I like to serve her coffee just before I fuck her. The stronger the better. She takes it stronger than I knew you could make it. Very sweet. Very creamy. Very rich. Very dark. If I make it close enough to the way she likes it, the way she makes it for herself in the morning...

My friends, my partners, they said, nah, it wouldn’t work. She’s just mystified by the language, and the legend of alien machismo.

“Did you hear what she called it? Spanish?” taunted Johnny. “Melodic.” Then he spit.

There were three of us in the back, lathering over her, making asses of ourselves, teaching her to speak Spanish. She only looked, really looked, at me. Maybe I was the only one who really looked at her.

He fucks me in two languages.

The other two, they said, “She’s easy.” As though a man should not, on principle, take an easy woman.

I think she was only easy for me. Which is why they sneered “easy”, as though it meant “cheap”. They knew. It scared them and their wifely fantasies.

Carl, the foreman, knew. He nodded at me in the rearview mirror. He knew what it meant. He approved.

I like to try to make her bleed, when she is heavy with the moon. I pretend. She can smell my intention. Her eyes grow wide just before I pierce her.

Sometimes I need her so much I try to make her cry out. Sometimes, she needs it as much as me, or more. Sometimes she takes me by surprise, and I cry out. Sometimes, afterwards, there are tears, hers and mine. Sometimes, we can’t let go of each other. Then, I dream in reds and blacks, and wake up fucking her again.

Sometimes in public, without thinking. Hard. To get her off my mind. I touch myself all the time, now, thinking of her.

Text & Graphics © 1999 by Gail Rae Hudson

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