call marijuana down here." Me alone,
I'd have had trouble without an associate assuming the
role of guardian. Kids she deemed indiscrete found
nothing for sale. Nada. The sellers assuming that
Juanita wanted a cut -- fair enough in their trade --
were sorely wrong. She wanted smooth sailing under her
watch. Vendors knew that she could point her finger and
Costa Rican police are firm when high-priced EduTourism
is jeopardized by low-life hawkers. Probably firmer
than North Americans care to know.
Take Randall, for instance, tall for fourteen and
already into grass. Juanita let Randall find just a
little. If he smoked it quietly, not at the wrong
times, it worked out. Like I'd have known what to do,
other than to make a scene? I suppose that Juanita just
told Randall the rules and he agreed to abide.
For accommodations we paired up, Juanita and myself
always together. Randall's roommate was Jeff, the kid
least in need of Juanita-type vigilance. Jeff's blond
mop was always at the head of the walkers. Jeff wasn't
looking for drugs. He'd taken two years of Spanish and
would ask directions. He'd look at his watch. Boys his
age can recognize the digits, but few remember their
group's schedule.
Having those two paired, we liked, Jeff's peer-drag on
Randall's potential for predilection. If Jeff bummed a
toke a time or two, nobody (me, anyway) knew. We
weren't baby sitters, for goodness sakes! Juanita would
hear if anything got out of hand.
Thank God for people like Juanita!
So what did she think about me, this North American
teacher? Latin American girls just ask.
"Holly," Juanita ventured after our group's
personalities were assessed and our modus operandi
worked out. "Do you think about some of our boys?"
"All the time," a no-brainer. Good kids, but EduTouring
was more work than seeing them behind desks, 50 minutes
a shot.
"No, I mean about being almost men."
"Like testosterone?" You could see it at the dinner
table. Boasting. Mumbling. Staring at girls' backs,
trying to see their straps.
"Yes, like that. Down here they are more grown up at
this age."
"That's all we need, right?" understanding. "Them
sneaking into our girls' rooms." On that count, I
wasn't too worried. Our girls weren't dumb enough to
get sent home, anyway. We'd told them EduTour policy.
"I was asking more of what you thought."
"I'm not Mother Hen, I guess."
Juanita looked my way, smiling. "One of them felt me,
taking luggage off the bus. Every time he passed a
suitcase, he rubbed his hand."
"You let him?"
Juanita grinned. "To see."
"Who?"
"One guess. He knows I let him smoke."
It was Randall.
AFRODISÍACO
"You guess what Randall bought yesterday?" Juanita and
I were waiting for our bus the next morning. Part of
Juanita's routine, I'd discovered, was visiting with
the venders.
"I'm not sure I want to, señorita. But it better not be
stronger than weed!"
"He wanted Spanish fly, a humorous word for it. We say,
'afrodisíaco'. Anyway, he bought some."
"Spanish fly? For real? Shit! He thinks he's going to
put it the girls' herbal tea or something?" I didn't
know the pharmacology, but everybody's heard the story
about the girl left in the car.
"I don't think."
"What then."
"Maybe my tea," Juanita smiled. I could see her teeth.
The bus honked.
After dinner (the lateness to which we were now
accustomed), we strolled as a group to the central
plaza, our tour elective for cooler evenings. You could
buy coffee if you had caffeine immunity. Juanita did. I
didn't. You could practice your Spanish. Boys could
look macho. Girls could act coy.
Walking to the plaza, Juanita kept giggling at
Randall's juvenile trumpeting. "You saw Radiohead! My
God, really?" she gasped in admiration at a feat of
over-priced ticket purchase. When she caught my look,
she flicked me a grin.
At the plaza, I sat with a couple of the others to
watch the parade. Costa Ricans dress well. Most seemed
to have mobile phones, but I wondered if half their
animated conversations weren't to someone else also
parading.
Randall ambled over to look in a shop window, Adidas
sportswear, and behind him sauntered Juanita, now
chatting about soccer shirts. When the two moved a
little further, I saw Juanita lurch on a cobblestone
and grab Randall's elbow. When I next saw the pair,
heading into the ice cream shop, she was still
attached. There are many ways to be attached, of
course. This was the one dead center on your bosom.
It was exactly 10:00 when Juanita waltzed in the door.
"So what was all that about?" my group-leader question.
She rolled her eyes heavenward. "Having a little fun.
He put a surprise into my Coke. Probably toast crumbs
they sold him, but it doesn't matter. He thought it was
real."
"No way!" knowing exactly what he'd tried.
"So that's what I let him think," Juanita boasted. "I
pretended a little silly and when nobody was looking, I
kissed him!" She looked at me in triumph. "He about
fell down!"
"You're totally crazy, girl! I can say that much in
Spanish. ¡Eres loca, chica! Kissing a student!"
"So, Holly, do you want to know what else?"
"Do I?"
"He kissed me back and touched my breast a little."
"At the plaza?"
"More on the walk home. It's darker."
"You can't, Juanita. EduTour will can you."
"So who tells?" Juanita pretended to be serious,
scanning the room as if we were bugged. "He's mangito
and maybe quinto. Sexy and virgin, new flashcards. Y
soy mas puta que las gallinas. Cluck, cluck," she
beamed.
Hornier than a chicken? "Well you can't!" I ruled.
"He's what, fourteen?"
"Fourteen's too young to joderme? So crude! The best
ways to say are with modismos. Ir a desgastar el
petate. Wear out the sheet. Ir a desvencigar el muelle.
Break the bedsprings." She was giggling.
"It's against the law, even here, I'll bet," I
interrupted.
"Ir a percudir el cochon. Stain the mattress. Ir a
rechinar la cama. Squeak the bed," clapping her hands
in anticipation. "How can it be against the law? He's
giving me the fly!"
There was no sense arguing. I was in charge. Tomorrow
she'd have a clear head, though not for a minute could
I believe her buzz was drug induced. If you want sex,
go sit in the plaza after 10:00, sister, I thought.
But in the morning she was at breakfast before I was
back from the shower. She'd parked herself across from
Randall, looking out the window so he could look down
her neckline. Her breasts, me being her roommate, I
knew to be lovely. High, firm, round. Life's not fair.
If I promised not to open the door if someone knocked,
she'd sleep topless. I figured that pretending not to
look would make it awkward, so I'd not look away.
Juanita didn't seem to mind, and sometimes would
stretch.
Maybe she'd have a firmer grip on her sex life by
dinnertime.
But she didn't. I watched predator (who'd undoubtedly
had his elixir secreted in a pocket) and prey head for
the plaza. Of course, prey was predator also.
I thought they'd gone to the plaza, but she'd found
somewhere more private. Maybe the shuttered shop where
they sold woven blankets, for all I knew. She'd have
known the owner.
When Juanita came in (again at 10:00, not messing with
our group's curfew), her step was lighter. Her teeth
whiter. Her breasts bigger. Some people call it a glow.
"Holly, you aren't mad, are you. I made him very
happy."
"You had sex, right?" She'd not lie, at least.
"Do you know what they mean, 'sobarle el bicho'? I used
my hand first. He liked it, so I took his flower."
His flower! I guess it's the same.
"Oh, Lord!" I wasn't disgusted with the biological
part, especially, though I knew she'd outflanked me. My
associate had done it with my student and I'd let it
happen.
Juanita took my wrist. "Don't be preoccupied, Holly.
I'm a very good at keeping everybody safe, you and
Randall especially."
She gave me a kiss. Not a tortillera thing (not in my
flashcards, but I knew "lesbian"), not the machinegun
double tap done formally, just a kiss like a friend
might give. A friend you trusted.
"Promise?" I asked. I couldn't make time go backwards.
"Prometida."
Juanita pulled an opened box out of her purse.
"Sombreros de Panama, if you ever want to borrow. Bien
seguro." VIVE, the condom brand, came in colors, I saw.
Juanita giggled. "It was too dark for him to see, but I
think it was pink."
Spanish fly and a pink rubber! EduTour's "Parisian
Night Life" is adventure for Midwestern middle-agers
bussed to sham cabarets and served wine in opened
bottles. Not this kind of adventure.
Juanita was still basking. I could tell her it was
stupid, but I couldn't tell her it was bad for her.
Randall either. We're not babysitters.
SER LATINA
"You know, Holly, you're not an apretada, you're just
American," Juanita volunteered a day later. We'd been
sitting on a plaza bench, discussing tomorrow's agenda,
when a group of teenagers approached. I was used to
being observed, conversed with. But this group wasn't
just Costa Rican. In the midst, animatedly engaged in
half-Spanish, half-English, were Randall and Jeff. Each
a bit sheepishly bore a red rose in his teeth.
Newfound comrades egging the two toward us, our two
bowed and presented their flowers, Randall to Juanita
and Jeff to me.
"En sus órdenes," the pair was prodded to declare.
Juanita rose to the occasion. "¡Rosas! ¡Qué
caballeros!" she ruled. "Y hasta las diez," looking at
her watch.
The youth vivad approval and the lot of them dashed
off, probably to show their American friends where to
buy dirty postcards, whatever boys buy. 10:00 curfew,
though.
Juanita and I had effectively struck a managerial
bargain. With her as first mate, the captain's job was
to wear a captain's hat, or in my case, an LL Bean
broad brim. Juanita was having sex; I didn't need to
know much more. In turn, she was keeping the EduTour
ship watertight and on course. Those boys with Randall
and Jeff heard more than, "What gentlemen!" They heard
that someone was watching.
"Apretada? Fill me in." Juanita continued to take
delight in my language interest, wordlists being
different from facility.
"A woman who's tight, how you say it. You're not
actually, even if you have not much sexual experience."
"Hey, I'm experienced." I'd actually done it a number
of times. I liked it, getting ready, the rush, the
afterwards. "A number" is a way of saying you could
count them pretty easily, however.
"No, not that you're a virgin. That you miss some fun."
I stared.
"Like going with young men. In the States I know you
can't enjoy, but Latinas need to have more fun
sometimes."
"You think I'm horny?" Shoot, I was just normal. I'd
just never masturbated with her in the room. An
American wouldn't. As I recall, we called it, "Going
south of the border" when we were kids.
"Why not? You know 'correr', no? Correrse is to feel
yourself running. With a man."
I broke my stare. "But it's not so easy, for me anyway.
You have to get dating and everything."
Juanita touched my elbow. "You have to like him. But
maybe the dating is just a little different. You know
each other. He says you're pretty. You meet him
somewhere."
"If I were Central American, maybe. I just know our bus
driver." Helpful, diligent, nice smile, but what would
we talk about afterwards?
"Sure you do."
"Who?"
Juanita flashed her grin. "The one who knows about me
and Randall. The one who bought you a flower."
It gave me something to think about. I've always
thought about sex. But Jeff? Far too good a kid. I was
far too old. Juanita and Randall made sense because she
was so pretty and he played so near the boundaries. Me
and Jeff? Going to bed?
I didn't push resolving it. Some things you just can't
think through. Jeff was plenty cute, destined for good
things. If he had a crush on me, though, it would be
more of grade-school loyalty, not high-school
sexuality. It's the between-years that are tougher.
He'd be the kind of kid you'd want, though. Grownup
enough to decide. Probably pretty loyal. Not the kind
who'd tell his friends to purchase their awe. Yes, I
admitted to myself, he's the kind with whom you might
pull off a liaison. But what do you call sex with a
minor, other than statutory rape under North American
law?
Not pushing it didn't mean I ignored my student. If
Jeff asked if I wanted a second coffee at breakfast,
sure. He knew how much sugar. If we were walking
together, we were just walking. If he noticed my bra
straps, anybody else could have seen them, too.
No, I didn't push it. It was Juanita who kept it going.
"If you were having fun with Jeff, I could go to their
room and Jeff could come to ours, maybe." So practical!
Not pushing didn't mean not interacting. When the four
of us were ascending the tower stairs of the Colonial
fort, a fall could have been fatal. Juanita thought
nothing of grabbing Randall's arm. So should I have
been foolish and proceeded unaided? It wasn't that much
of my front that wedded itself to him. Descending, it
was automatic. Maybe just a little more of my front, as
it was scary looking downward. It was just the four of
us, nobody looking.
Away from the boys, she said, "Nice!" as if I'd planned
it.
No, I didn't push it. And I wasn't fretting, unlike
Juanita... "Maybe he's not going to ask to go walking.
He should, though. Addressing my unspoken dubiousness,
she answered, "Maybe there's something that helps.
Maybe like fly."
"Are you nuts? Spanish fly?"
Intuitive seduction maybe comes easier to Latinas.
"Every time Randall wants to get me a Coke, you know? I
always let him bring it. He keeps his little powder
ready where I can't see. Then I get a little silly and
we go someplace."
"With your VIVE's, I hope."
She grinned affirmative.
Then it hit me. Deduction, not intuition. "You mean he
gives some to me?"
"Jeff, not Randall. All you have to do is pretend to
feel sexy. Like you are," unassumingly touching my
knee. "Who knows?" she reflected, absently sliding her
fingers inward, then opening the drawer of my bedside
table and leaving a few items from her purse for
insurance.
My knee was still where she'd pulled it.
DROGADA
That evening, Randall and Jeff herded us to the ice
cream shop.
"Cokes?" from Randall. "We're totally dehydrated, you
marched us miles to see the orchids."
"One-half kilometer," corrected stone-faced Juanita.
"They are very rare. You don't have them in America."
When the two returned, drinks proffered on the
deliberately turned tray, I knew. Juanita knew that I
knew, resolutely declaring, "Bottoms up!" I guess she'd
learned "bottoms up" for booze and figured it applied
to soft drinks.
She was leader in the ice cream shop, anyway. I
followed suit. The boys looked at each other in hard-
to-conceal glee.
They say that Coca Cola dissolves coins. Whatever
secret they'd added was masked in the fizz. I'd have
been sure there was nothing, but for the boys'
monitoring. Certainly I felt no rush to copulate.
I'd have said it missed Juanita too, except ten minutes
later, in the midst of a story about a music recital,
she interrupted herself with a pair of sighs, and not
two minutes later turned so her knee, or maybe ever her
foot (I couldn't see) was against Randall. I caught his
wink to Jeff. They both missed her wink to me.
She'd probably just bided the expected ten minutes and
then gone to work. The girl's good.
So what was I to do? I could have done nothing, of
course. Ms. Rennick has immunity to Spanish fly, they'd
figure. Juanita and Randall would slip away and Jeff
would walk me chastely home, what any decent schoolboy
would for a teacher in a foreign country. Sure, that
was my way out.
The four of us chatted a bit more, Juanita casually
inspecting the back of Randall's hand for scratches,
and then, per my prediction, the two excused
themselves. They wanted to see the river at night. Jeff
and I, now lacking the sociability of a foursome,
decided to head back to our pención.
"So many orchids. Did you ever imagine there were so
many?"
It was the cobblestones. They were uneven, a few of
them, anyway. We'd hiked a long way that day already.
When I slipped, Jeff's arm was nearby. Nobody would
see, not that knew us, anyway. I left it there. I'd had
to on the fort stairs, so it wasn't really new.
I don't know what was funny, maybe just us being like
that, nobody knowing us here, but I giggled.
I felt his elbow stiffen and I snuggled a little
against it. I didn't exactly look his way, but I could
tell he was wondering. Maybe he thought so, but it
wasn't Spanish fly that made me snuggle closer.
"Hey, Jeff?"
"What, Ms. Rennick?" I sensed the insecurity, sexual,
mental, being a kid in an adult world.
"I've never seen the river at night, not up close
anyway. Boats with lights." I tried to sound relaxed.
"Wanna go?" Somehow his voice sounded deeper.
"Sure." It would just be one time.
Strolling at least a little like boyfriend-girlfriend,
we'd pass from streetlight to dimness and back to
streetlight. The globes looked Spanish, not American,
though I don't know why there'd be a difference.
In the unlit reaches of our passage, I'd let his elbow
slip over me. Juanita said that it started when she let
Randall brush her.
In the illuminated intersections, Jeff would slide away
enough to show my nipples shadowed on my blouse. Shoot,
some teachers back home say it's their right, as long
as they're covered up. They do it for maybe 150 kids,
half of them boys. I was doing it just for one.
We found bench near where Juanita and Randall were now
making out. They surely saw us. I tried to act
nonchalant, sitting with a student, both of us aware of
his cohort's tongue probably in my cohort's mouth, just
a few benches away. Everybody seemed to act like this
was a place for lovers and a few years' age difference
isn't apparent in the dusk. From the union of their
torsos, they were doing OK. Juanita's far shoulder was
pulled far enough from him to allow exploration, it
that's what Randall was demanding.
Maybe I'd have just sat there, mesmerized by the river
lights, but for Jeff figuring that my intoxication
would be rolling in. Anybody could see what it had done
to Juanita. What could I do when he put his arm around
me but just giggle and lean his direction.
"Can I kiss you, Ms. Rennick? I'd really like to." He
was so polite for not wasting much time. Maybe Randall
said to work fast.
"We shouldn't," I countered, looking toward the other
bench, Randall's arm now around Juanita's chest while
she was doing something to her hair. "But maybe just
one, I guess, if your really want to."
He wasted not a moment. The little kiss that I'd
granted at first, then something squishier which I
didn't object. Maybe he'd been watching his buddy, for
when I turned to better receive, Jeff's hand found my
bust. I've always liked being fondled.
"Umm!" I agreed, more through my nose than my lips,
engaged as they were.
As best I could see over Jeff's shoulder, Juanita and
Randall were touching lower, but nobody else could see
much either. Like Juanita, I wasn't dumb. I'd not let
Jeff undo any buttons. But my blouse, that Central
American handicraft with lots of embroidery, was loose
at the bottom. If we'd face the river, I'd let him
reach up.
This he did, tracing the lace at my bra's top, then
trying to reach in. It works, after a fashion, but
hardly smoothly. I shouldn't acquiesce, I knew, I the
group leader, not just an associate, an American, not a
Costa Rican. But I was supposed to be under the
influence of Spanish fly. That's why it felt to
inevitable, I decided. They were just my breasts, no
big deal for a few-minute fool-around by the river.
"Undo me first," I suggested, leaning forward so he'd
know where. At least he should do it unfettered. Nobody
would be in the lobby if I didn't get re-hooked.
The hooks took him two hands, but he did it. Juanita
couldn't see my back, she explained over breakfast, but
she knew he'd used two hands from watching his elbows.
It took only the briefest pass to push my cups upward.
"That's more comfortable," I encouraged.
Maybe he'd never felt nipples before and he was trying
to catch up. If I weren't supposedly drug-sexed and I
knew he could handle some friendly chastisement, I'd
have said to slow down. Just because you got them big
doesn't mean they're not tender. Jeff had to bounce,
squeeze, even pull. It's not that it really hurt, but
some things are better left at the summit.
On the other hand, had he further attacked when I was
yet weighing things, he'd have made it to my legs.
Juanita and Randall notwithstanding, that's probably
less kosher (Yiddish word now part of us) even on a
Costa Rican park bench, me not needing Spanish fly to
find it compelling. At least Juanita would know how to
extract us from the authorities. "Officer, these are
Americans who spend dollars and are only learning of
Latin romance. I'll escort them to a proper 5-Star."
When I again glanced toward the other bench, they'd
departed. There was another couple, handholding for
starts.
"Jeff," I was breathing heavily, "maybe that's enough."
My skirt was high enough that he'd just have needed no
more of a thumb to reach me. "We do need to respect the
local culture and everything." I pictured myself being
masturbated, that new couple watching.
I'd have expected him to dissuade me, to keep me lip
locked long enough to get his hand inside my knee.
Maybe he sensed that it might have worked, that I'd
have moved my thighs a hint apart. Maybe that worried
him, a lady crazed by Spanish fly. Maybe it didn't
worry him at all, but he didn't want to do it on a park
bench. In any case, rather than again sealing my mouth,
he relaxed his grip on my bosom, "Maybe so. That was
such a great kiss!"
The kiss? A little gust from the river would have blown
my legs apart, other couple there or not!
DECISIÓN
Walking back, I didn't have to pretend. Bra still up, I
let him move up and over for the whole stroll.
Once where it was unlit, I backed against a wall and
let him press me while we kissed. There's equity in
standing body to body, but your adrenalin's high,
knowing that with a few thrusts, he could rape you.
Jeff never would, but these thoughts occur when you're
against a wall. I'd have struggled, but might have
hesitated to call out. And even if he'd forced me, he'd
still have helped me home.
The dueña wasn't in the foyer when we entered the
pención. She'd have seen all the nipple I could muster
and I wouldn't have cared.
"Our secret, right?" winking, but panting inwardly, as
Jeff left me at my door. It was still locked with the
key, not the inside chain. Wherever Juanita and Randall
were was probably private. She'd know who rents what
and Randall wouldn't get the gringo rate.
My wink was what courtship's sometimes about, not
telling everything. This wasn't courtship, of course,
but it was as proximate as a teacher and student would
likely come. My heart was pounding, but don't think it
was mush. It was risky, what we'd done, and risk-taking
exercises your ventricles.
"Our secret," he confirmed, pecking me almost-formally
and, red-faced, turning down the hall. I watched him
put his key in his lock.
I watched him look at his hand, the key apparently not
working as expected. He rattled the door and I could
see it give. Just a chain's worth.
"Randall?" I could hear that much of his whisper.
Communication through the door's partial crack missed
me in detail, but I could sense, if not hear, Jeff's
increasing consternation. Then the door pushed firmly
closed and Jeff was staring at the panel. Randall
didn't want Jeff inside.
Seeing me still watching startled him. "They're in
there, Ms. Rennick," Jeff admitted for the hall to
hear.
My first reaction was a finger to my lips. Teachers
control multitudes with minimal gestures. "Who?" I
mouthed dumbly, not recognizing the connection to my
door being still locked from the hall side. But then
maybe I had too much else on my mind. Too much Spanish
fly? Hardly. It was simpler -- a kid damn near getting
me topless. My bra was still up, even, but my nipples
were gone.
"Both of them," I lip-read. Hearing it snapped the
pieces together.
Shit! In the place where we're staying, even! At least
they're out of sight. Well, Juanita wasn't totally
dumb. Just partially. But what about the walls? Are
they cement? Particleboard? Like it was an
architectural issue? Shit!
I guess I was quite managerial myself, more concerned
about extrication than about wrongness.
But what about Jeff? a thought almost in-loco-parental
(educational Latin for playing Mom). What's he supposed
to do? Sleep in the hall?
I beckoned. Lip reading wouldn't work. "Can you sleep
on somebody else's floor? Just for tonight?"
"And say that Randall is with somebody, even if I don't
say who?" A problem.
I wondered, "Maybe I can get them to get you another
room?"
"Maybe. You'll go waking up the owner?"
Dealing with the dueña is more Juanita's job.
"Maybe you could wait in here," I decided, still
holding my key.
"But that's your room," his logical reluctance.
"And she's in your room," not needing to say who.
By this time I'd forgotten that I'd been bogus Spanish
flied, it that's a verb. I'd almost forgotten, for the
moment, anyway, that we'd been royally making out not a
half-hour earlier. That my hooks were still loose. That
had we not backed off, I'd maybe be sans panties. Who
knows?
But as it was, our predicament was just his being
locked out. Waiting in my room kept people from
knowing.
"You're sure, Ms. Rennick?"
"Just till they finish talking," as if they'd locked
themselves in for conversation.
The room had two beds, two chairs, two tables, two
bedside lamps, one wardrobe and one ceiling fan. The
hall bathroom afforded me a chance to repair my attire.
I wasn't about to show him my underwear.
Jeff sat on a chair, thinking of what? Sex, I suppose.
A start at sex with me, maybe. Randall finishing it off
with Juanita, probably. Boys think about sex a lot.
Girls too, but maybe not so aggressively.
Motionless on the ceiling, a brownish-green gecko paid
us no attention. She'd get her mosquito.
I sat too, rehearsing how to tell Juanita that this
isn't OK. But I knew that what I'd say would come out
of the moment of saying it, not some scripted
pronouncement.
But maybe I sensed something less cerebral than
lecturing when I closed the transom above the doorway.
The clouded glass transluced the hallway light. We
wouldn't want a student running up to the bathroom to
hear Jeff's voice. I hooked the chain. We'd told the
kids not to be targets for prowlers. It's what we'd all
do, this time of night
Of course I thought of the park bench. Stupid letting
it happen, but it ended OK. The Jeff in my room wasn't
the sex-depraved adolescent who'd drugged me
defenseless and assaulted me. He'd done no such thing,
I knew, but it was easier to frame from a victim's
eyes. Juanita and Randall had set him up, was all. I
could blame them instead, but why bother? I'd let it
happen and I was in charge.
So was it even that bad? I wasn't sure. He'd felt me
up; we'd done some kissing. People kiss more down here,
right? He didn't rub anything off me, the thought
almost amusing. I'd stayed in charge, most of the time,
anyway. Had he put his hand on my leg, I'd have
intercepted before he got all the way up. Probably.
When I was against the wall, did I feel his erection?
Geesh! My nipples were out again. Jeff wasn't staring,
or anything rude, but he was looking. Should I do the
arm fold? I might as well put up the "Ha! Caught you
staring" flag. Turn my chair toward the window? It's
the middle of the night, even if I'd open the blinds.
Damn!
Well, they're just nipples he already knows about. I'll
be one of those teachers who doesn't mind.
Pretending not to notice him noticing just made them
harder.
Ten minutes made it obvious that our cohorts'
conversation (or however we were supposed to think of
it) was to be a prolonged communication. (Actually I
predicted it almost exactly. 5:30 AM.)
"Jeff, I'm heading to bed. You can lie on Juanita's if
you want."
"OK."
I pulled the sheet over my skirt and flicked off my
light. He hit his switch in turn.
"Pretty strange," I offered in the semi-darkness.
"Pretty strange," he agreed.
I doubted I'd actually sleep and had the feeling that
he might not either. It was indeed pretty strange.
So it wasn't totally unexpected when, some minutes
later, "Ms. Rennick?" a whisper. If I'd drifted off, I
never would have heard.
"Yeah?"
"Ms. Rennick," I could tell he was facing me. "Ms.
Rennick, what we did wasn't your fault... I made you."
What was he going to say?
He paused, probably weighing how much to reveal. "You
know, got you going." Not much revelation, but that was
OK. These kids probably think that teachers were born
writing lesson plans. One of us reads some book to know
what Health Ed's about.
Do I tell him I knew? Do I tell him his powder was some
rip-off, a big zero? No, he doesn't need to get
confused.
"I just wanted you to know, so you didn't feel bad," he
self-summarized.
I measured my excuse, "We're sort of far from home. We
were careful. Out secret, remember? Don't worry about
it." It would be so cruel for me to now proclaim
remorse.
"OK."
I was the next to break the silence. "Jeff? You're very
sweet." When he didn't answer, I continued, not knowing
where I was going. "It's special when you don't have to
worry about the other person." It was special.
"Ms. Rennick," he weighed, "I didn't want to do
anything wrong."
"I know that." That much was also true. "So if I wanted
to kiss again, you would, right?"
I'd caught him off-guard. "In here?"
"Exactly right here," thumping beside me.
I hardly heard him move, and there he was, lips on
mine. Maybe he thought the Spanish fly was still at
work and forgotten his minute-old apology. I let him
hold a symbolic distance as I coaxed his tongue.
Maybe life's not fair, but Juanita doesn't get
everything!
"Jeff, I put my bra back on, but maybe..." I raised my
back for him to reach.
In familiar territory, he pushed my bra upward, but
shortly realized the ridiculousness my blouse. When he
tugged it to my shoulders, my raised arms said to push
it onward, bra also.
There I was, topless in a room with a ceiling fan, a
gecko and a fourteen-year-old. In bed with him.
I pushed his ear to my ribs. He must have found me
somewhat a pillowy pleasure, listening to my heartbeat,
but after a long moment he was lapping my areola and
then lipping my acorn. I led his free hand to my other,
erect as its sister.
"How did you know I meant kissing me there," pretended
ignorance.
With my free hand, I rubbed Jeff's hair.
CONSUMACIÓN
Lest you rush to label me a pedophile, let me point out
that to the moment of getting topless, I had no scheme.
I just needed a good make-out, what any girl needs now
and then. Had Jeff's door not been chained, I'd have
been basking in my tale of park-bench coquettishness,
enjoying Juanita's accolades. I'd be wondering if she'd
sleep soundly enough for me to bring the recollection
to fruition. Somehow I guessed that Juanita would have
made a point of quickly feigning sleep, her head turned
my way. But she'd never tell.
I'd not planned on having Jeff in here.
If you're out to blame someone, just look down the
hall. Juanita on her back, inciting her lover to mount,
then laughing to make him gallop. His engorgement hers
to savor. Spanish I'd never know.
My knee slid between Jeff's.
Just look down the hall! And I'm not supposed to enjoy
anything because I'm not Spanish?
Jeff was still rubbing his enthralled face into my
ready chest as my thigh wedged higher. On arrival, all
I could first tell was that the lump felt solid. I'd
thought as much against the wall, but it we'd not
really moved. If he didn't want me to know, it was too
late. Save getting out of bed, he'd no recourse.
My skirt had ridden up enough for fan-thunked air to
sweep my panties.
"Jeff, take off your shirt. It's nice." What's worse
than being in bed with a guy wearing a shit?
Shedding his "Viva Costa Rica" souvenir provided him
momentary escape from my thigh, but the thought of
Juanita wanton with Randall drove me to re-engage his
promising erection. Now face-to-face, I read
hesitation, but never retreat. I'd soon know all about
such promise.
Had Jeff been ready mentally (as opposed to physically,
which he surely was), we'd have made love then and
there. I'd missed monitoring some of my own signs, but
I knew I was wet, wet like Juanita. The epitome of
crassness would be fucking with your skirt pulled up,
but I can understand the serendipity.
Jeff's virginal vulnerability provided reprieve. It
took concerted wiggling before his knees locked my leg
to him. I'd like to believe that my butt was a great
thrill, but his cupping seemed directed to help me
better thigh his bulge. Fair enough. Every push that he
liked corresponded to one that worked for me.
I was yet registering that we had tour-group members on
either side. (Naked with a student in Latin America,
there was still some United States teacher here.)
"Super quiet!" I whispered. He sucked my shushing
finger.
I'm sure we weren't a bit silent, but there were
traffic sounds, dogs barking, cafe music to blend into.
And come to think of it, there were probably wear-out-
the-sheet, break-the-bed, stain-the-mattress, squeak-
the-springs sounds everywhere. A Costa Rican summer
night.
I wasn't sure if he'd first realized how high my skirt
was until his hand moved up unimpeded and then down
onto the flesh of my cheek.
"Just a minute," I whispered, pulling away sufficiently
to find the side zipper and dispense with my skirt. I'm
guessing he'd not planned to knead my rump. It just
happened.
I put my cheek on his chest. Guys that age have no body
hair up there. One of his arms I'd immobilized, but the
other was free to protect him from an older woman. But
his hand lay still as mine trailed down his abdomen and
onto his jeans.
Rather than manually claiming what my leg had
conquered, I paused at his belt, retracting the extra
from the loop and pulling outwards until the buckle
disengaged. His heart bounced in my ear. I twisted open
the button, found the zipper tab and slipped it down.
His opened fly revealed lifted white cotton.
"Mosca", the insect, and "bragueta", where a guy opens
to pee, are both "fly" in English. I didn't wonder at
the time, but maybe there's a joke or something here.
This American lady goes into what she takes to be a
Mexican restaurant. "Waiter! Make my soup without
bragueta." (You're supposed to anticipate a fly-in-my-
soup joke, but also know that "hacer la sopa", to make
soup, means oral sex on a woman.) The Mexican: "Si,
señora, mi bragueta esta closed, only my tongue."
(Sorry for the aside. I don't teach Spanish either.)
"Raise your behind," I suggested.
That he did, probably concerned (I think in retrospect)
about being bared in a single swoop. But as I must
admit, never having before disrobed a male with such
command, I was winging it. (Actually, if we're
admitting things, I'd never disrobed a male at all; the
guy always took care of it.) I pushed his jeans off,
leaving him what modesty Haines affords.
I was glad for my own panties. A fourteen-year-old
shouldn't be ogling what's within our labia. Pubic
curls poked where he could see, but I cared less about
external detail.
I lay back beside him, the bed small. Rolling together,
we touched toes to forehead. His Haines found my right
place.
"Ms. Rennick?"
"Mmmum," working his poke into my cotton.
"I've never done this." He thinks I'm assuming
otherwise, I wondered?
"But you want to, right?" the American in me. We allow
choice. Actually, neither Jeff nor I had even said an
intercourse-specific word. . I'm sure Juanita would
entice Randall's haste with all sorts of explicit
verbs.
"I guess." The guy was quivering with arousal, and
that's all he could say? Boys!
"We'll go slow." Juanita would be going slowly because
she really knew how. I'd be going slowly because I
didn't.
"I hope," he swallowed. I guess we both were totally
American.
"You'll do great!" to keep the ball rolling. Actually,
I guessed, I soon would be rolling his balls. I lay my
hand on his hip, knuckles inward, and its back slip to
rest against his hard-on. Again I lacked specific plan.
Had he lain subjectively, I might have masturbated him.
Things can take time when teenagers are involved.
Teachers know this. Once I'd masturbated him, he'd be
more prepared to go further.
And then in other instances, things take hardly any
time at all. What my panties hid proved to be too
tempting. My fingers had hardly crept inside and
snuggled around his cylinder before the side of his
hand found my escaped pubic hair.
He was empowered.
Pulling my waistband out, he slipped through the
tangle. Hesitation was forgotten when I threw my leg
outward. A finger fairly flew into my already-moistened
labia.
"Yes," I said to disparage any residual doubt. And
again we were kissing.
If he'd known absolutely nothing, he'd not have missed.
But every boy his age would know where to proceed. Not
to the clitoris, (that comes with finesse), but to the
mothering vagina. He pushed inward unceremoniously, but
not rudely.
Being finger fucked can quickly get old. Remembering
his nipple-fascination earlier that evening, I'd
probably want to move him along in a bit. No hurry,
though. Would Juanita like the finger, or would she
just want the cock? Both, I'd think.
The hair in his underpants was thinner than that of a
man, but soft in compensation. His penis wasn't large,
but sufficient. (It's not as if I know everything, but
I do know a little. It's known to be bogus that bigger
means better.)
We ceased fondling long enough shed our undies. In the
diffused incandescence, his hair was as blond as that
on his head. Uncovered, his cock looked more man-sized,
darker than his legs.
Assuming the inferior knees-spread position, I left him
nowhere but on top. It's not the best way, but it's
what he would have heard most about.
"Wait, we need something," the tour leader speaking.
"It's in my drawer." I moved him sufficiently to
retrieve what Juanita had left, as conscientious as if
I were counting the group's suitcases for the second
time.
The room was dim enough that he'd not see it was pink.
My deftness surprised me. They say that half the time
you start them the wrong way.
"Now where were we?" pulling him to coitus position as
if our interruption had never been.
Getting him in me went pretty smoothly, me guiding just
at the start. (Why do guys think it's unmanly, or
whatever, for their own hand to guide? We think they
don't touch themselves?) There really wasn't need to do
more than let it slide. What must that feel like for a
guy?
We gave up on the kissing part when he started
stroking, slowly, then picking up speed. Jeff couldn't
have tumbled, my heels wrapped around his calves, my
hands locking his shoulders, but he held me tight just
the same.
Juanita was impaled on Randall's bed the same way I was
on mine -- sweaty, knees apart, to hell with squeaking
springs. Our hips rose together, Juanita's and mine.
The fan was at hurricane setting, but he was still
slipping over me in perspiration. I could always see
the fan, yellow in the transom light, black in the
shadow. It sounds terribly unromantic, but round and
round is part of lovemaking too. I suppose it sounds
unromantic, thinking about another woman, but it made
sense at the time.
Verbal communication was unnecessary, other than to
whisper when it was happening. (I'm sure he came much
earlier, but didn't cease, thank you.) I'd have faked
an orgasm, it being his first time, but didn't need to.
My eyes were scrunched, but I still saw the fan,
something fan-like, anyway, going round and round.
CHICAS
I'd been dreaming about Juanita when Jeff shook my
shoulder. She'd been teaching me words or maybe we were
snorkeling with yellow and black angelfish. Dreams fade
fast when your boy lover has urgency in his jostle.
Someone was tapping at our door. Maybe my dream was
premonition, but I knew the knock to be Juanita. Jeff
lay stiffly, maybe trying to disappear, while I pulled
on my panties. Oh, so hopelessly American! He'd just
fucked me. She'd seen me change dozens of times. And I
still thought I needed to be symbolically dressed!
"That you?"
"Yeah. I'm going to the bathroom now," she whispered
through the crack. She was right, leaving Jeff the
opportunity to slip away unseen. He knew she knew, of
course, but didn't have to parade in front of her. Jeff
needed no instruction, pulling on just his pants and
departing with hardly a goodbye.
When Juanita returned, I was back in bed. So close to
dawn, it wasn't worth finding my pajamas. Sheet against
bosom made it feel like maybe Jeff was still here.
Juanita was wet from the shower, cloaked in just outer
garments. I should have thought to pass her a towel and
her nightgown when we'd whispered. She shed her wrap,
found a towel and dried.
"Nice!" she declared as she did her breasts. Nice what
Randall had done to them? Nice because they were indeed
nice. Nice that I was watching? She roughly toweled her
fuzzy triangle. I'd seen her nude before, of course,
but not touching town there after lovemaking.
"Buenas noches," she offered, close enough that I could
smell the soap that lingered. I could hear the smile.
She rummaged her suitcase for clean panties.
"Buenas noches, amiga. Amigita, I mean." We were better
friends than when the evening started. I was glad I'd
not delivered my "You're-the-associate" speech. Shoot,
I was just glad to have been screwed. It being his
first, I hoped he felt the same, but I must admit, I
was thinking of how it felt.
"It was good, no?"
"Thanks," telling her it was more than just having sex.
It was about me being a little bit Spanish.
Panties yet to be selected, she came to me and bent to
give my cheek a kiss. Had I raised my wrist three
inches, I'd have touched her breast. Maybe that why she
held herself above me, to see when I would.
"Ummh," I confirmed. "Ummh" means "ummh" in all
languages.
"Buena," a second kiss, sweeter, nearer the corner of
my mouth.
I raised my hand. Maybe life isn't fair, but who cares?
She probably wishes she looked Scandinavian. So perfect
was her breast!
"¿Puedo?" she asked, not waiting for affirmation before
slipping onto the mattress and under the sheet.
I let her kiss me again, this time on the mouth, before
turning away so she could cradle me C-style, the front
of her thighs against the rear of mine. I knew if I
turned toward her, she'd know I wanted more kisses.
"Ummh," I confirmed. I wasn't sure why she'd come to my
bed. We'd both just had boys and we weren't lesbians or
anything.
Perhaps she read my mind. "The boy made you not
apretada, no?" I giggled at the "not tight"
literalness. "Now we make you loved."
While she kissed the back of my neck, I pulled her arm
around my chest. It was so natural how she took
control.
"Mi hermanita," touching the lower slope of my breast
in ways unknown to Jeff. Her Latin hand, so relaxing
yet so exhilarating, knew the little sister in me. My
shoulder blades played against perfect nipples. She was
embracing me in her own excitement, too.
My panties she never removed, though of course she
could have. It wasn't as much her being within my
wetness as is was her palm pressing against my mons
that finally made me come.
Her knee drawn up to better spread me afforded half my
butt for her to press into, but other than that, I was
offering little in return. Yet I wasn't surprised to
feel Juanita climax with me, the power of a romantic
mind.
We missed breakfast, our boyfriends surely assuming the
credit. That's OK, as we were up the hall showering
while they breakfasted on fried rice and black beans.
Part of Juanita's success was our teaching our kids new
cuisine. Part of her success was also in the shower.
The liquid soap they have there is so slippery.
Our gecko was still patrolling the ceiling while we
dressed. They have night vision, Juanita told us when
we saw one at lunch. "When I was a girl, we'd feed them
flies."
I had inspirations. Let's move our beds together, to
start with.
"No, Holly. The dueña knows about the four of us, but
not the two of us. She's old-fashioned."
So let's forget about Jeff and Randall. Fun, sure, but
maybe a little juvenile.
"You're not serious! Not having boys?" looking at me
quizzically. "He'll get better, really good maybe."
Juanita was pretty right, actually. Just stay careful.
When they give you the fly, you've got to be careful/
PLANAS FUTURAS
Next summer, Capton Springs Middle School Costa Rican
EduTour Numero Dos!
We'll let the proper professionals handle the insurance
and make the money. Summers are for having fun. Knowing
a lot about Costa Rica and having my National
Professional Associate reserved, second time around
will be a snap. I have my old recruitment posters,
though EduTour will send new ones. Maybe I should look
up a few rainfall values, just in case, you think?
Christmas break, my associate flies up for a visit. We
need to choose our Colonial forts, we tell each other.
She's never seen snow. After cross-countrying (she'll
catch on) we'll relax by the TV. El Mundo's on cable,
but it's so stereotypical. We'll try HBO.
Juanita will go to the kitchen to get us Cokes. In
serving, she'll make a big point of turning the tray so
I have no choice. Then I'll reach over, gulp half of
hers, and pour half of mine into her glass.
"Salud, hermanita. Bottoms up." We'll laugh and laugh
and turn off the TV.
"Edbay imetay," I'll declare.
"What's that?" She's not perfect in English.
"Pig Latin."
Then we'll just talk Spanish since I'm thinking of
going back to Language Arts teaching, but not English.
I know modismos using wear out, break, stain and
squeak.
AND BACK TO THAT LATIN
Spanish lesson's done. Class dismissed. You guys can
head off to Tijuana. "Buenas noches, señor. You fuckee
me, twenty dollars? Very good sixty nine!" She'll hang
your trousers so your loose change falls out. An honest
one will, that is. Otherwise you may end up hobbling
barefoot back to the border crossing and INS will just
waive you through.
But you girls are more interested in Latin, maybe? You
subconsciously connected Juanita's "romantic mind" with
its cognate, "Roman". Your husband spotted EduTour's
"British Royalty" package because he's heard of the
Tower of London, but you'd rather rent a tiny villa
near Tuscany. If you speak in sort-of Latin to the
aproned shopkeeper, he'll follow some of the words and
be so pleased that he'll kiss both your cheeks. Then
he'll suggest an affair and give you a discount on the
cheese. If you're unsure about the affair, you can meet
him on the path and walk up to the meadow, practicing
your Latin. He'll have some wine and there will already
be a blanket there. You just have another week of
vacation. You deserve it. An Italian cow will watch.
And consider this. There was this British TV series,
"Dr. Who". He time-travels in this phone booth. It was
a pretty long series, I guess, because whenever the
doctor actor moved to a better job or got fired, the
director would hire a new thespian and have the TV
character get molecularly warped to look exactly like
the new portrayer. Nifty! The good doctor goes to all
these places, but fortunately for the audience,
wherever and whenever he reatomizes, the people have
British accents and know British humor. (I'm sort of an
Anglophile, myself, but most Americans wouldn't get
half of it.)
But what if you were Dr. Who and the folks you visited
weren't so well spoken? How would you understate your
lines? You're best bet would be in Latin. Even if you
weren't adventuring around in a toga, you'd have two
millennia where you could pass yourself off as a priest
or an academic. You'd just need to pilfer the
appropriate cap. But what if you weren't comfortable
behind a pulpit or lectern? How could you support
yourself till the phone booth retrieves you? (I'm
pretty concerned about job security, I'll admit. That's
why I'm in the NEA.) You'd write erotic fiction, just
like I do till the phone booth finds me. You'd write in
Latin, since that's what they'd know how to read.
And here's the best part! You already can! Almost,
anyway. Let me lay out a plot in Latin to see if you
can follow. I'll not much bothering with grammar, since
I forgot it after the final. I'm just providing a
plotline is my excuse. We writers are idea people;
editors tend to be more particular. "Ibex aquafalium"
is "holly" botanically. Here we go.
Epicus Sexus
Ibex Aquafalium, scriba
Professor masturbatorum practicant, seducere studentus
desiderat. Tacticae eroticae virgo deflorare praeperat,
e.g., nocturnus in dormitorium, musica amatoria,
poemaeque, libationaeque. Minor deceptivat est.
Phallus rigidissimus requirere est.
Virgo lente devestirat. Mammae conspectae sunt. Femures
ascenderant. Pubes partirant summa cum nudus. Volva
manipulat. Pretius clitoris circumprovocat.
O, O! Orgasmo ergo cum!
Penis colosseus erectisque atque testiculi pendenti! O
Mars! Revertatis ad positiona femina superior, libida
vagina versus cylindrus masculinus.
I, II, III, IV. V: Excitant, Lubricant, Penetrant,
Fricant, Confluant.
O, O, O! Copulatus repetant, rapidus protactusque.
Scrofa (i.e., intercursus carnalatis) ad climaxissimus!
O Venus!
Spermae ejaculant profundus inseminant. Problem major
est. In absentia protectionae, impregnationes. O
Fuccant!
Finis.
Every word's Latin but the F one, and that one's
actually used by modern wags who speak classical
languages. Anthony and Cleopatra F'ed with oiled slaves
fanning them. (Fans are pretty related to having sex,
you'll note.) Actually, Rome F'ed itself before the
Goths swarmed down to terminate the Empire.
For "Orgasmo ergo cum", think of Descartes' "Cogito
ergo sum", I think, therefore I am. But leave my third
word in English. Sorry.
The Greeks wouldn't have said, "O Venus!" but rather,
"O Aphrodite!" which gets us back to Spanish fly.
If you know Spanish, you followed the cognates all the
better. If you're Italian, you're thinking of the right
kind of wine and maybe which opera. First things first.
Latin is weak regarding foreplay, it seems, except in
providing English our rather awkward "cunnilingus" and
"fellatio". (The words and activities are both awkward,
actually -- linguistic theory of correspondence.) To
detail the delicacies of caressing, disrobing, breast
homage and those awkward activities, Modern English
turns more often to Old French, lovely vocabulary if we
could pronounce it. Which sounds more erotic, to
"soixante-neuf" or to "LXIX"?
Caesar boasted, "Veni, Vidi, Vici." I came. I saw. I
conquered. In my Latin plotline it's, "Vidi, Vici,
Veni." (You're fluent when you can joke in a foreign
language, they say.) For most American tourists (not
the ones in our Costa Rican story, though), it's,
"Veni, Vidi, Visa." I Came. I Saw. I went shopping in
the Tower of London Gift Shoppe.
If you want to expand my plotline and are Catholic,
your parish priest studied the grammar in seminary. If
your padre suggests details, however, the diocese might
want to know.
Everybody knows about Latin lovers, but who says
Latin's a dead language?
HOLLY ON THE WEB
Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to
the server. My problem is that I've no systematic way
to update the various servers. As literary errors (or
just poor word usages) are made known to me, I'll
repair that which is salvageable on
http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick/. My website's not
much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native
language.
You can contact me via the site's message form, that
HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR.
I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you
didn't like it before, that much will remain the same.
But if you did like it, an update may read a bit more
cleanly.
Holly
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 28