Sour Dick-Sucking Lips (Part 2)

PREVIOUSLY: PART 1

She says something about visiting Guatemala, or Nicaragua, or maybe it was Honduras. It’s one of the countries that liberals filled with guilt visit they can take pictures of dirty children and return back home and brag to their other guilted friends about how much it affected them and changed their outlook on life. “But the children… they were so happy!” they say, as they chow down on free-range chicken and organic fruits bought at the Whole Foods in their up-and-coming neighborhood that still has a pesky crime problem from menacing black youths. Jerome, with a respectable three purse snatchings under his belt, nearly as poor Pepe in Tegucigalpa, is not deserving for help, unfortunately, and it would be better if rents keep going up so him and his family (five siblings in all), can be displaced somewhere in a distant suburb. Pepe, the rascally bastard (literally), has a stack of thirty-eight wallets neatly placed in the corner of a room he shares with his two older sisters, one of which turns tricks two blocks from the town square. She’s 15-years-old. The funny thing is that even if Rachel found out that Pepe is a thief—about to graduate to armed robbery and then organized kidnappings—that fact wouldn’t chill her heart to him any less, and she would rationalize by saying he was born disadvantaged and is forced to steal. Believe it or not, Pepe has an 8 gigabyte iPod Nano with the latest tracks from Fall Out Boy.

Rachel rambles on about how she found her soul in Honduras, I’m now sure it was, and my brain refuses to process her words in a way that I can provide a suitable response. The boat is ready to board and I can’t concentrate on having to get into new conversational topics. Besides, after four beers I’m only capable of deep bedroom stares. I get closer and then look over her right shoulder when I recognize a bald, skinny man with glasses sitting in a booth with two other men. It’s Stanley Clemens. Four years ago I worked with him in a biotech firm, and though we were in different departments we interacted quite a bit and shared a drink or two at company sponsored happy hours in the cafeteria. And by drink I mean Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers. Not me but him. I drank beer, like a man, but he would only drink the raspberry-pomegranate flavor and give off a faggy “Ahhh” after every third or fourth sip like someone was diddling his prostate. One of my coworkers told me that he once caught Stanley getting his dick sucked in his office by one of his hot-bodied subordinates, and looking at him within shouting range I simply don’t believe that a man who drinks fucking wine coolers got his shit gobbled on by a girl ten years younger than him in his office. I count on him not recognizing me and decide not to say hello.

Slightly bothered, I stare back at Rachel who wraps up something about how the non-profit work she does in Maryland is related to her interests in Central America. I continuously nod up and down like a novelty drinking bird and she finishes. Before a long silence envelops us both I ask her to repeat what she just said as if I didn’t hear, which technically I didn’t. I stare at her dick-sucking lips, ready to kiss her after what has now been four hours of talking, and she speaks again, slowly, because she understands and accepts what I’m doing. I squint my eyes and stare at her lips, and her speech slows even more until she trails off and leaves an incomplete sentence hanging in the air, and I carefully move in closer, and my eyes are almost closed now, and I inhale loud enough so that Stanley can hear, and our lips touch.

“You’re fresh,” she says. But she didn’t say it in English but Spanish, and I’m content that I understood what she said. Apparently she is fluent in Spanish but this means nothing to me and I close my eyes again and pull her towards me by using my hands, which are at her hips, and we kiss, very slowly, so that I can feel the softness of her dick-sucking lips, the actual tissue it is composed of and not just the outside texture.

Rather abruptly the song “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol comes on and I stop kissing for a second to look at the bartender, who knows me, I think—he should after all the girls I brought here—and he gives me this knowing stare as if telling me he did it on purpose. I shoot back a slight smirk by twitching my left cheek muscle and go back to kissing Rachel, whose lips are the softest I’ve ever experienced in my life. As a kid I used to make Toll House chocolate chip cookies from a recipe on the back of the chocolate chips package where each batch called for two sticks of softened butter. Sometimes I’d cheat and zap the sticks in the microwave for fifteen seconds or so but it would melt the surface and eventually give the cookies a flatter appearance. Well, Rachel’s lips were like butter softened in the microwave. The mood is perfect, her lips are perfect, and my game is perfect. Not long after I close out my tab, $45, by paying in cash. We leave and I make sure not to make eye contact with Stanley.

I walk her home less than a mile away and sober up quickly as we make our way through her ghetto neighborhood. Short, ugly Hispanic men shuffle around like large rats and I put my hand in the same jacket pocket of my portable canister of pepper spray. I’ve tested it outside before and it shoots a forceful, jalapeño-red stream ten feet straight ahead. To make sure the spray was the real deal I wafted the mist from the practice spray onto my face and immediately began a sneezing fit that lasted four minutes. I want one of these Mexicans to say something, anything, and then get a full blast of sauce in their face and cry, “¡Aye aye pero porque! ¡No me gusta! ¡En serio?!”

“Officer, he attacked me and I feared for my life.”

“I understand sir, I would have done the same thing. We’re going to export him back to El Salvador where it will take him at least six months and twelve gallon jugs of water to make it back to our country again. Damn wetbacks are ruining America.”

Finally we arrive at the lobby of her project and I take my hand out of my pocket. She stops by a wall of mailboxes, a quarter of which are broken and open.

“Can I use your bathroom?” I ask.

“My place is a hot mess.”

Hot mess… where have I heard that before?

“That’s cool I won’t look. I just want to pee. I’m about to urinate on myself.”

“I can’t let you in.”

“No, seriously. It’s burning like fire. You can blindfold me.”

“I’m sorry I can’t.”

“Alright well can you point me to an alley where I can relieve myself,” I bluff.

“Yeah there is one right there,” and she points next to dumpster encased in a wooden fence. Black graffiti lettering covers the large wooden door.

“Fuck, are you serious?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ll clean my place and next time you can come in. I promise!”

I don’t remember that ever failing me. Actually, it never has. Even when the girl has hated my guts she still let me in to use the bathroom. Sure she kept the front door open and waited by it impatiently with her shoes on, but making me use the alley? What kind of cold heartless bitch lets a new guy she’s hooking up with use an alley in the middle of the ghetto?

No, Rachel is shy. She is shy in an endearing way, in a way that only a girl who hasn’t had almost 100 cocks knows how to act. It was okay. She’s naïve. I kiss her goodnight, then piss in the alley, one hand on my dick and one on my pepper spray, which is in the shape of a small dick, so it’s like I had my hands on two dicks, and then start home. Sometime during the night she sends me a text message saying she had a great time. That’s the least she could do, and I smile when I receive it, like an artist smiles when he’s done with a painting he just finished. But really I just started the painting.

CONTINUED: PART 3

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