After several months in Mexico I found myself drifting about Cancun searching for a boat to Cuba. One such afternoon I was pottering about Isla Mujeres when I swapped numbers with a rather attractive Mexican lady.
She was slightly older but several degrees more glamorous than I, and she had breast implants which automatically cause one to wonder if she’ll be superficial. An unfair judgement which I’m certain we all make. For what difference are my body modifications to hers? What difference is it to be covered in tattoos or have cosmetic re-adjustments to your breasts?
She was playing on the beach with a child who turned out to be her nephew. We exchanged details and I said I’d meet her in Cancun in a week.
Alas…‘let’s meet at five today,’ she insistently declared.
Five is a conservative hour. An hour for tea, not for drinking and romance. This will last barely an hour, I thought. She clearly has no intention of dragging this into the early morning.
I, and several Mexican men, watched her arrive with an air of sexual opulence. Heels, boobs, tight jeans and nail varnish. Whilst I: baggy trousers, a vaguely clean wife-beater and a moldy pair of converse trainers. I had washed and, with some success, didn’t smell, but I was without deodorant. My couch-surfing friend attempted to attack me with aftershave, but I can’t abide that poison and always preferred to be a little more natural.
Now, this isn’t the first time I’ve gone out with a woman clearly a hundred times more elegant than I. A woman whose interests clearly differ savagely from my own. A woman who has never been to a rave, enjoyed the delights of liquid acid whilst pottering around a street corner in search of her own thumb, never desired to get down and dirty, never tattooed her own tits, never squatted, never begged, never spat in someone’s face, never reached the bottom of the pit and thrown all beliefs into the prevalent hurricane. (To be fair, I suppose not many women have. Is it possible that I’m setting the bar too low?)
From such past encounters I learned to never make the mistake of thinking: why me? Surely she should be out with the rich and famous; men in suits with shiny watches and dazzling cars; men who work all day on their tan, physique and haircuts or their money, success and fame. Wouldn’t she rather be out browsing shops in search of Louis Vuitton and a dictated ‘happiness?’ I could offer her none of those material ‘delights.’
But such thoughts will result in one feeling inadequate about oneself – not rich/successful/commercial/corporate/handsome enough. Bollocks to that. Maybe she is just bored. Or maybe, like the rest of us, she is looking for a genuine escape, or a more ‘truthful philosophy.’ Maybe she’s looking for something different, and maybe I am precisely that.
I’m sure there are things we could show each other. Exotic varied methods of living, loving, pleasuring each others senses.
Either way, as I sat there in my stained Primark vest and rotting trainers I knew to be nothing but who I was. To not be a fool and get discouraged by her glossy style. She is just a girl and I am just a boy, hanging out. Styles and tastes don’t mean shit.
So it was all good…until I thought, too good to be true? And that is when an unpleasant thought materialized. One which may be linked back to the seductive supermodel who beckoned me the other day until I realized, close up, that she actually had a g-string full of cock.
Luckily I avoided that one. But has it come back to haunt me?
So I sat there, listening…all the while covering the bases and checking the unequivocal zones: throat, hand size, 5 o’clock shadow, shoulders. No Adam’s apple, no mannish hands, no stubble on the upper lip, no broad figure.
Therefore I was clear.
Even if she does turn out to have a penis at least it’ll make an amusing story. Something to write home about. But what exactly would I do if she/he did?
But why the sudden fear?
I put it down to her mannerisms – too feminine for a woman. Too faye of a limp wrist, too effeminate of a quivering lip. And why are all the men staring? Is it because she is beautiful, or is it something else? Something darker, more sinister…
We got in her 4×4 and drove to a fancy restaurant and drank tea. She couldn’t drink due to the medication she was on after the operation. What operation? My mind began to fumble.
‘My breasts were rejecting the implants…’
Whewwww, My mind deflated from it’s ever rising suspicion.
So she had them upgraded. They did have a to-good-to-be true look to them when I first saw her, but honestly I’m a guy and they were jutting out above-averagely. Primal brain was ecstatic. Logic brain was on it’s tippy toes.
Despite our social or philosophical or whatever differences we had, a blatant connection was struck up, as if all tastes and personal habits dissolved and all that remained was a familiar frequency. We didn’t care for each other’s taste in music, in films, in books, in clothes…perhaps all art is trivia…or simply all artistic opinion is meaningless? And I know what you’re thinking, but no – this wasn’t simply a case of a mutual desperation to get laid as we nodded away and ignored the differences whilst yearning to get naked. We took a genuine appreciation in the other’s taste in things – because it suited them and we were fine with that.
‘I like your style,’ she said. ‘I wish I could be more like you.’
I wasn’t sure how to take this. There she sat, all rings and gold jewellery, all Miami-styled pants and Colombian-themed breasts, all flashy nails, perfectly conditioned hair and a made-up face while here I was with fungus in my shoes, holes in my clothes, stains on my face. Not several degrees far from maggots, gangrene and several traveler’s STDs.
And then I thought it was over, after she texted on her phone for the seventh time. ‘It’s business,’ she said waving her hand in the air to reassure me her distraction wasn’t because I was boring. Though I couldn’t help but feel the tractor beam of interest for the glorious things spewing from my mouth was broken. Did I just lose this sexy Mexican girl’s (boy?) attention to a text?
It had been…nice, I thought. Pleasant. Even interesting.
When suddenly: ‘Let’s go to the beach.’
Back in the Hotel Zone, finding nowhere to park, then out of nowhere – like a fable or parable, I always forgot which is which, but the one with miracles in it – finally parking. Then, as gracefully as any mismatched pair can manage, passed through a restaurant, where the eyes from the patrons affixed their gazes on us as we marched silently and stoically to the beach. As we hit the sand we took off our shoes and walked along the empty beach. Distancing ourselves from the din of frat parties and Jersey Shore kids. And there, like an oasis, stood an undisturbed white, four-poster bed in the sand.
I would like to say it was romantic: under the moon, on a semi-Caribbean beach at night, the sky filled with stars, soft Mexican music in the background, a clean and lonesome white bed. But I couldn’t help thinking that this was the scene for a porno…or a scam. Any second now she’s going to whip out her dick and the Candid Camera Crew are going spring out and mail my mother the evidence.
Fuck it. Let them scam me. At least we can all have a jolly old laugh over Christmas dinner…and if I’m wrong, if she/he really is a woman, and she really does want to sleep with me…then I’m winning.
As we lay down and stared up into the abyss I hoped she wouldn’t ask what I was thinking about.
She had no male friends it seemed. All she had was a girl team of chums and a boyfriend ten years older who cheated on her.
‘And you’re still with him?’
He was tall, skinny, ‘and ugly,’ she said.
Stupidly I asked: ‘why are you with him?’
‘Not sure,’ she said…something about him looking after her…or did she mention kindness? Maybe even the word ‘amor’ was muttered.
This wasn’t exactly ‘wild’ – kissing on a beach. But I guess you have to start somewhere.
‘Oh wait…’ I dimly realized. ‘Is he rich?’
I sighed, laughed to myself and continued to gaze up, thinking that perhaps I was wasting my time and that I really ought to be looking for that magical boat to Cuba.
But we had gotten close – in every aspect. I cannot explain it. So obviously different, but here we were chatting constantly and holding limbs. Yet the surreal doubt of her genuine gender remained.
Don’t be stupid. Her feet are tiny. This isn’t Thailand…if it was – you’d have reasonable suspicion.
Who cares? Even if she does turn out to have a penis at least it’ll make an amusing story. Something to write home about. But what exactly would I do if she/he did? I’d definitely be impressed by the wondrous effects of surgery; and if it was not a penis but a vagina with a somewhat strange and elongated clitoris then I think I’d still sleep with her/him. Any person born that way, so like a woman clearly must be a female inside. If it smells, looks, feels and tastes like a woman, then….
What would be the harm of it? I was pretty certain I wouldn’t care. She is beautiful. I’ve had a delightful evening. Hell – we could even have a remarkable relationship. Adopt some Mexican children and have rampant, slightly gay, slightly pornographic sex all day. And nobody would know our secret.
Granted…it might be a tad odd. But still remarkable.
Well, I thought, it’s time to find out. And I leaned across to kiss her. Him? It?
Soft, moist, feminine. As her body pressed against mine I could feel her false mammary glands poking into me like a couple of extra large and over-ripe tomatoes.
Definitely not a man. Thank fuck. (Although, it would have been amusing.) She genuinely is this attractive, just a little hidden behind the glamorous fashion, large tits, make-up and my random burst of paranoia.
‘I’ve never done this before,’ she said,
‘What – kiss on a beach?’
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘I mean I’ve never just met a man like you and just done what I’ve wanted. My life is very…conventional.’
Jesus. I had found some hidden treasure – beautiful, humble, inexperienced. There simply had to be something wrong. And if it wasn’t a penis…then what was it?
This wasn’t exactly ‘wild’ – kissing on a beach. But I guess you have to start somewhere. We had also, apparently, broken several rules by parking where we had, going through the restaurant and hanging out on the private beach. ‘I don’t really break rules,’ she said.
What could one say? Except, perhaps, rather cheesily: ‘it makes life more interesting.’
We returned to her house: a soulless, un-lived in building with Ikea-like bits and pieces that were utterly meaningless. You know the type: cane sticks in a glass vase, a silver bowl with a silver apple inside, a pristine glasses/cutlery/chair set. Even the sofa looked like it hadn’t been touched.
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Three years.’ It seemed like two weeks. A cleaner came every week. Fuck knows why.
We lay in bed and she told me the story of the man who keeps her, like a locked up toy, in this house as he paid for everything. She told me he was married and that he was helping her set up her shop. I began to ask if she was happy and then, perhaps a little too much, began the analysis and claiming that she had no freedom. Of course…in Latin America – well, the entire world really – freedom is measured by financial security and the number of toys one owns…still, lets not go into that here.
What happened then? Well…we eventually did sleep together, if a little awkward. Her age showed for nothing and her inexperience spoke volumes. There was no energy, no passion, no spice. I would like to detail to you how she wriggled against me, alongside me, into me; how her back arched into the bedsheets as I looked down at the perfected Latin-shaped heart of her buttocks. I would love to describe to you the variations in rhythms and movements…from passionate love-making to some brutal hard-fucking where a good portion of me existed inside of her, wriggling about like a perverted and cancerous viper forever, as she pressed that tropical skin and those marvelous breasts into my face, groaning and screaming and sighing and aching as if I was murdering her at different intervals. But no – sorry dear readers – this was a horrendous anticlimax, this was one of those ‘dead-fish experiences’ where one feels almost awkward being there. I was a stale mechanism – a cog driven by a lever she didn’t really want to pull, it seemed. I was basically doing my morning exercises: a couple of sets of push-ups without any dips. What was I doing here? And why wasn’t she into this? Had I lost something? Or was it a simply case of sharing no connection? Was she just bad at sex, or was I?
Eventually it came to an end. Bland. Possibly the worst word to describe sex on any scale. And I thought: a gay man would have put up a better fight.
But then…she also insisted that we turned off the light…leaving me to wonder: what didn’t she want me to see? And then I thought that perhaps, after all, there really might have been a clitoris that was a little too long and desensitized. But I never saw it, and I’ll never really know.