Down Mexico Way

All characters portrayed are over the age of 18 as is stated in the story.

*****

There's a degree of poetic expression that transcends any spoken language; it breaks through all barriers and makes its message clear without relying upon speech. It's in the slightest gesture, the subtlest look, a smile.

My poet had a name, like Fitzgerald's Jay Gatsby or Daisy Buchanan, but none of you would know it, not any more than I did at the time. It didn't define him as a person. It couldn't; it wasn't even his, but rather the name of some unknown someone scribbled across a green visa and passed from palm to palm until it found its way to his.

I've often wondered if he, or I, weren't a bit like that visa; passed indiscriminately from palm to palm until we found one another, until we each made use of the other for a while.

We met in the spring of what was his eighteenth year if there was any shred of truth to what I thought I knew, or to what I remember now. As memories age, they grow selective and what mine elects to recall is one who was strong and virile and full of hope.

Ironically, I was the displaced one, having come to live in a place where white-females were the minority in a business world of men. Jobs of any kind were in short supply. I took what I could find and was happy to get the temporary position of bartender at a five-star restaurant.

I was one of only three females employed by the establishment; all white, and English speaking. The others were decidedly males of varying ages, and most spoke at least two languages, their native and English if no other.

He didn't come to my attention immediately, in the same manner I came to his, as he told it later. He once said if he had left it up to me to first notice him, we would have never met at all.

By coincidence, it happened at the time-clock one morning, during the rush for everyone to begin the workday promptly. Our hands touched as we reached for our cards at the same time. He smiled and made a gesture of deference. I spoke, but he didn't answer; he only smiled and I was captivated. I blushed and he made note of it with just one look.

There were days and nights, many of them, which passed; yet, not one without me seeing his smile, and he, seeing my blush, with still not a word exchanged between us. I prevailed upon a close friend, Antonio, and inquired discreetly in his regard. Antonio then knew my secret interest and with a knowing smile of his own, he informed me, "He's only a babe, just turned eighteen."

I was crushed by the revelation; I was a woman nearly a decade beyond his years. No one, not even myself, could excuse the gulf that spanned our ages. With that knowledge, I deliberately shunned him to rid myself of both the guilt and the temptation, but my heart and my head were constantly at war over this.

One night, a quiet one, when we were both dismissed of our duties for the evening, he came calling at my bar, like Cyrano, with one to speak on his behalf.

"He wants a ride home," Antonio explained.

I shook my head, not even looking up, and I made the appropriate excuses. It's too far; it's too late; it's out of my way home. At last, I had Antonio explain I was going out to a bar for a drink alone before going home for the evening. With his final plea, he took my hand and I was obliged to look into those jade eyes, and 'no' was neither on my lips nor my heart. Perhaps unwisely, I relented.

At his tender age, he was not yet allowed the privilege of consuming alcohol, not legally. But, I had seen him drink before, among the other waiters, after the restaurant closed at night. I set both wisdom and propriety out the door, and I took him along with me instead. I made a promise to take him home later, though I had no idea how he would direct me there. So much was foolishness for my part.

He was bright and animated showing interest in our route and making mental notes in his own language along the way. He practiced aloud a few English words he was learning and I corrected him in his speech which made him laugh. He laughed harder still when he tried to teach me words in his language and my tongue fell flat.

When we arrived at our destination, he was at my door and my service before my feet could touch ground. He conducted himself as any man of breeding would, acting as my escort, placing my hand on his arm, and his palm at my back. He opened every door, removed my coat, seated me, and placed himself completely at my disposal, formally so in every respect. I don't know how he was able to order and procure drinks without being questioned about his age, but he did.

The atmosphere of the bar was casual. The theme was based on music and décor of the sixties era, a time more than a generation before he was even born. When he heard the music begin to play, his face beamed with pleasure and he sang along with each song as if he had personally composed them all. His enthusiasm made me smile.

One of the traditions of the club required female patrons to dance on top of the bar during certain songs that were played at set intervals. He watched intently during the first display of bar dancers, and when the songs made their rotation and came back into play a half-hour later, he stood up and held out his hand. I followed him and he led me to the bar. Once there, he reached around my waist and lifted me onto the bar with ease.

Having never participated in the synchronized dance, I was at a lost for a moment before I fell into step with the other patrons. He stood back and watched with a broad smile of approval, clapping in time to the music. When the song ended, he gave a loud applause, and lifted me down, letting me slide to the floor within his grasp.

He locked his arms around me and leaned down to kiss me very gently. I tried to scold him for it, but my scolding held no sincerity, and he could tell from the way I blushed and turned away that I enjoyed his kiss. He made no attempt to push the matter further, but instead, he focused on dancing together for the remainder of the evening.

Although, neither of us could understand a word of conversation between us, we never stopped laughing and we enjoyed every moment we spent together. When the lounge closed, we began our trek in search of his residence. Armed only with a general direction to head, I drove, and with gestures on his part, we found our way there eventually.

The drive was dark; the yard shaded by large oaks. Another gesture warned me of others present inside the residence and to keep silent to avoid waking them. My intentions were not to linger, but he reached across me and turned the ignition key to 'off'. He attempted to convey some message, but I clearly did not understand. Not until he exited the vehicle, came around to my side, and pulled me out of the driver's seat. He picked me up in his arms and placed me upon the hood of the car.

He began a tentative exploration of me, my clothes, my hair, and my face. He let me know the reason he enjoyed my dancing above him on the bar was because it gave him an unrestrained view of my undergarments. I had to laugh when he demonstrated his pleasure at having seen the stockings and garters under my skirt. It wasn't the same giddy pleasure an ordinary eighteen-year-old boy would discover. He demonstrated the interest of a man, full-grown and well beyond his years.

He kissed me again with the same gentleness as earlier. There was no lack of confidence in his kiss or in the way he held me in his arms, but the moment I made the slightest protest, he released me and stepped away. He offered his hand from a distance and helped me down from the hood of my car.

He saw me safely back into the driver's seat, leaned against the door and brushed my lips lightly with his own. He whispered a 'thank you' in Spanish and stepped away. He watched me until I disappeared from his view.

*****

The following evening, when the hour grew close to end our shift, he approached me at the bar again; this time alone. He mouthed the name of the lounge where we went the night before and pointed to his watch. I shook my head, having had time to reconsider the folly of continuing to see him.

His face took on a stern look and he nodded firmly, repeating his request, but giving it more of the air of a demand. At his bidding, we made an official date. When we left together, heads turned and comments were made, but we departed together just the same. Antonio was the only one who smiled when we made our exit.

This time, he took my keys, placed me in the passenger seat and drove straight to the bar. We spent the evening drinking and dancing, and as before, enjoying one another immensely. At end of our date, he drove to his home, and we again sat on the car in darkness, listening to music from the radio and occasionally sharing a kiss.

We began speaking freely, in whispers, and each in our own language. We discovered we could understand a small portion of the things we exchanged. It took patience, and it took time, but we found some common ground. We slowly began to discover one another, our thoughts and our ideals. This date, too, ended with the innocence of a chaste kiss, but it began a pattern, and before we had our second date, we were labeled as "dating" by our co-workers.

*****

By the evening of our fourth outing, I had grown quite accustomed to him. He began meeting me at my car when I arrived at work each morning or evening. I heard the murmurs of disapproval when he walked me to my car late at night. I saw the looks others gave us when he explained where we went after work, but when he looked at me, I saw nothing but love in his eyes, and it made every other look pale by comparison.

As co-workers, we shared two consecutive days off each week. On our day off, he arrived unexpectedly on my doorstep with flowers in his hand. I don't know how he found his way there, or even who divulged my address so he could. Nor do I know how he managed to make me understand that he intended to take me to a park for the afternoon. But, I did understand, and he waited patiently while I dressed appropriately for our afternoon outdoors.

He surprised me with a picnic lunch in the park, and we played like children on the swings. Between each push on the swings, he also gave me a kiss, counting each one aloud so I could later say that he had kissed me a hundred times in a single afternoon.

He took me home and left me at my door with a kiss, not nearly as chaste as the ones before, and one that left me hungering for more until I would see him again.

*****

After two weeks of our usual nightly outings, he found a reason to take me inside his home. I drank too much, although no more than usual, or perhaps it was the heat of the night and the dancing that made me drunk. In any case, when we arrived at his house, he pulled me from the car and walked me to the back door.

The moment the heels of my shoes clicked against the hardwood floors, he stopped short and knelt in front of me. He gave me a piggy-back ride through the halls to the door that was his room, and we both laughed when he dumped me in the middle of his bed. He kissed me and then went about showing me his possessions, his treasures and trinkets he valued above all other things.

We were quiet and careful not to wake the other men who shared the residence, one of whom was his cousin, a man my own age and who strongly disapproved of us being together. After only a moment or two of us exploring his things, his cousin tapped softly on the door. He answered the knock and the moment his cousin saw me, an argument ensued. What began as whispers escalated to slamming doors.

I tried to intervene in the dispute, but he stood in front of me and faced his cousin's challenge alone. In a language I couldn't understand, he stood his ground until his cousin threw up his hands in exasperation and stomped to his own room, slamming the door between them.

I knew, even if he did not, that a family rift would not mend easily if left to their devices alone. His cousin spoke some English, enough to allow a flow of communication between us at a minimum. I instructed him to wait for me in his room, while I went to his cousin's bedroom door and tapped lightly.

My first knock went unanswered; the second attempt elicited a growl of discontent, and he flung the door open, looking angry. I asked for entry and he relented, reluctantly so. He raised his objections, one after another. I was too old for him, he was too young, he would get hurt, I couldn't give him what he needed. My answer to them all was the same; he's happy, be happy for him.

His cousin, Emile, went silent and stared past me. I turned to see him standing in the doorway, listening, even if he couldn't absorb all that was being said between us. He spoke the first words in Spanish that I could understand without question or accompanying gestures. He said to his cousin, "I love her," and I was completely humbled by the purity of his declaration.

His cousin dropped his shoulders in defeat and motioned me away. "Go with him. There's nothing more I can say. He won't listen to me."

He made love to me for the first time that night. He had more insight than most men three times his age or experience. Each movement, every touch was carefully orchestrated solely for the purpose of my comfort and pleasure.

He undressed himself first, slowly, one garment at a time and he allowed me to sample each part of his body with all my senses before he moved on. His physique was statuesque, smooth and hard like polished marble. There was nothing fake or contrived about his physical condition; it was strictly the result of hard work, a hard life. He didn't buy his way to physical perfection from a gym membership. I was certain of that.

I was stunned by his silhouette under the pale silver moonlight through the open curtains; the light played on the soft golden curls of his hair where they lay against his chest and shoulders. I had never seen a man look more beautiful. Even the great likeness of David could not compare in its beauty and it took my breath away.

When he lowered his jeans over his hips, I was mesmerized. I whispered one of the few phrases I knew in Spanish, "Madre de Dios!" It brought a smile to his lips, having astonished me. For a moment, I was afraid to touch him. I gazed at him in disbelief until he nodded his encouragement, and only then, did I tentatively stroke one finger along the smooth skin, so soft and flawless.

I understood his one word reply, "Beso." I kissed it tenderly first, and then, caressed it with my tongue. For that, he stood completely still and let me do my best, or my worst, while he watched from his stance above me.

When he tired of my inept attempts to take him completely into my mouth, he set about the task of undressing me. He was well-practiced in the manipulation of hooks and clasps on women's clothing. He chose to let the corset remain, but removed the garters and stockings.

He lay me back on the bed and made a thorough investigation of my body. He teased me for having breasts too small to wrap around his erection or give him any meaningful pleasure in that manner. He focused on more serious matters, using every technique at his disposal to bring me to a state of arousal equal to his own. His hands, fingers, lips and tongue danced over my skin in concert with his voice, low and sensual, as he spoke words meant for only me to hear.

I closed my eyes and gave myself over to his control, his safe-keeping. For a time, my mind, body and soul absorbed all there was of him; the sight, scent, sound, taste and sensation that were him became a part of me.

The sun and moon both were in the sky when I quietly tip-toed down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door with my shoes in my hand. He kissed me goodnight and I left him standing naked in the doorway with a subtle smile on his face as he watched me leave.

*****

It was well past midnight the following night when the silence was suddenly shattered. The soft drone of the radio, the constant whirring of the fan, even the sounds of the city night filtering in through the open window did nothing to mask the racket. A crack, a crash, a clatter; name it what you will, it woke the entire household. The neighbor's dogs began to bark.

The bedroom door flew open and the light clicked on. Emile stood there in the doorway. We were all a bit in shock, I believe. He was looking at me, and I at him, while Emile was staring open-mouthed at us both.

Emile spoke first, a barrage of Spanish, inquiring, no doubt, if we were both alright. I heard the thunder of Jesse's voice, from the next room. I had not yet met Jesse, and now I wasn't eager to do so anytime soon. Emile called something over his shoulder in response and Jesse went silent again. A moment later, we all let out one long breath jointly as he resumed his snoring. Jesse held the power to evict them both if he was unhappy. No one wanted to make Jesse unhappy.

It was an awkward moment when my eyes met Emile's. I was perched on top, completely nude with my hair the only blanket around either of us. Emile cleared his throat, averted his eyes and muttered an "Excuse me," in English. He had the decency to click off the light-switch before making any further inquiries or comments.

"Que paso?" Emile asked him in a hoarse whisper.

"Nada, nada..." he replied trying to dismiss the significance before we both burst into a fit of quiet giggles. Our amusement seemed to raise Emile's ire.

"Chingar!Que haces?" Emile hissed at him.

He looked up at me with a grin. "Que paso, eh, Cindy?" he teased before I collapsed on top of him with hushed laughter.

Emile spewed a string of curses at us both in Spanish. With one arm, he lifted me from him and set me aside as he tried to explain to Emile that the bed had suddenly broken. Emile was not nearly as amused as we both were.

He pulled on a pair of jeans while Emile continued to curse at him in whispers. I was searching through the tumble of sheets and linens to find any piece of clothing I could to cover myself. Emile watched for a moment before he disappeared and then quickly reappeared holding out a thick man's robe in the dark.

"Gracias," I murmured as I slipped my arms into the robe and wrapped it around me.

"De nada," Emile grudgingly replied. He began to assist in trying to unsnarl the debris and reconstruct the bedframe. After several minutes of working together in the dark, Emile switched on the light again and surveyed the damages.

There was much discussion, arguing and arm flailing before Emile made the proclamation, "We can't fix it tonight. He can sleep in my room. Come on in here." I was surprised by his magnanimous invitation.

I prevailed upon his hospitality further by asking for something cold to drink. Emile frowned at me but disappeared to the kitchen, and returned with cokes for all of us. He was still frowning when he popped the tab on one can and handed it to me.

"Como se rompio la cama?" Emile asked with a frown.

I don't know how I knew what he was asking, it just seemed the logical thing he would ask, so I repeated his question in English. "How did the bed break?"

"Si. Como? How?"

I shook my head and rolled my eyes at Emile in exasperation. At the same precise second, we both pointed to one another and then burst into a new fit of giggles. Emile dropped his chin and rubbed his forehead. When he looked up at me again, he was grinning as well.

"Eres unproblema!" Emile declared with a laugh.

He agreed with Emile, grinning as they teased me. "Cindy es problema. Muy grande problema." He then spoke to Emile at length. Emile listened and then turned his attention to me.