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Chapter 5 – Part 1, A Compulsive Slut
A few days later, after I recuperated from my near-castration by DeepThroat, we moved to San Francisco, California. We shopped around for an apartment, and got lucky, finding a flat right on Alamo Square. We both liked certain aspects of the bay area, the physical beauty of the city and of the bay all the way up to the border.
I started working while María studied English. At first, neither of us liked the gringo culture much, but I did OK, it was my native culture. María made friends initially among the other Latinos at her English school, but over time, our circle of friends expanded to the pale-skinned natives at my job and the other companies I contracted with. Other friends came from the parties and cultural events we attended – María’s exotic beauty attracted all sorts of people. I attended night-school to finish my engineering degrees and we made a few more friends within that group.
Within a few months of residency, we clicked on one cultural oddity that grew in importance in the years following. However dynamic and busy the folks were in their jobs and public spaces, they seemed to be adrift in their personal relationships. I noticed women looked in my eyes briefly in passing; searching; asking themselves, ‘Is he the One?’ Then they looked away, knowing I could not save them. So many homosexual men stared at me in the same manner that I wondered if I looked like one of them. María said the same about the men. And the people felt threatened by some undefined evil – the hordes of playing children were missing from the streets and parks, confined to safe areas under the hawkish eyes of theirs mothers.
We thought María needed more social interaction and exposure to English, so María exchanged private Spanish classes for English, and we revived the idea of tours to Guatemala. María missed her culture and family, and she would be able to travel more frequently as a tour guide. We took a seminar about arranging tours, figured out the logistics, and she started. Her tours were successful. Not only was she a beautiful and charming guide, but the destinations in Guatemala were exotic. María led 2-4 tours per year. Some tours focused on the Mayan ruins – I was concerned as I remembered how easily the Mayan men of that region seduced her, but I figured her time would be measured and she would be surrounded by her tour clients all the time. Just in case, I secretly searched her luggage for sexy lingerie and condoms before each trip.
María never felt at home in the USA, she thought the people were cold and frigid, and many women didn’t seem to like her, perhaps because of her beauty and obvious sexuality. She did make a few closer friends among the couples we came to know there, my work colleagues’ wives, folks she met at the Catholic church, and so on.
She felt sexually deprived, and tried to prick-tease and seduce men, but the men that interested her most were faithfully married, and the men seemed afraid of her, and well, just afraid. I worked long hours, so she had plenty of time and opportunity, but few adventures. Our box of condoms emptied much more slowly in the USA than in Guatemala. The dance clubs were just for dance, amateur rank, with no back-room sexual activities.
We noticed over time the other women in our social circles adopted some of María’s daring dress and behavior, which their men loved and encouraged. María had something about her – her looks, dress, smile, body language, attitude, something that made her appear like an easy slut. Women noticed and reacted even faster than men. Maybe people take the appearance of what they really are, or perhaps, they become how they look. Maybe both.
María also discovered how perverted, how deviant our previous sexual lifestyles appeared to the Americans. When she confided to her best friend, Terri, about her multiple lovers back in Guatemala, Terri was appalled. María divulged a few of the stories about the salsa club, the finger-fucking and vulva kissing, my participation as vulva cleaner in her adventures. Terri covered her ears and asked her to stop, she didn’t want to hear any more.
Our first years in San Francisco were pretty boring from the sexual viewpoint, certainly nothing to write about. María and I were also maturing, less hormonal, and the sterile gringo culture suppressed María’s natural sexuality. María stopped depilation in the USA, and horror-of-horrors, adopted some of the sterile American customs. She started wearing panties again.
The culture, my culture, affected me differently. It pulled me back in, corrupted me by its consumerism and commercialism. Something else in the culture, the puritanism, and work stresses seemed to separate us, to diminish our affection for each other, and I began to look at other women. María’s fine personal qualities I cherished in Guatemala seemed a poor match for American lifestyles. I again thought of María as my trophy slut, not my life-partner. I became infected with that particular strand of American puritanism and macho-ism – I didn’t want my future children to pass through a corrupted vagina that had welcomed dozens-of-dozens of other men’s penises.
I started looking for the woman that would replace María.
I first discovered María’s power over men outside the sexual arena in San Francisco. American men of all races were susceptible. I used her as an attack weapon to get what we wanted. I’d take her in full slut regalia to any negotiation with men. A deep cleavage would work wonders when we needed a loan or price discount. Cleavage combined with a generous display of thigh would clear almost any obstacle to what we requested. If she was wet, her pheromones perturbed every man around her, myself included, but I knew why and the end result beforehand. The men were incapable of retaliation or stonewalling in her presence. María perceived hardball negotiations as violence among men, and there was usually one man in a group that caused her to wet her panty.
I also used her to belittle other men – it was, ‘look what I have that you can only dream about’. When she was in heat or feisty, she could become a prick-teasing bitch. I throughly enjoyed watching men squirm under her attack. But in fairness, I gave them the chance to get even – I’d step away to the men’s room so they could slip her a business card or a proposition. And occasionally, one of the men, probably the one that wet her panty, would ravish her later. I wondered if I was pimping her, but decided I was not – I made no offer of her body. She freely chose her liaisons with them.
I never watched her fuck another man in San Francisco, the men were too square and inhibited to even consider the idea. If she returned home fresh from getting fucked, she’d have me lick their semen from her vulva, but she always insisted on a shower and douche before she’d let me fuck her. I still liked the taste and texture of semen mixed with the tastes of her vulva.
María discovered a lump in her breast, and the several days we waited for the results of the mammograms and biopsies were hell for her. Apart from the danger of cancer, the idea she might lose one or both breasts was devastating to her self-image. The diagnosis of benign yet possibly pre-cancerous cysts ended her use of The Pill. The doctor explained The Pill increased the risk of developing breast cancer. And all the other birth control methods available at the time represented one risk or another. So now, we were back to timing menstrual cycles and condoms. Ugh!
Against our rules, I had a few dalliances in San Francisco, women with whom I worked or studied. All were single, although I would have preferred the married ones. I half-truthfully told these single women my marriage with María was just convenience, I didn’t love her, it was to help her get her USA papers, etc., and I would leave her for the right woman. Those words worked every time the women held out for a serious relationship, they drew me in right between their legs.
Some of the women looked for any kind of sex in a city overrun with homosexual men. I suspect some of the older women heard the alarm in their biological clock and wanted a live sperm donor. But these affairs were infrequent, and none lasted more than a few fucks. María was quite simply so much more exciting than any of the pasty-faced, pale-skin women, and I always wondered afterward why I cheated. My search for María’s replacement went nowhere.
After she acquired basic English skills, María acclimated to the cultural and racial differences in the USA, and she had several casual affairs and numerous one-night stands over time. María discovered Asians – Chinese, Vietnamese, and Laotians in her English school. She joked she wanted to try a few of each race and nationality. At first, I tried to make sure she didn’t get too many hormones from any particular man. I remembered how sensitive she was to the hormones in semen, and I didn’t want to lose her until I had a good replacement lined-up, the woman that would be wife and mother.
With her exotic beauty and flirty attitude, María had no problems attracting single men. As my search for another woman continued, I allowed her to have longer-term affairs, even to take week-long trips away with them. I thought our breakup would be easier if she found someone else at the same time as I did.
Conspicuously absent from María’s large diet of men were the blacks, of which San Francisco boasted a large population. The black men seemed to have an affinity for Hispanic women, I saw mixed couples everywhere. The black men were quite handsome, and they hit on María constantly. María had a strong preference for black men going several years back, and I asked her once, “Why aren’t you seeing blacks?”
“The blacks here are different from the Guatemalans. They’re somehow more exotic. They are dangerous for me. I already have a good husband that wants me and I want to keep him. The others just want to fuck me. I’m ok with that but you don’t give up a man who really wants you for a few good fucks. The black men, they’re too dangerous.”
“You’re afraid they’ll steal you away from me? They’re just another penis.”
“The next time a black penis slides into me is the last time you’ll see me. Do you want that?”
“Of course not!”
It was exactly what I had wanted to happen. I felt guilty. At that moment – I was seeing a nice woman, a candidate to replace her. María gave me the key for how to get her to leave me. But after she said that, I couldn’t really encourage her to see blacks without revealing my ulterior motives, and I wasn’t ready yet.
Neither her lovers nor mine warrant any description, except her lovers fell in love with her, with her beauty and sexiness. Her breakups were noisy. She explained none of these men were ‘enough’ for her. When I asked about the men, she told me all the details I could stand. As time went on, I asked less frequently, then not at all.
My plan to replace her failed because she wasn’t looking for a replacement for me. She thought she had her permanent husband – a great husband from her perspective that let her satisfy her sexual urges with other men. She wanted new and exciting sex from these other men – the thrill of a new penis.
But I had matured and re-integrated back into my native culture, and María didn’t fit there. I recognized María was a compulsive slut, and that would never change. We had great times together, some exciting, painful, dangerous times together, and she was the best fuck I ever experienced.
My plan to replace her also failed because we still had those moments together when my longing and need of her overwhelmed me, when I couldn’t imagine my existence without her. Her bubbly spirit, her infectious laugh, her positive, always ready to get-go attitude, her joy of life, … I didn’t know if I could ever find all that again in another woman.
I sometimes lay awake at night, while the cold bitch nostalgia squeezed my heart, squeezed my testicles. We had done so much together, not just sexual adventures, but travel, the daily hum-drum of life. Life. She had her hooks deep into my life. My life would be so hollow without her. I thought, “Maybe that’s what love is, the deep-nostalgia of a relationship drifting apart.”
I realized I would never be able to leave her. Mocking myself, I thought again, “Maybe love is the impossibility of tearing out encrusted hooks.” She would have to leave me, and I knew just how to arrange that. I had to put some black men between her legs. That should be easy, she was a compulsive slut.
I made my choice. I hardened my heart. I told myself, “She’s history, I’m ready to move on.”
But not just yet.
End of book content.
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