‘i have a question,’ was the text I received holding two-seven off suit, the greatest hand for poker and age for a rockstar. She’s either going to ask me if I’d love her as a worm or if I’m still in a relationship, I thought, considering my ex was all over my Instagram.
‘I may or may not have answer,’ I typed, preparing to fold so I could focus on whatever Tartarus conversation would soon consume me. But to my surprise, her text was a misspelled invitation to a hotel in Hollywood Beach. I whispered ‘I’m all in’ until I opened up my Google Maps to find it’s more than ten minutes away. It’s too far for pussy. I’m spending $100 a day to breathe in the crisp 66° air of my unfurnished apartment. I want to spend every waking moment here.
She told me, oh so eloquently, ‘u have to be here at noon. Exactly 12pm,’ so I could meet her best friend. ‘girls things,’ was the text that followed.
‘Whose card are we charging room service too?’ I replied.
‘she’s paying one night n I’m paying the other one’
‘What will you be wearing’
‘bikini probably’
‘Does me devouring you at a hotel count as a second date’
‘i think so’
I responded two hours later, ‘This time I’ll try not to kill you.’
Our first date was a near-death experience for her. Not in the romantic way, death by 1,000 orgasms. It was an allergic reaction. The waiter had asked if we had any allergies, I said one of my best quips, ‘Penicillin.’ Under her breath she supposedly whispered something about her being allergic to seafood. Over my breath I ordered the steak and lobster. She didn’t so much as look at it. I thought she was just watching her figure. She sat pretty and split a bottle of Shiraz with me. All was fine and dandy until my cross contaminated lips met with hers. We ended the night with the least sexy choking of all. It was like watching an ugly crier. I was left with a quite the convicted boner. I offered ibuprofen, cocaine, and more wine. She didn’t die. In the morning, I walked a what was left of her corpse out of my apartment, down 10 flights of my garage and out of my life, or so I thought. A week later, I was begged to make my second attempt at her life.
‘u coming?’ was the text I woke up to, long after the rooster screamed, not as a wakeup call but in agony as it melted to death in the Miami sun. Noon. Right on time. I looked at my phone. I had set my alarm for Monday, nice. I put on a pair of dark blue dirty jeans and a black button down, watered all eight of my dying plants, lathered myself in scents better pronounced with a French accent, grabbed a pair of turtle swim-trunks, my shades, and whatever Jack still had to offer, and left my beautiful apartment in the midst of a hangover. After a thirty-minute drive down my parking garage, I was entering a thunderstorm over i95—my favorite weather.
I arrived to a horde of manatees disguised as tourists. Rented cars were up and down the driveway and floral shirts were crowding the sidewalks. I scraped my way through and tucked my car into a nice little spot away from all the commotion, valet, it seemed. I shouldn’t be parking there, I thought, but I did anyways. ‘Fuck the system,’ I said to myself as I strutted into a hotel in the city I live to bang a two-weeks-removed Cuban immigrant without having to pay a dime for the room, the view, or the vagina. There was no fucking of the system, there was only sweet, sweet love.
The double doors opened automatically to a woman with an accent as thick as her ass, the likes of which my grandmother would’ve hated. Cubans hate Cubans. I don’t blame her for this one. She’s loud. She listens to reggaeton in the morning. She laughs in ‘jajas’ instead of ‘hahas.’ My type. She wore a black bikini and some fishnet thing over her shoulders, as if she just got off the boat. We exchanged kisses, compliments, smiles, and ass slaps straight to the elevator. I felt her up the entire 26 floors. Whenever I’d look at her too long, she would say, ‘staaaaahhhp.’ What the fuck else were we to do? Talk? I had nothing to say to her.
We reached the room. Laid before me were two queen beds and balcony with an ‘intracoastal’ view, which is a fancy way of saying ‘not ocean.’ It was so much worse than my apartment. She dove onto a bed—a much better view. I sucked Jack off for foreplay; I knew by now that she didn’t practice cunnilingus. We fucked, forty-five minutes of something that vaguely resembles love. I was dehydrated so I had to stop. No breakfast yet, barely any water. She clawed and bit and scratched and yelled. I watched her the entire time, all her convulsions, all her orgasms. I barely blinked. If the lights are on and if she looks good, I want to see it. I spoke throughout most of it, as I tend to, with a healthy compilation of grunts, moans, threats, and jokes. I was disrespectful and reassuring. I was rough and I was gentle. I was hard and it was easy. This part was always easy. Afterwards, she lied there like Woody from Toy Story.
I headed downstairs to the outside bar. It was closed. The sky was teasing us with darkness, but no rain. I would’ve had another excuse to sit my ass down at the inside bar and waste away. One drink and a lobster po-boy later, she pulled my arm and led me to the pool. We sat down in a corner far away from all the families. There were loads of them, all too fat to float. I smacked her ass as she left to get us some towels. Shades on, book in hand, drink slightly chilled, for a moment I felt more than pre-nut misery. She broke out of her fishnets and eased her way into the pool, complaining that it was cold the entire time. It was distracting. I normally get drowsy when I read. Now I was getting horny. She asked me to join her, I told her to beg. She didn’t. I joined her anyways. It was nice, not having to pay for this pool, wasting time with her. I needed a distraction.
As she rubbed up against me, I whispered into her ear, ‘let’s fuck right now.’
‘Oh mah gaaashhh,’ she said, ‘You’re crazy. There are kids here.’
‘Give them something to talk about on the flight home. A lesson on anatomy.’
‘Jeeeeesh.’
She was better at making sounds than conversation. I’d also come to learn that she can’t swim so this whole thing really was another attempt. It wasn’t long before we ended up back upstairs, this time, with about the same amount of passion I have while eating leftover steak. It was honestly just as fucking good with far less preparation needed. No turning on the propane. No gathering my utensils. No cleaning. Just tossing it in the microwave and let it spin for a bit. Soon enough, I was back at the bar, with the moon joining me comfortably over the shoreline.
‘Why am I here?’ I asked myself because no one else would.
‘I’m doing a service. A gesture of good will, a noble feat. I am as close to a hero as I’ve ever been. In honor of pride month, I’m spending the night with a tall, dark, and handsome man, Jack Daniels. He fills me up till I’m warm and fuzzy and disoriented—adjectives I normally use to describe the fairer sex and my air fryer, but you know what, I’m an ally tonight. Matter of fact, I’m an ally most nights, days, mornings, and afternoons, regardless of month, when it comes to Jack. I’m a piss poor ally, though. I haven’t finished him off, and that’s what friends are for, right? There’s about 1/6 of him left upstairs napping with the immigrant I just defiled. What a nice pairing. He’s made in America; she just got here two weeks ago. It’s fair to say she’s living the American dream: colonization,’ is what I scribbled on my damp notebook, wet from an unidentified substance on the bar, before she joined me.
My hand, cramping from the pen, couldn’t even hold her. It was okay. She was wearing jeans. They’re not fun to hold. She insisted on leaving the bar for the lounge. I told her I’d rather stay here. We compromised and left to the lounge.
‘Describe me in one word,’ she said.
‘Edible,’ was my answer, despite the fact I hadn’t eaten her out yet and had no plan on doing so—quid pro quo. She said she’d tell me her adjective by the end of the night. No fun.
‘You’re still in love with your ex.’
I nearly spat out my drink. But I didn’t, that would’ve been a waste of alcohol. But imagine it dripping down her chest. I’d bring out a straw. I’d slurp every last drop. She’d be sticky. I’d be okay with that. Still, I would’ve preferred the worm question.
‘Where did that come from?’ tumbled out of me.
‘It’s just obvious. The drinking. The writing. The fucking.’ Ouch. ‘You fuck. You don’t make love. You’re not ready to.’
‘What about you?’ I spoke. If I’m going down, someone’s coming with me. ‘You’re not the poster child for emotional stability. You love the beach, but you can’t swim. You’re always in the water yet allergic to seafood. I almost killed you, yet here I am, with a knife in between us.’
‘You’re dangerous,’ she continued, ‘but I like it. It’s fun.’
After some more verbal foreplay, she returned to the room. I went back to the bar. I wanted to finish this story in peace. My brain was firing on all cylinders, as it tends to whenever my two favorite two vices collide. I wanted to write the ending before it happened. I wanted to—I checked my phone.
‘You know what your word is? Red flag.’ Those are two words, but I let it slide since she was just now learning English. Before I could respond, she texted again, ‘But I’m colorblind.’
As I thought of what to say, six blue bubbles struck me down like Sisyphus’ stone.
‘let’s fuck.’
‘we don’t have to date or sleep together, or know each other.’
‘i spent such a good time fckng.’
‘so i rather keep it that way.’
‘it’s easier’
‘u agree?’
I didn’t agree. I mean, I kind of did, and still do, but a massive anal-gaping hole would’ve been left inside me if I were to pick up the stone again. She’d be another name on a list that I’ve lost count of; another reason to redownload Hinge; another a slutty girl who would live out the rest of her days in my dream journal; another number unsaved. I tried.
During the day, as we talked, I got as close to her past as I could without it affecting the future of the night. It turned out she left home and whatever guy made it feel like home. It was the same sob story as me. But I’m the Cuban guy who stayed. The more I listened, the more she wanted to speak, the more I realized she was more than a good fuck, the more I noticed that my grandmother was only slightly right, Cuban girls are toxic but also so damn sweet, like chamoy pickle kits, the more I knew it was a choice to not take her seriously, a conscious effort on my part to supplement any possible real connection with slapping and fucking and unfortunately not cumming, yet. I wanted to get to know her, at least a little. But she didn’t. So, we compromised. I went upstairs. And fucked her. This time, she sucked my dick. This time, I came. This time was the last.
