I want nothing more in this world than a big boat and a few funs girls to fuck. One just wont do. After a while we’d both get bored. Distraction, misdirection, and fresh pussy all things to fuel non-growth with exception of VD’s. One was 19 I met in a sex studies class. She was curiously good at hard to get for being so young. Fake tits, not as much bounce but there were other areas she was much more open to what I found fascinating and dark. We’ll call her Barb. Then her friend Libby. Great fucking kisser, a much underappreciated art. There are so many things you can tell about a woman by the way she kisses. Libby was into games, the fun ones where you give it up to the winner. My dream was to figure out a way to fuck both of them simultaneously. Maybe I could invent an apparatus. Two dicks!
The collection of women spanned the globe but my heart was always with Marla. She was a nice Christian girl who’s pussy will forever belong to Jesus. She’s got a ring and no axe to grind. The kind of girl you want to retire to and sit on a porch cuddled in a blanket with, but not a sex pot by any stretch of the imagination. My love, my wife, my ball and chain of honesty she comes into every fucking bedroom with me tucked into the conformist corner of my brain. Only when overcome by joy or screams or cum does she disappear. In the morning she greets me again with a great big chunk of guilt that screams something different in this picture can you figure out what?
It’s like my life turned into a Sunday paper puzzle.
Back to Miami. The beach is wet. The sun is hot and people are shit heads. Boca is where I met the last one.
Walking down A1a I duck under a awning to dodge the 4pm rain cloud and in a fountain splashing her hairy hippie legs is a rope headed girl. She’s too tan to be white but the dreads are white blonde and her eyes are blue. I think she’s homeless. She stares up at me in a drunken haze and flashes some come fuck me eyes. I ask her if I can buy her a drink. She wants lunch instead. We walk around the corner into the hotel lobby and flop on some stools at the bar. She orders a salad. You’d think she’d partake in something more substantial than lettuce and tomatoes, so I ask her. She doesn’t eat the flesh of animals. Great I say what about the flesh of humans? And again with the fuck me eyes, hell maybe she’s a cannibal. I order myself a whiskey and she takes one too. We get to talking and I find out that she’s from Tennessee. I remember the song my ex wrote, and get all nostalgic for a second. I order another round of whiskeys and ask the bartender about the rooms. The girl says she’s not that kind of girl. I say we’re going to the beach not the room, and she scoffs at my reply. Last tomato choked down I pay and we cross back over A1a and weave between the buildings to the beach. Why people think they can own land is beyond me. I subscribe to an Indian proverb, “dumb fuck, someone’s always gonna be richer, or the government will take it when they’re ready” or something like that. The beach is crummy it’s raked and artificial. No life guards, rich people don’t need a stand to block their view. Apparently they’ve got enough money , god’ll save them. She does cartwheels along the edge of the water. I translate them as hippie language meaning, “thank you for lunch, look at my ass.” I think of Marla and how I’ll feel in the morning, because this girl is gonna repay the whiskeys. I weave in and out of the abandoned beach chairs to the tikibar. It’s abandoned also, although as I jump over the rail I see a hotel employee scramble from the parking lot behind it back into his pants and come running full tilt my way. No worries buddy just want some rum. A voice behind me echoes “rum,” with a question mark at the end of her high lilt. Apparently miss Tennessee is southern and a light weight. I may not need to spend much more on this one. Indeed rum this is the beach. Apparently she is not familiar with the etiquette of alcohol consumption. Puerto Rican barrel rum is the way to travel. It took us from the beach to her friends house. There we spent a hot night on the porch swing rocking in the breeze, before I woke up in the oven people here call the Florida room. It really is a torture chamber incased in glass windows that somehow cooks you slowly from the inside out. I stumbled back to the first hotel bar along the walk of shame with Marla caking my sensuous thoughts in a nice crust of where the fuck were you.
Back in Miami I try my damndest at making Jai Alai sound interesting and attractive, maybe. It’s 6 pm there’s nothing to do but buy a pint of Puerto Rico’s finest and head out for dinner. Nothing on the strip is worth a dollar but all the places ask way more. I settle on some pizza and scan the strip. My buddy Wes meets me after catching the towns biggest music story and we discuss the plan of action for the evening. Some dancers are finishing a show and he’s invited to the after party. The place is swank, just outside Little Cuba the dancers banded together and bought out the old owners of a nice old theatre. The lead is Kat her boyfriend know Wes from the track, he’s a useless lump and Kat is a knockout.
