She wants to tie me up, but I’m scared, so I don’t let her.
So she gets on top, cowgirl style, bites me on the shoulder.
“OWWW!” I yell.
“I want to hear you scream,” she says.
“Just don’t hurt me.”
“Oh, be a man.”
She rides me hard, with vigor, rubbing herself until she comes.
Then she dismounts, walks away, goes to the bathroom, won’t say a word, just like a guy.
She washes herself, and I stare at her butt the whole time: so round, so perfect, so beautiful. Such a magical mass of fleshy Jell-O! I can’t take my eyes off of it. I stare and stare until it morphs into a creature with a life of its own. Why is it shaped so nicely? Why do I love it so much? Why does it jiggle with such precision?
No answers slide into my mind.
She comes back to bed.
“You have a funny accent,” she says.
“I grew up in Mexico City.”
“But you look European or something.”
“My ancestry is German.”
“But you’re Mexican?”
“I’m a citizen, Spanish is my native language.”
“That’s so messed up.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So here in America you always date interracial. If you date a Hispanic it’s interracial because you’re white; and if you date a white person, it’s also interracial because you’re a Hispanic.”
I never thought of it that way. But it sounds right. All my life I’ve been an outsider. Mexicans never accept me; Americans won’t take me because of my foreign accent. In short, I don’t belong anywhere.
“How does it feel to be a Mexican immigrant?” she asks.
I tell her how you can’t understand half the jokes on Seinfeld; how Americans think words like exactamundo and desperado are Spanish, when in reality they only exist in Hollywood. The correct terms are exactamente and desesperado.
Still, sometimes I do hear Spanish used correctly, like Tommy Lee Jones in that flick Men in Black as he rounds up unauthorized immigrants near the border. His Spanish there is perfect, funny, asking one guy why is he so ugly, which is such a Mexican way to tease: hey, manito, why are you so ugly, paisa? Please help me understand.
“My family doesn’t like Mexicans.”
“You think they won’t accept me?”
“Just tell them you’re German. They like Germans.”
But that’s prejudiced, and I won’t stand for it.
I’m about to tell her how that’s not okay and all that jazz, when she leans forward and gives me the lustiest kiss I’ve ever had in my entire life, a kiss so lusty it has to be from another planet, from another dimension. I want to live in that dimension.
She silences me completely.
I get another erection.
“Okay,” I say. “Tie me up.”
“This time I really want to hear you scream,” she says.
I think of Tommy Lee Jones, of his rounding up of immigrants, his excellent Spanish, his jokes, and how I’m okay being tied up to a strange bed, with a strange woman, so far from no home.
I don’t belong anywhere. I connect only with other individuals, one on one. In fact, these straps might be the only thing linking me to the universe.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Show me the way.”
I guess we’re bonding.
“And tell your parents I’m German if you want to. I don’t care at all.”
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