The Newscaster had called me and asked me what was I doing. Working, I said, which was true. There’s always work to do in a farm. She explained that she had been working hard too, had been on call and covering every weekend in addition to her usual workload. She was about to leave the TV station. It was 11am on a Tuesday, a beautiful Florida winter sunny day.
– Do you have whisky there?, she asked.
– Yeah, I said.
– Do you want me to go over? I have something nice I’d like to share with you.
I said sure, but didn’t believe for a second she would come. She had pulled that number a few times, and left me waiting. So I hung up and went back to fixing my riding mower. Of course my mind wandered now and then. Would she, or wouldn’t she, that kind of thing. I tried not to think of the time, back in the summer, when she’d come around pretty often, because then my cock would get hard with all the memories and I’d want to stop working and go jerk off. Our brief love affair, if it can be called that, had reached its peak, and frittered away, after my 39th birthday, last September. Some friends had thrown me a surprise party, and she had come with her friend and flatmate, a Panamanian mulatto woman who met most mens’ criteria for ‘hotness’: tall and curvy, always wearing tight outfits, fake tits, which leave me cold but Americans love, and a general sluttiness about her. The Newscaster herself is not bad looking, sans the fake tits, which I appreciate. She has a very dark streak in her, and if I was to go into all the things that we did during that summer that culminated on my birthday party, well, that would be a story upon itself. Oh, how we sweated in my little cabin every time she showed up in the summer, the things she would come up with, how we used each other ruthlessly.
Anyway, I ended a very, very drunk night going to bed with both of them, the Newscaster and the Panamanian, and it’s a pleasant memory. The morning after, we woke in stages as light filled the guest room of my friends’ house. I started touching them again, had a nice hard on and was ready to have some more fun, but Panama had to leave for work, so I fucked Miss Uruguay, the Newscaster, only. A slow, messy fuck, as usual, interrupted by all the times she wanted me to do things with parts other than my cock, especially my tongue and fingers, things that usually included her arsehole. We South Americans have a butt fixation, but in her case, it goes beyond the standard and way into fucked up territory. By the by, I call her ‘Miss Uruguay’ because that’s her family background and where she spent some time when she was younger, but in fact, she’s American through and through, and has used her Hispanic heritage to advance her career at the TV station. She knows how to play the diversity card much better than I do, that’s for sure.
Long story short, she did show up. She had put on a lot of weight. Back then, she wouldn’t drink more than one or two beers, as she was in negotiations with Fox News and didn’t want to look fat. They had hired her, and it seems all her precautions had gone overboard. Now, I don’t even have a TV set, so I hadn’t been watching her as she presented the news every night. Somehow, she packed all those curves and rolls into a tight tailleur suit, even made it work to her advantage, as there was a lot more tit meat tightly packed, and the rest looked good, too. The hips especially. That’s how she showed up, in her black Acura, dressed up in a smart red outfit. High heels, too. ‘Hola’, she said, and I smiled. What a weird sight. I mean my neighbor has a big spread full of cattle, and the cows were stomping and mooing right next to my place, my poultry was making loud noises, reminding me I hadn’t fed them today, I was shirtless and in tattered jeans and boots and a straw hat, covered in grease and machine oil, and this local celebrity shows up in her fancy car, wearing her fancy clothes. ‘Do you wanna borrow my flip-flops?’, I asked, but she said no, I’m fine. ‘Where’s the whisky?’.
We sat down in the shade, and I didn’t say anything about the fact that the TV station is on the edge of Cape Coral, maybe 20 minutes from my redneck of the woods, but she had taken a good 3 hours to get there. ‘Salud’, we said, and downed a healthy glass of the stuff. She and I, we both work hard. We can take a vacation anytime we feel like it, and fuck what the calendar and the watch say. She opened her Italian purse and produced a tiny jar full of what looked like good bud. ‘Smell it’, she said, ‘Olelo’. It smelled real good. Some kind of skunk, very red with no seeds. She had a pipe, too. One of those horrible things you buy at bad gas stations where lots of bikers and truck drivers stop. So she filled it up, and we smoked.
– Are you hungry?, I asked
– What do you have? Typical of her, testing what was on offer before giving an answer. I knew her well enough, so I cut right to the chase:
– I can make you some quesadillas and open a can of oysters to go with them.
– What kind of cheese?
– OK then.
So I went in the kitchen and busied myself with that, as she found an old beach chair that the previous owner had left there and parked herself there with a fresh drink, taking the jacket off and unbuttoning her blouse to catch some sun on the upper part of her big tits. Her bra was black.
I watched her eat as I felt a wave of drunkeness hit me hard in the hot sun. The food came up good, with a garnish of fresh cucumbers and grape tomatoes. I’m good at this. With the last bite, she grabbed my crotch and looked me straight in the eye. ‘It’s been a while’, she said, and I didn’t answer, just worked my right hand into her brassiere, marveling at the softness and richness, lightly twisting her nipple and making her sigh. She sat straight and tongue-kissed me. She tasted of whisky and of the food she had just eaten. She then pushed me away and refilled the pipe. We smoked some more. As I put the thing down, and without any warning, she slapped me hard. Really hard, so hard that I tasted blood inside my mouth. So hard that some snow egrets that had been digging around flew away. A slap that startles away the birds must be a hard one.
Now, at a different point in my life, I would have acted differently. I would have taken a walk, chilled out, then come back and talked about it. Try to figure out what the hell that was about, what were the hidden reasons and causes, maybe giving her a lecture about what’s acceptable and what isn’t in healthy relationship. Something like that. At a different point, not now. I just stared at her for about 20 seconds, swallowing the blood, letting the burn fade. Then I hit her back. As hard, or harder. She almost fell off of the beach chair. She made this weird sound, like a wounded animal, kind of like the coyotes that stalk my poultry in the wee hours.
We didn’t say much after that, and soon she was driving away on the dirt road, a mess, half drunk and stoned, my hand imprinted on her cheek, her skirt pulled all the way up. That’s how she drives most of the times.
I tried to concentrate on the mower’s engine again, but couldn’t, so I rode my bicycle to get a pack of smokes at the store a mile down the main drag. When I got there, I was lost in my thoughts and barely noticing the scene around me. But some cretin made it plain that he wouldn’t let me mind my own beeswax. The asking kind: ‘gimme a dollar, gimme a smoke, gimme, gimme’. One of these morons dressed like a 4-yr old, in low hanging pants, gold chains and expensive sneakers. He put his face too close to mine, and I didn’t look into his eyes, but was fascinated with his complicated, extensive gold teeth, as I tried to evaluate if he’d stop blocking the short line between my bike and myself without further trouble, or not. I wasn’t in the mood to give him anything, or to talk to him, and he seemed to be getting more and more irritated about that, as the sun set and the neon signs outside the store flickered on, ‘Budweiser’, ‘Miller Lite’…
An executive decision had to be made, as this moron wouldn’t leave me alone. I decided to knock him down. I raised my index finger to catch his attention in the deserted parking lot, and asked for a moment. This guy was probably 20 yrs my junior, and I have been in enough street fights to know that if I want to keep my shirt in one piece, I better do something about it. So I took it off and put it on top of a garbage can. I really like the shirt I was wearing, and wasn’t gonna let some stupid cub wigger rip it. The move disconcerted him for a few seconds, and I made use of that. Approached him quickly, a few paces, while I dug in my pockets and grabbed a Bic lighter inside one fist, a handful of coins in the other. The day’s events had left me so full of a frustrated kind of energy, that he didn’t really have a chance. Of course one doesn’t know what he does, what his body is doing, in a fight. Later on, they tell you, if there’s witnesses. Or you vaguely remember bits of it. All I remember is that I landed a few hard punches on this clown, and that it felt good. I know he hit back, later on that night I discovered a couple blue, swollen areas on my chest, but in the final balance, it was me who demolished him. I clearly remember delivering a last, hard kick, with my heavy, steel-toe work boot, to his pathetic, overweight body, curled up on the pavement, before getting my shirt back, and jumping onto my bike to ride back home. I’ve lost enough of these things, and really wasn’t looking forward to any more of them, so it felt good to be able to finish this particular one, one that I hadn’t looked for or anticipated, on the winning side, without further complications (buddies appearing out of nowhere, weapons, cops). I just left the guy there, and heard the odd noises that he was making as I pedaled away, very similar to the sounds uttered by the Newscaster earlier in the day.
The ride back to El Campito was uneventful, but when I got there, I discovered I had managed to lose the pack of smokes I had just bought. So I just smoked the stuff that Miss Urugay had forgotten after her meal and our slapping session, and went to bed. I read some Dostoevsky, jerked off, and it was curtains on the day…. another pointless, wasted day.