Posted by Matiz on December 23, 2000 at 15:40:22:
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She comes out of the shower wearing a towel around her hair to keep it from getting wet, and another towel wrapped around her body because she’s suddenly shy in the naked glare of the overhead bulb. The towel on her head comes off and she places it carefully on the floor next to her shoes. Wiping her feet on the towel, she steps into those absurdly tall high-heels that give her an added five inches of height. The muscles along the back of her calves and buttocks ripple as her body adjusts to the sudden change in stature. I’ve finished my business with her, and she’s earned her money well. I lie on the bed, relaxed, calm, sated, with an expansive feeling of well-being that only good sex with an enthusiastic woman can engender, and I watch her. Like a matador dressing for the next appearance in the bullring, she goes through her dressing ritual in a dignified, solemn manner made ruthlessly efficient by the hundreds, possibly thousands, of repetitions after sharing the pleasures of her body and satisfying her customers. The time “afterward” is poignant for me, even bittersweet. So much energy is expended in anticipation, in expectation, in the “chase”. Then, in a blinding, timeless blur of flesh, musky smells, and uncontrollable urges, it’s suddenly over. Only afterward, lying here watching her like this, is it possible for me to fully appreciate this woman—her beauty, her femininity, her inner light--to understand something, however little, of what she’s all about, and to reflect on why we two are her together in this cheap, tawdry room in the worst part of Tijuana. She takes her things from the top of the nightstand. Her skirt is just a thin wisp of blue material that seems to expand miraculously as she steps into it. It barely covers her buttocks. Her top, too, must be pulled on from the bottom up. Then there are strings to be tied, snaps to be, well, snapped. How the hell did I ever get it undone in the first place, I wonder absently as I watch her move about in her businesslike manner. Where there's a will, there's a way, I guess. She scrutinizes herself in the mirror, arches her back, straightening her shoulders. Then she reaches under her round breasts and adjusts them, tugging down on the top, pushing up on her breasts, revealing more cleavage. Then she gives herself a long appraising look in the mirror. What does she see when she looks at herself like that, I wonder? She told me she consideres herself a failure as a woman because she has never had a successful, long-term relationship with a man. It's a sentiment I've heard from chicas many times. To me, though, in this unguarded moment of vulnerability, she looks so childish, so innocent, and so sexy adjusting her breasts that I’m tempted to drag her back to the bed and do her one more time. Then I remember I’m not twenty anymore and the erection I’m feeling is entirely mental. She leans into the mirror, accenting the curvature of her ass. She pouts, applies the lipstick carefully, and then wets her lips with her tongue. Next come the cheeks, brushing them lightly with a feathery applicator. The mascara is in a long thin cylinder. She gives each eye a couple of practiced flicks with the tiny brush and blinks several times at herself. She puts her collection of bottles and brushes back in her vinyl bag and, after rummaging around for several moments, finally retrieves a spritzer of perfume. Several squirts on the neck, a couple of squirts on her wrists, and then one final blast aimed squarely between her tits. That’s the money shot, I think. At least, it worked on me. She takes a final look at herself in the mirror, and then tousles her hair with both hands. Almost magically, it falls into place in a neatly disheveled, sexy style. She’s going to slay the cabrons downstairs. She grabs her purse, turns around, and smiles at me. “Lista?”, I ask. “Si, mi amor.” Her tone is sharp and businesslike. The smile is forced. Thirty minutes before, her voice was soft, resonant, full of promises, like a sexy melody, and her friendly smile touched my heart. She takes a deep breath and exhales, as if she is preparing to dive off a high cliff. I stand up from the bed wearing only a towel and walk over to her. She leans toward me and, at the last moment, turns her cheek for a kiss. I oblige, kissing her lightly on the cheek as she places one hand on my forearm and squeezes it gently. Thirty minutes before, her tongue was exploring my back molars, and now she doesn’t want to mar her lipstick. Thirty minutes before, in the darkened room, she smelled of musk and sweat and sex. Now, perfumed and powdered, she smells like an expensive hothouse orchid. But that was then and this is now. Thirty minutes is an eternity in TJ. Time somehow operates differently here. In a few brief, exciting moments, prices are discussed, money changes hands, and doors previously locked are thrown wide open. What wasn't possible two minutes ago is now possible. Then, just as quickly, the doors slam shut again, almost as soon as the last spasms of pleasure are finished. It’s all part of the rhythm of this strange and wonderful subculture. As the sexual tension mounts, as she pursues and is pursued, every gesture, every lilting word, every rustle of silk and satin, holds the possibility, the certainty, of sexual bliss, of a fantasy realized. But afterward, there is only a wistful memory of a few moments of ecstasy, and the subtle pleasure of watching this beautiful woman put on her game face for yet another encounter. She grabs both doornobs, pulls with authority, and is gone, leaving in the room only the lingering fragrance of her perfume, a gift that fades almost before the door is closed. Que raro. Que bueno. I wish all my little matadoras love and prosperity and buena suerte in the new year. Matiz
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