The kinda face that starts a fight
Let me tell you 'bout the girl I had last night
Piercing eyes, like a raven
You seemed to share my secret sin
We were high before the night started kickin' in..."
- Survivor, High On You
By Patrick Alcatraz
FORT WORTH, Texas - There was something youthful and neat about how she would say I hurt her feelings. It forced something in me, somewhere down where I am alleged to have a heart, but hearing her say the word and sounding it as if saying "fillings" made me laugh. Lucia never stood for laughter when wishing to discuss the merits of our relationship. But it was much worse when I'd do it on purpose, just so that I could hear her say it in that lovely South American accent she'd throw at me. My mother always said I had something of a grasp on what made me happy. It was that, she would go on, that told her she'd not have to worry about women hurting me. She was straight-out dead-on about that, absolutely.
Lucia was in her late 20s when I met her through a friend at my favorite coffee shop here. I was told she worked for the city water department, over at new accounts, where she helped people get service. Later, when I'd asked her about her job, she'd said it was okay, but that people always wanted her to make deals, which was something she was not authorized to do. Lucia would make a face when telling me about the poor people that walked into her office, he ones who always needed a break on the deposit or the first billing. I would listen and then shoot the chat over into something else. Most women don't really like to talk about their jobs, mainly because they are rarely interesting. As a young man, I had visited a Mexican bordello and had tried to engage a middle-aged prostitute into some sort of conversation. When I asked her about the many men she had to fuck, she said, "Are you going to fuck me, or are you going to bore me?" I let it go, unzipping my Jordache jeans like a schoolboy - fast and in a way that showed her I, too, could obey the Devil in the darkness of a dingy, utilitarian room.
In any case, Lucia was married when I met her. Her old man worked for one of the telecoms and was something of a grouch. I never met the guy, and, well, that always was par for the infidelity course. Lucia would come to my apartment near the campus of TCU during his work hours and we would eat something or another before heading for the sack. Why guys ignore their lovely wives is the big mystery for me. Lucia was a shaver when I met her, yet she pleased me by letting her pubic hair grow wild, which is something that drives me wild, perhaps because I've always liked to get lost in all my undertakings. A black patch-on-the-grow under a pair of black panties sends me there; there being the point between our galaxy and the one immediately to the north, that neat, dimly-lit spot in the universe reserved for lovers of the abused. I applied for that job a long time ago, yes. When I got it, I began hollering, "Yes! Yes!" And I've never lost it, inspite of notes from the landlord asking about those few serious romantic flirtations I've also enjoyed.
Well, Lucia wanted to get married and she told me that the afternoon her lawyer filed the required papers for divorce. As could be expected, I was taken aback, left only with this to say: "Well, I hope you know some other dudes." She took it not well. (I know that sentence could be written another way, but I like it, so lump it.) We nonetheless proceeded to go naked and climb atop my bed, where she moaned me to the other side of the moon, left me there a bit when she began to masturbate, and then went back for me when she curved her neck and upper torso to take my cock in her beautiful mouth. Watching a woman masturbate, for me, is like watching two dogs fucking. I get it, but I wonder about it. And so I found myself sliding in and out of precious Lucia, my mind kinda back into it, the side of my brain assigned this sort of task concentrating like a motherfucker. I would lower myself into her and Lucia would back toward me in a synchronicity reserved for pistons. I would retreat amid fast-surfacing bitchings and then she would climb on me and began to ride like the wind, as they say in westerns.
I love the sounds of unrestrained, fight-me sex in a small bedroom of a small apartment, places where the walls can do nothing but fuckin' take it and take it and take it until the volcano erupts. This one was pulling at my moptop hair as she went to full gallop, her eyes ablaze and her teeth clenched as if to miss the vaginal effect of one plowing would scratch the Hell out of the Buddy Holly record. I loved fucking Lucia. She had stored so much energy by the time she came to me. Sooooooooh much.
She was the one I should've gifted with a trophy of sorts...
- 30 -