in Sex and Love

Shaken, Not Stirred

I’d just finished ghosting an article for another crap e-zine, and was resolved to spend another quiet night alone playing poker in my el Cangrejo apartment when the phone began to vibrate.

“Hi,” a female voice said.


“I hope you don’t hate me.”

“Hate you?”

“That was just an opening line. I was nervous about calling.”

Christ, I hadn’t heard from Lizi in 6 months. She’d stopped taking my calls around the time the heavy rains of Panama’s winter had returned.

“So, how are you – como estas?” I said.

“Good, I was over in Patilla tonight with this hot guy.”

“Oh sure,” I said laughing, “and now you’re calling me, leaking fluids like an old Ford pickup.”

“You know, I really miss that about you.”

“They all do.”

“They? … I just wanted you to know that it wasn’t the sex.”

“No?” I said, trying to remember. But the images were malformed, as if they’d been melted by time, and tropical heat.

“I’m turned on by you. I just think we’re not compatible.”

“Compatible? I’m an impoverished writer, you’re an underpaid escort. I like Latinas, you’re a gringuera. We’re both fiendishly attractive, and christ, everyone knows sex makes the world go round.”

“In Panama it’s amor,” she said.

“Love? – you mean love of sex?”

Lizi giggled.

“Wanna meet at Manolos for coffee – I’m a little drunk.”

“No thanks,”

“That was an invitation.”

“I know, but fuck, its almost 2am.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding sad.

“Come over,” I said finally. “I’ll throw some coffee on, or would you rather have rum?”

45 minutes later our 2nd round of Cuba Libres sat on the balcony railing untouched. Lizi had already told me about her painful breakup with a gringo from Texas, updated the status of her 2 daughters, the health of her mother, and was now riding me, rather violently I must say. It put me in mind of a campesina flogging a lazy burro on her way to church.

In no time her energetic riding paid off. The sounds of Lizi’s orgasm floated down to the little green pericos that frequent the trees along Calle Alberto Navarro. “Mmm, I could get used to this,” she whispered. “You can be the lover who helps dress me and paint my toenails before my dates. And I’ll come back and fuck your long cock and tell you all about it.”


This is why I could never work for the CIA. Nothing is sacred when I’m caught between the thighs of a beautiful liar.

“Um, ok,” I said.

“And I’ll help you find your soul mate.” She said.

“What makes you think you’re not my soul mate?”

“No. I can’t go there again, it hurts too much. I made plans. I told everyone about us. My family. You forgot my birthday, and you didn’t come with me for my friend’s wedding.”

When confronted with Lizi’s long list of my horrible sins, I did what I always do, I said something flippant like, “Jesus, I am such a cunt.”

“It’s not a joke,” she said.

I knew that. Just as I knew there was a small part of me that still loved her. But with Lizi love was a feeling that got quickly strangled. I pondered telling her the truth; that one day I realized it was over, and rather than hurt her, and cut it off clean, I hardened, hoping she’d find someone else. But then I remembered I still hadn’t had an orgasm. I mean, I’m all for honesty, but what’s the rush?

A short while later a sudden downpour forced us inside. I grabbed the drinks as fat drops hammered down, splattering the balcony and filling the streets below. Lizi waited in my sala, dripping onto the cool tile floor.

“Like an ol’ pickup,” I said, laughing.

She looked down at the puddle between her legs, and then back at me.

“Fuck you,” she said.

I gave her a towel and watched her dry that tight butterscotch body. I recall there was a brief struggle to pull her jeans over her still damp thighs.

“You wanna stay?” I said, forgetting why I really didn’t want her to.

“No, my daughter’s are at home.”

And that was pretty much it. Lizi lingered at the iron gate on her way out. I remember looking at her wet black hair, moisture seeping through her red top, and thinking she no longer seemed so bold and depraved. Ok, maybe just a little depraved.

Lizi pulled a slick red cell phone from her Kuna-style pouch, called a cab in rapid-fire Spanish, and stared back at me, as if she was deciding something for herself. Just then, lightening flashed in my slider, thunder exploded overhead. Several car alarms were triggered, and Lizi looked shaken.

“You ok?”

“Yes.” she said, in that endearing little girl voice.

We hugged.

“Don’t call me,” Lizi said finally, turning away, and descending quickly towards the street below.

(people ask all the time how do you find girls like lizi? well, i first met her on adultfriendfinder when i was still in the states. if you’re looking for sex or love, i highly recommend them. try writing several girls before you travel. set up a few dates when you hit town. then pick the one you like best.)

Care to Comment?


  1. Yeah man…next time lizi comes by with that tight butterscotch body…start pouring the rum and hit it….You are my second favorite writer…although to your credit, hemmmingway did not get as much pussy as you.

  2. Holy crapola loved discovering your stories…be amazed I'm a 52 year old woman, still a looker but living in the sticks of Alaska. Good tale, more please. Intend on slaking my wanderlusts and others soon in Costa Rica. good job. 7/29/09

  3. thanks for the kind words. i am out of Panama right now and busy with other things. but you can be sure i'll post more stories down the road. have fun in CR.