This is chapter 9, part 1 of the Pleasing María novel. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by explicit descriptions of sexual activity or violence, or by strong language, please exit this site immediately. To view the Table of Contents of the novel click here. To go directly to the first chapter, click here. To read the latest novel post, click here. This is a rough second draft.
Chapter 9 – Part 1, Romantic Mexico
My engineering contract ended as I finished my graduate degree program. We had saved up some money, and I decided I wanted to return to Latin America. María never really blended well in the USA. The grayness and fog of San Francisco depressed her, and she found the culture cold and sterile. Her experiences with the Pol and prostitution had not panned out well, and she had few good friends. She complained her casual lovers were good, but she was ready again for the sexy dance partners and the wild, spontaneous sex and screaming orgasms she remembered from the salsa club.
Still, María was ambivalent about leaving, but gave no good reason for staying. She still saw María-lover, her Hispanic lover, and some casual lovers and clients, but she said, no, they weren’t the reason. I knew in general, she didn’t like the USA.
I immediately ruled out returning to Guatemala to live – I didn’t want to take our school-age son into an earthquake zone. After a lot of discussion and map gazing, we decided to explore Mexico over Ecuador, Argentina, and Colombia. Mexico is well-located for visiting both our families, and has a vibrant culture.
I suggested we visit Guatemala first to get married, but María said it was too soon. Her family detested her, and she might still be the town whore.
We went to a Mexican Consulate to check out marriage in Mexico, but a religious marriage required a civil marriage (they didn’t trust the Guatemalan marriage documents), and the legal requirements were burdensome.
So, for the moment, it would be Mexico YES, wedding NO.
Our goodbyes with Terri and Drew, and Nanny and Satyr were difficult. We had formed deep bonds of shared life and sexual experiences. We had dinners and parties, and lots of crying promises to visit each other. Then it was done. We left San Francisco for good.
* * *
As we drove away from San Francisco, we felt a huge relief, a decompression, a burden lifting from off our backs. By the time we hit Arizona and New Mexico, we felt the Latino presence, of returning to the human warmth of Latin America. The closer we got to the border, the faster I drove, until I earned a $300 speeding ticket. We swore we’d never go back. Driving down through Mexico, safely away from the US culture, we began to talk and reminisce. María told me more stories about the Pol, the ‘rides’, the parties, and the politicians. Then about her call-girl clients, the Photog, her boss at the apartments, and her lovers. Her story took on a shape, almost physical, of relentless sex, sexual abuse and sexual pleasure, a shape filled with intertwined legs, groping hands, licking tongues, sucking lips, banging penes and hungry vulvae. She began crying at one point, and Brett cried because she cried.
Did she regret anything? She didn’t answer, she continued narrating.
One of her clients was not. He didn’t pay her, she paid him. He was a psychologist, and he was the only man, besides me, that seemed to understand her sometimes. Initially, he thought she was a nymphomaniac, driven by feelings of inadequacy. She told him everything, and he seemed to know so much about her. He joked she charged 4 to 8 times his rate for a session.
In their last session, just two weeks before, he told her many of his clients were her clients. They talked about her constantly, each from his or her own experience. He knew it was a conflict of interest, but he couldn’t help himself – she had him as tied-up as she had her clients. Some of his clients were the politicians she had known intimately.
Amongst many of these people that had relationships with her, there dwelt some pathology, some desperate need for her. He had it too. He told her he would pay her the full rate for men, if she would be his love for just one moment. She would. At the end, after her orgasm, she whispered she loved him. She dressed to leave and sat to await payment. But he sat on the floor, naked, in front of her, laid his head in her lap, and cried. She didn’t have the heart to charge him, and he had helped her so much.
Gloom had permeated the car, as thick as fog. Brett whined like a cold, wet puppy. Politicians, old-family rich, high-tech rock-star CEOs, their husbands and wives, lives whose substance was more void than substance, desperate for a scrap of genuine affection. Desperate for a María. I remembered her magazine cover – ‘Be the Woman Every Man Wants’. I pulled the car over and lay my head in her lap.
‘Desperate’ is such a small word.
And Brett cried because I cried.
I later asked her, “What was the final verdict of the shrink? Are you a nympho?”
“He couldn’t decide. He gave me a bunch of psycho babble, but in plain terms, nymphos don’t normally enjoy their excess sex like I do, and aren’t engaged with their partners. He said my engagement with my partners was more intense than normal people with their spouses. More like honeymooners. His concern was his clients, uh, my clients, had lots of problems with their partners because they fixated on me. That void in their souls – they had been searching for me, they wanted me to complete them. I was destroying marriages. It made sense.”
I said, “So many materially rich people, they had to buy love from a Guatemalan girl. Many of them were so twisted with wealth and power. At least none of those slime-balls tried to put you into pornography.”
“I think pornography is fine, however explicit it might be. But it should never degrade the man or woman. I think they knew I would never do degrading displays. That’s not sex.”
I had a sudden flash of insight. California, the liberal state, had gone much farther than most states in suppressing economic liberty. And they had injected violence and coercion into love. This is why we driving through Mexico.
* * *
We stopped in the little town of Guanajuato in the central highlands, my favorite stopover from my first trip through Mexico on the way down to Guatemala before I met María. This became our base for exploring, and after visiting some 20 candidate cities in Mexico, we settled on … Guanajuato, a spectacular town with a large university. We were both happy to make a new home back in Latin America. We roamed around the town gawking like tourists, pleased to talk again entirely in Spanish. It was romantic. The foreign tourists said Guanajuato is the most romantic town in Mexico.
Guanajuato was a delight of women. The University attracted the best and brightest of Mexico, most of them women, and after a few generations of self-selective breeding, the quality of appearance and intelligence of these women had gone ballistic. Not only for the university students, but for the young married women, and even their daughters. The school girls dressed in uniforms – short plaid skirts, calf-high white stocking, and thin white blouses that did little to disguise budding breasts, with or without bras. This would be a pedophile’s dream, but fortunately, the Mexicans protected their children better than the Americans.
The women knew how to dress for maximum impact. A few of the women here could make a solid challenge to María for beauty and sexiness. As the capital of the state with the same name, the town was full of politicians and all the parasites that suck off governments, so I thought María might feel right at home.
The current generation of men were as mediocre as the women were outstanding. The younger men seemed softer and feminized. María noticed this first. They looked at María but said nothing, and looked away if she looked back at them. María said they looked at her, but they didn’t rip her clothes off with her eyes. I wondered if the North American plague of feminism and political correctness had infected the University. Then I noticed the homosexuals were more open in their public affection. Later on when we made our first friends among the students, the women confirmed that good men were hard to come by. These feminized men were all they had ever known – the women thought they were normal.
In jest, I told María she should try out a couple, a suggestion that should never be made to a woman like María. She seduced a couple of the most audacious, and pronounced, “If all Mexican men are like this, Mexico is in deep trouble.”
I said, “Hmmm, the next big migration of Mexicans may be women going north for the men!”
She countered, “I think they’ll likely be going south.”
* * *
From our first day there, Maria got a lot of attention. She was beautiful and sexy, but her style of dressing and her exotic accent and vocabulary made her stand out. She had a musical lilt, a soft sing-song that immediately identified her as a foreign Hispanic. Her accent was further altered by her English corruption of certain Spanish sounds. Listening to her speak was aural delight.
Her body language was subtly different from the Mexican women, more suggestive and provocative – her body movements said, ‘you can have me’, and the Mexican men immediately picked up on this. I got used to men visibly undressing her or turning to look back at her after passing, eyeball fucking her.
Brett wanted to live in an apartment with some young schoolmates. They came from other towns, shared housing, and went home on weekends. We could see no good reason to say no, the cost was moderate, he would be close by, and he searched for his own identity. And we had one selfish reason to say ‘yes’ – it would facilitate María’s lovers. He didn’t own much stuff so I helped him pack and move. María cried after he left – he was still her baby.
Politicians and many academics were especially attracted to María. Maybe the politicians recognized her as one of them. She was exotic, erotic, foreign yet familiar, and married – the everyman´s wet-dream mistress. Married to a gringo clinched the package – cheating the gringo would be like savoring a fine wine, and they hit on her relentlessly. I wasn’t concerned, I’d been through this already, and I knew María. She would likely fuck a few for the raw sexual pleasure, but she wouldn’t get serious about political slime again.
María was more interested in dance-heat than slime-heat. We hoped to find great Latin dance clubs in Guanajuato, and were disappointed that most dancing was now the modern spastic jump-up-and-down dancing found in the USA. We also discovered Guanajuato was a conservative town with a strong Catholic tradition, and the sex-dance clubs we loved in Guatemala didn’t exist anywhere close by, just second-rate sleaze joints in Silao, León and Irapuato. There were a couple of salsa clubs, one catering to folks above the college age, but we seldom went – the choking cigarette smoke drove us out.
We decided to start dancing again by taking ball-room dancing classes (for my benefit) in La Casa de la Cultura, but they bored us to tears. We found a private instructor couple for Argentinian tango (from Cuba, no less). But I didn’t have the balance and body control tango requires, so María went alone. She discovered the joys of menage-a-trois with the couple, and I was pleased – this was much safer than a male lover. I sensed the Mexican men could be much more dangerous to our relationship than the gringos.
End of book content.
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