I went into the living room and put a DVD into the player. I sat on the sofa. Energetic acoustic guitar began the film soundtrack.
“Garbage!” began the dialogue.
The beautiful young Southern woman discussed imagery with her therapist. Garbage. What if garbage cans were actually producing more garbage? she wondered. The doctor smiled. They’d soon be discussing masturbation, the woman blushing and stammering, denying her need. Fast-forward. The woman sat on a plaid sofa in a hot, sparsely furnished room. She wore a gold blazer, black T-shirt, black miniskirt and black leather cowboy boots. A man in T-shirt and jeans sat on the hardwood floor in front of her, looking up at her. His camera rolled. “Do you remember the first time that you saw a penis?” he began. She narrowed her eyes, parted her lips, cocked her head to the side and began to talk. As she shed her blazer and rearranged herself on the sofa, her leather boots rubbed together, making soft squeaking sounds. Fast-forward. In a bedroom, a man and woman shouted at one another. “Did you have to masturbate in front of him?” he demanded of her. “No. I wanted to. So there!”
Sex, Lies, and a Video Cam was another favourite film of mine, transporting me to yet another humid Southern clime. I’d felt voyeuristic viewing its seeming raw intimacy and dialogue; I’d thought its editing amazing; it had inspired my purchase of black leather cowboy boots. I soon slept on the sofa, in blue screen light.
I opened my eyes to filtered sun. I got up, made coffee and went to my desk. I checked my schedule: no appointments for the day. I sipped my coffee and tiredly made notes on my writing projects. A drive to the coast might be inspirational, I thought. I took a shower, dressed in a pullover scoop-neck sweater, skirt and leather sandals.
Highway 120 wound through velvet hills and grassy flats on its way to the sea. The two-lane road could be lonely, with little traffic. The dark-skinned hitchhiker stood on the north side of the road. He wore a Henley shirt and jeans. His dark hair was tied into a ponytail. I passed him, checked the rear-view, braked and pulled onto the shoulder. He smiled as he loped towards the Jeep. I unlocked the passenger door. He hoisted himself into the leather bucket seat, threw his bag to the floorboard, closed the door, and fastened his seat belt.
“Hello. Thank you very much for stopping. Gracias.” He warmly smiled, his dark-brown eyes making direct contact with mine.
“Hi. Call me Anna.”
“I’m Manuel. Manny.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Caida Del Cielo. Heaven’s Fall. The beach.”
“Where’s that?”
“Near Fuego Que Sopla. Blowing Fire.”
“It’s on my way.”
Darkness was beautiful; I thought of the deep reds of roses and blood and wine; the tan brown of bread and chocolate and exotic skins; the dark liquid of brown, drowning-pool eyes pulling one in. Contrast could be interesting. I thought of sophistication and innocence; vanilla cream swirling with caramel tan.
“Where are you coming from, Manny?”
“Palmville.”
“Do you hitch much?”
“Do you pick up much?”
We smiled.
“Would you like a beer? There’s a cooler in the back seat.”
“Thank you.”
Over a hill, the road turned and opened to the Pacific Coast. Heaven’s Fall seemed deserted. I saw no parking area. I wondered where to park.
“Don’t park too close to water. The sand is wet and deep,” Manny cautioned.
“Thanks. Do you have time for another beer? Or do you need to meet someone?” I glanced at the pier and the vast, empty shoreline.
“I’m meeting no one.”
I parked a distance from the shore, near a small dune. I scavenged a blanket from the back and spread it on the sand.
We wordlessly sat on the blanket next to the Jeep, drinking amber lager, getting stoned on nature and negative ionization and brew. I wasn’t sure whether minutes or hours had passed.
“Let me touch you…?” he asked.
“Where?” I smiled.
“Here… here…” His hands brushed my cheeks; he lightly ran his hands down my neck to my breasts. “Soft pechos… sweet pechos…” He gently pulled a bare breast from my sweater. His thickly sensual lips took my nipple; his mouth pulled. He stood and pulled me up and kissed me. “Wait,” he said, opening the rear passenger-side Jeep door. He lifted me onto the edge of the high bucket seat. He pulled down my scoop-neck sweater; my breasts lightly hung over the purple velvety material. He pushed my stretch skirt up around my waist. I sat, legs askew on the leather seat, grains of sand sticking to my skin, the sea wind blowing against me. He kneeled and placed his hands on my lower inner thighs, slowly moving up. I leaned back and more widely spread my legs. His head moved towards my centre; I held it and felt the texture of his hair, removing the tie that held it. It softly fell and draped my thighs. His finger centered the outer lips of my cunt, moving into the inner.
“Ahhh… ostra rosada… pink oyster,” he murmured.
Licking and entering me with his tongue then fingers, he moaned and intermittently gave soft voice. “Mar salado… salty sea.” The Spanish language would never be the same, I thought. It now seemed even more beautiful, if that was possible. I clenched and came around his fingers.
“Wait.” He pulled away, his erection straining against his jeans. He unzipped his fly and lowered his jeans, releasing his prick. He fumbled in his small travel sack, pulling a small square brightly coloured packet from it. Gallo read the lettering; the art was of a red rooster. He removed the white condom, held the tip, and rolled it onto his brown erection, vanilla white engulfing caramel tan. The wind grabbed and whipped the empty condom wrapper down the beach. I dripped onto the leather seat. He held my hips and slowly slid his cock into me. He moved deeply into and out of me, gliding clitoris and G-spot, clitoris and G-spot. Orgasm rolled from my wet centre, sensation becoming sound, escaping through my O-shaped mouth. I envisioned my orgasm having come from the sea and returning to it; my cries metamorphosing into ocean roar.
“Caliente caliente… hot… mojado! Anna!”
In front of my television, I drank Shiraz and ate take-out crab and shrimp enchiladas and squash with red peppers. I clicked my DVD play button. Sexo En El Camino was subtitled. Miquel entered his girlfriend’s bedroom, and her, in rapid succession, with no foreplay. The girl had long dark hair, perky breasts, a thin build. In a fascinating, non-American quality she had lots of thick, dark pubic hair. The film’s logic seemed to imply that women were in a perpetually pre-moistened state. It worked. The sex was quick and intense and hot, with penises and vaginas artistically filmed in shadow. Fast-forward. In a dilapidated motel room in Oaxaco, the young naked Sergio stood with an erection. “Drop the towel,” commanded Gabriella, from the edge of the bed. He stood in front of her and kneeled. “I’m wet for you. Eat me…” she said. He lowered his mouth to her and began to lick. “Wait! Let me take off my panties!” She laughed. He very soon fucked her, in another quick, intense scene. Miquel watched his friend from a doorway, a hurt look in his eyes. Fast-forward. The two young male friends and the older woman drove through mountainous jungles and small villages towards an allegedly mythical beach, laughing and telling stories, stopping in run-down cantinas for beer and food. At the beach the three fucked. The men fought and drove away together. She stayed at Heaven’s Mouth for the rest of her short life. Fade to black. I sighed and thought of a spontaneous, passionate man who made love in soft whispers, intense cries and beautiful words; who could have been manifesting Tourette’s or channeling spirits as he thrust and came.