Love at first drink

was probably too much to hope for. But two glasses into a carafe of sangria, Alejandra was flirting and asking if I had a “serious” girlfriend. Five glasses in, she was wild-eyed and slurring:

- Honey, te quiero.

We hailed a taxi outside Las Bóvedas. Alejandra slid across the seat and said she wanted to come home with me. I was happy. I was scared. I was thinking: why the fuck don’t I have a tub of Viagra for situations like this?

Of course a bold writer would’ve already left the city. He’d be pissed on rum, hacking his way up the Camino Real, following the faint echo of Drake, Morgan and thousands of long dead cimmarones. The thought kept nagging at me: if I was really committed to this path, what was I doing here?

Alejandra was a detour into the unknown. She wasn’t the way. Still, there was much to like about her. And if this beautiful, ninety-five pound Colombian wanted to come home with me, was this really the moment to embrace testicular discipline?

Such were my thoughts as our taxi rolled through the city. From Casco Viejo to Cangrejo, the streets glistened, as if they’d been dusted with foil. In front of my building I opened an umbrella. Alejandra leaned in close as she stepped from the cab.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. I wanted to savor the moment: the excited sounds of water falling on cars and buildings, rushing down gutters, the frothy runoff, gurgling, flushing the street, the palms writhing in ecstasy above us. It was all so perfect.

I opened my eyes. Alejandra was on tip-toes. She arched her back and kissed me. I could taste sangria on her thick lips.

*****

The elevator in my building had been out of service for three weeks. So we had to climb past my drunken doorman, peeling paint, broken fixtures, and up five flights of stairs. I’d tell you my intent was to live like Orwell in “Down and Out …”, but high speed cable, privacy, and hot water are luxury items in Central America.

And I had all three. To a gringo I was poor, a loser. To Alejandra, I could have been Donaldo Trump. And that seemed to please her. I know it pleased me. She turned on the TV, then disappeared into a hot shower.

I called at her though the door:

- You have any of that smoke left?

- Que?

- Remember smoking-up in front of my building a week ago?

She came out wearing one of my T-shirts, a wet towel wrapped around her head.

- That was you?

Alejandra started laughing. Then she pulled a thick joint from her bag:

- Panama Red, she said, coughing and expelling a stream of smoke across the room.

- You know my first girlfriend turned me on to Panama Red. She was Colombian too.

- Verdad?

- Well, part Colombian. I think her dad was Irish. She almost took my virginity that summer.

- Almost?

- It’s a long and painful story.

- You love her?

- I was 16, she was 17 and hot. My dad had just died – what the fuck did I know? I’ll tell you this, I was crazy about her until she slept with two of my friends. After that, not so much.

Alejandra put her head on my chest, like she was checking for a pulse.

- I understand, she whispered.

I don’t really think she did. I wasn’t sure I did. Sometimes I think that girl twisted me for life. But I let it go. We passed the joint back and forth. The TV flickered in the corner. We were watching news of another kidnapping in Colombia.

- It never stops, she said.

She was scowling at the TV.

- What’s that?

- The violence, the kidnapping, the killing. It in our blood. Four hundred years … four hundred years of death and sorrow.

She shook her head. I wrapped her in my arms, inhaled the clean scent of her long black hair. Then I kissed the top of her head. I just wanted to console her. I swear. But my dick’s always been a fucking sociopath. It was hard and pressed against her.

She groaned. I took that to mean we were done with Colombian lamentations. I pulled her shirt over her head and pinned her wrists to the wall. She stood there, hands up, eyes partially covered by the shirt, like she was ready for a firing squad.

I ran two fingers into her wetness.

- Any last words?

- Fuck me, she said.

And then a strange thing happened. I kissed one of several scars that started at the top of her shoulders, and ran down past the small of her back. Alejandra jerked away, and slid to the floor, knees up, head covered with arms.

- You ok? I said.

But it was too late. She was gone.

*****

Sometime during the night Alejandra got up from the bed and made her way to the balcony. I came and sat next to her. She sparked the roach. We just sat there smoking and watching the rain fall.

In the morning she kissed me awake. I’d fallen asleep in my chair. It was a long wet kiss. She’d just brushed her teeth and her breath tasted minty.

- Thank you, she said.

- For what?

- For last night.

I did the whole “de nada” thing. I wasn’t sure if she was thanking me for dinner and drinks, or for keeping the Cojito penis under wraps. She was wearing her thong and heels again, as if she’d showered and was just getting dressed to leave.

I followed her into the bedroom. She stood there smiling at me, inviting me to kiss her. I did. She sucked my tongue into her mouth. I broke away, sucked on her hard nipples. Her chest was heaving.

I slipped down, slowly to my knees, working my tongue down her body. Then I sucked her soft flesh into my mouth. She hissed, her hips lifted and rolled on my tongue, undulating like a serpent. Minutes later she came with a hoarse scream, soaking my face.

- Wow honey, she said.

She sounded surprised.

- Orgasm?

- Si honey. Mi primero.

She jumped up and started dressing.

- Then where ya going? I said.

- Work honey.

After Alejandra left I fell onto my bed. I was too wired to sleep, too paralyzed to write. I lay there savoring her scent on my lips and face, and thinking about good catholic girls, so primal and needy, like bats in the night.

Written by: Cojito Copyright © 2012 · All Rights Reserved · Panama After Dark