Give It To Me. Ana Castillo
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Название: Give It To Me
Автор: Ana Castillo
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Короткие любовные романы
isbn: 9781558618510
isbn:
Pepito’s texts, however, were heating up, even after, or maybe because, she had initially ignored them. He had gotten a part-time job working the floor in a men’s suit store and furrier managed by an “old friend.” The second Palma read the text she imagined her tall, dark cousin in a three-piece suit. Something Wall Street. Distance made the libido grow fonder and she masturbated that evening in a hot bath. There were things you might imagine a thirteen-year-old girl doing, a young coed doing, young being the operative term. Most people didn’t fantasize about a forty-two-year-old woman in a small bathtub fondling herself while thinking about her cousin. The truth was all over the world, women, single and married, pleasured themselves in the shadows, made ashamed of the desire they felt. They used casual encounters—the brother-in-law, cousin, pool boy, delivery boy, student, postman, UPS guy, accountant (just kidding), divorce attorney, taxi driver, school bus driver—to propel their sabotaged imaginations. Ladies now also had a ton of anonymous disembodied sources added by the Internet.
Men used porn sites, too, of course and still resorted to old-school Playboy issues kept behind their toilets, and maybe any woman on the street. Middle-aged guys were notoriously horny, and despite having erectile dysfunction, baldness, paunches, gastritis, colitis, no money except that which they could steal from obligations to family, bad taste in humor, boring stories to go with the lack of character, and being void of any personal sense of dress style, they managed to get some woman’s attention. And society thought it okay. Men were men, the universal adage went.
Then, one ordinary evening Pepito busted all her notions about unrequited female desires across the globe and throughout the generations wide open, like a lit firecracker inside a cantaloupe.
Pow.
Her cous’ called and asked, Do you remember that picture you sent when I was locked up where you had on white slacks and sandals?
Yes, she said, although she didn’t.
Your hair was kind of blowing in the wind and you were standing in front of a statue. (Palma remembered. She was in Medellín. Her ex took the picture. Her head all over the place. Colombia. Rodrigo. The unprecedented sense of alienation she felt in his mother’s home and in a foreign country. The letters to and from Pepito.) You looked so good, prima, Pepito said. I can’t tell you how many times I got off with that picture.
What? She asked. Nothing, man, he said. You looked great. You were thick.
She was. A healthy woman in her prime. (That was before the hysterectomy. When he first saw her again in Chicago, Pepito said, You look frail. You need to put on some weight, girl.) She imagined him rubbing himself. That ain’t me no more, Palma said. (Who was she then, between scars you saw and couldn’t see?) Your hair was blowing in the wind, he repeated, and some strands fell across your face. He gave a moan. Ay, flaquita, you have no idea . . .
Palma Piedras did have an idea. Tell me, she said.
First, we have a nice dinner together. We order whatever we want. Then we go up to our room. In the elevator I am kissing you, all over, just loving you up. I have ordered champagne and a platter of goodies—chocolate, caviar, and exotic cheeses . . . (Exotic cheeses? She wondered what that meant for him. White cheddar?) We have a glass of champagne (Read: Andre) and toast to our love. (?!) We’re playing Barry White and you do a slow strip tease for me . . .
She wanted to interrupt and ask why he couldn’t do a strip tease for her but held out to see where they were going on the good-libidinous-ship lollipop.
You straddle my lap, he said, and I put my penis inside you. I get it in way deep in that wet pussy of yours, like I always knew it was. You’re wet for me now, right, baby?
Holy cow. Heavens to Murgatroyd. Silly Rabbit, tricks were for kids. Uh, yeah.
8
One evening Palma’s gay friend Randall called her to go to his bar. Why do you have to say he is gay? A woman who was no longer Palma’s friend asked when she said, Randall, my gay friend . . . It was called putting it into context. What she was going to say about him would not have meant at all the same thing if you didn’t know he was gay. Being gay wasn’t incidental. Randall was in her bedroom, patting her off after their shower with no hard-on, maybe a slight salute to be a good sport. I am a man, after all, honey, he said. But just ‘cause it goes up it don’t mean it wants to go in. He gave a slight shudder for effect. Theoretically, they each had at least some of the equipment the other needed to get off. So what’s the problem? Palma Piedras asked. It was mere curiosity. Okay, a little turned on. She wasn’t in love with Randall. If they never fucked it was okay. I’m doing research for the Kinsey Report sequel, she said, and gave his ding-dong a tug. (He actually pushed her hand away.) But you like those effeminate types, she said. The cross-dressers with Posturepedic posteriors, implants here, there, and everywhere, and daily hormone shots. Palma cupped her olive-toned hands first over her breasts and then the butt cheeks.
I don’t like women, Randall stated the obvious. Not that way. He elaborated to enlighten her: I like the idea of a woman in a hard body with a dick. Sometimes, he said, I’ll dress like a bitch and let a tranny have her way with me. She nodded. Sex was very complicated and with the strict exception in any shape, form, or fashion of taking advantage of a child or a mentally incompetent adult, or any unwilling participant, for that matter, who could judge what got your rocks off? Randall pushed her gently down on the bed and started to jack off. His eyes were closed and she pulled him down next to her and started her own thing on herself. It was a true bonding experience. When she quivered after making herself come, Randall leaned over. He put his mouth on one of her nipples and gave it those little bites you felt from small fish when snorkeling. He bit the other one harder and she lifted herself up to go down on him. His dick and balls were the freshest Palma had ever smelled on a man. Or not smelled. He took impeccable care of himself. Don’t do it, if you don’t want, girl, he said, but he was already hard. Her clit and nipples were stiff as she sucked him off like she was lost at sea with no food or drink. Fucking bitch, he said when he started to come, pushing Palma’s head into him. Fucking mamacita. Hija de su puta madre. She hadn’t known that Randall spoke Sex Spanish. Dámelo, papi negro lindo, Palma muttered and he did and afterward the would-be Kinsey researcher knew that if she ever mentioned what had transpired, most likely, he’d land her in a hospital.
Palma went to see Randall. He and the Chicago transplant hit it off years before because they both hailed from the Midwest as he put it. He said Chicago. He was from Milwaukee but she let him feel that was close enough. There were no female customers, and while that didn’t bother Palma since she was there to visit with Randall, get a buzz with a free cocktail, and let off some steam, sometimes the men in there didn’t like the presence of pheromones. Or naturally harvested tits or twat. One gay told her he thought “bitches smelled like bad fish.” Oh? she said, kinda like your balls? In women’s bars sometimes she’d fared no better. Palma once got blindsided with a left hook after taking a stool in a lesbian bar in Mexico City that she didn’t know was being reserved for somebody’s “vieja.” It perplexed her as to why straight-up gays and lesbians sometimes hated on each other. At least the old-school ones did in bars in Mexico and South America and along the back roads of San Antonio and Tijuana. And if the truth were told, even in gay-activated places like San Francisco and Madrid.
She waited for Randall to catch a sec to come talk to his gal pal СКАЧАТЬ