Car-otica

So, it seems that everyone is trying their hand at eroticism these days, (spurred on by Yuré’s deliciously lascivious novela-a-entregas tale of Sol) and since some of you have yet to figure out that my other site is where such stories are cleverly housed, this is a one-shot-deal, posted here for your perusing pleasure. This is a story that I promised to just such a skinny boy with glasses (reader of my predilection) quite some time ago, but until now have been unable to write. It is one of my many histoires manquees. (Think of it like a sneak preview). Hope you enjoy it.



“You know, of course, that it is a ridiculous idea,” I leaned in and whispered in his ear, smiling devilishly, before slipping between our desks in the windy semi-abandoned classroom. The other two students hadn’t arrived yet, and our professor was undoubtedly doing his anti-carcinogenic yoga routine. He was recovering from a liver cancer, and insisted that his cure was based solely upon yoga and his consumption of uña de gato tea, obtained, he said, from the highlands of Peru.

He had an unremarkable name, and came from an unremarkable bourgeois family. For our purposes lets call him Roberto. He was unremarkably skinny and had unremarkable glasses. He wore unremarkable clothing that smelled, remarkably, of nothing. He did not wear cologne. He did not talk loudly. He did not offer his opinion unless asked. He was truly unremarkable in every way, except for one. His slavish and almost obsessive devotion to me, the way he watched me as we sat in our little circle in the grass, reading Huidobro and declaiming to the sky; to whoever might be within earshot, and not primarily absorbed in their cell-phone universe.

For the first six weeks of our seminar we bantered pleasantly, and I paid only minimal attention to his attempts at friendship, after all, I was still, I believed, in love with an older man, a man who had made it very clear that upon my removal from his direct sphere of influence (that is, his accidentally adopted country, and my incidentally parental one) our relationship was over. This thirty-year-old man who received the gift of my nineteen-year-old virginity so callously peeled me away and discarded my rapt devotion as if it were a tissue, which had served its purpose - after, of course, fucking me lovingly all the way up and down the east coast and then accusing me of emotional blackmail when I asked for more.

No, I had no desire for a skinny white boy studying communication, I was too busy being miserable loving someone who had made it abundantly clear that he did not want to love me (even if maybe he did despite his best efforts -sex being a powerful drug, and unending adventurous sex, an almost inescapable snare for men of all kinds). Roberto was quiet, calculating, he waited for the right moment to unleash his secret weapon: poetry.

“¿Vamos a la muestra de cine?” he asked slyly, perhaps divining that good film is my one weakness, “I have my car today, I’ll drive you home.”
How could I refuse when the alternative was an exhausting 2 hour journey by bus, then metro, then bus once more, besides, I was feeling a bit lonely and I had been spending altogether too much time moping around Tania’s bedroom, or fingering friends on Eudora from the isolation of the abandoned computer lab. In fact, this would be a perfect excuse to demonstrate to the forty year old lab director that I was absolutely uninterested in his increasingly crass advances. Do men never learn that lines like, “¿qué hace tan solita la güerita hermosa?” are an instantaneous turn-off? Ah well, at least walking by with Roberto on the way to the non-guarded parking lot (he was not nearly important enough to have a body guard hovering in the elite estacionamiento) might send the appropriate back-the-fuck-off message, so what if I wasn’t interested in Roberto?
“No nos extrañarán, vamos, anímate.”
“I don’t know about you,” I continued, accidentally brushing my body against his, sliding by, “but I generally come here to learn, and blowing off class for a movie just doesn’t do it for me.”
“Ok, so después… we’ll go to Perisur, then I’ll take you home.”
Fair enough, we stayed for class, and laughing about the professor, the wild-haired poet we had dubbed mitómano for his name-dropping habit and his “personal” connection to every major poet in the western hemisphere, we strolled by the computer lab, as per my request, and climbed the hill to the gravel covered plateau. His car was a beat-up, navy-blue vocho, not at all what I had expected, though I don’t know what I had in mind. Nervously he pulled his hair back from his face, as if it were long enough for a pony-tail, which it wasn’t, before opening the passenger door for me, leaning his head halfway across my belly as he groped for the key to his club. “Disculpa el desmadre.”
“Eso no es nada, deberías de ver mi carro…” I tried to set him at ease, though I noticed the frantic look in his eyes. Quick shuffling of papers and chamarras ensued, and he cleared a spot for me in the passenger seat, were I carefully arranged my belongings by my feet, while maneuvering the crackling plastic interior and creating sufficient foot-room for someone of my stature. This was the first time I had the chance at a sustained conversation with Roberto, and as he unfurled his interiority, soft-spoken, gently, I realized that I had unjustly underestimated him, he was much darker than I had imagined. We took the long way, up along the mountain range, observing the twinkling lights of the city below at dusk, the wind whipping us, and suddenly finding ourselves embroiled once more in the heart of the city, embedded in the traffic of the periférico, just before the twilight rainfall.
“Quick, before it pours!”
We raced inside, the chill of the damp cloth tight against my chest when struck by the air-conditioned theater raising my arm hair-follicles in excited anticipation. We settled in to our seats and my mind shocked itself by wandering to thoughts of amorous encounters in the darkened theaters of my youth, alas, it was a German film, and as neither of us had mastered that tongue, we were required to focus our attention solely on the glowing yellow subtitles, leaving no opportunity for wandering hands or gazes.

When we emerged, their was no sign of the rain letting up, so he bought me an umbrella at the Sanborn’s within the shopping complex, and we managed to wade through the parking lot once more to his car, laughing, critiquing the film about a clarinet player, daughter of two deaf parents. Our take was surprisingly similar, and I felt myself drawn to him in ways that hadn’t before occurred to me. He kept his eyes trained on the road, as the inefficient windshield wipers whacked helplessly at the sheets of rain that inundated us, I just kept watching him watch the road, unsure of what would come next.
After a long silence, he pulled up to the curb in front of the house where I was staying. It was near midnight and I didn’t want to go home.
I looked out the window, commenting on how the decaying dead dogs that littered the camellones, crushed in their famished wanderings, broke my heart. He breathed in deeply, “Escribí un poema por el estilo…”
I turn to focus my eyes on his suddenly remarkable brown ones, mine flash flecks of green fire at him. “Please do…”
And what spills forth from him is so violently beautiful, so scathingly scatological, so destructively erotic that I am left with my mouth hanging open in awe, lips parted as I suck my breath in, and as if my breathing acted as a vacuum, pulling his lips to mine as he leans in to run his hands through my damp hair. Our mouths connect, his tongue probing inside my mouth as one hand pulls at the hair that collects at the nape of my neck, tipping my head back his mouth wanders to my chin, my neck, sucking with certain vigor as the other hand traverses the elastic fabric that lays wet against my skin, pushing up, pressing my breasts up and out the top of my low-cut shirt into his hungry mouth.
The windows are beginning to steam up, and his hands are exploring every inch of skin that is available, his mouth returning to my own, intertwining his tongue with mine, pulling me across the drive shaft on top of him where he begins to lift the silky fabric that loosely covers my muscular legs. He is lifting me on top of him, squeezing and releasing my flesh in rhythmic thrusts, his face buried between my breasts, breathing fire tight against me when we hear three quick thumps on the now opaque window and we are blinded by the officer’s flashlight beam...