The sleepy tropics
When I wake she is hugging as much of my backside as her skeleton allows and dramatically declaiming elementary Spanish to the folds of my ears in her Korean country girl accent. I smile and squint and punch holes in the gauzy filter of sleep that protects me from the awful recognition of the Guatemalan hotel mattress.
She asks questions in squeaky Spanish and giggles self-congratulatory giggles.
“Geurae,” she agrees, lapsing momentarily into Korean before resuming her Spanish practice.
“Mmmohmuhnom. Eeeeem.” I master my second consonant. I have to relearn them each time she wakes me in the middle of the night. N and M usually come first, because they remind me of pussy, which is not a bad word it’s a wonderful word, the very best word. P and S are next, unless I am feeling disagreeable, which is rare because I am a pussycat. I begin to groan continuously.
“Can I scratch your back?” she asks long after she begins. Her lips fill my ear, and with my other one muffled by the forgotten mattress, her charged whispers effectively push out my groans, and my teeth vibrate where they meet. The images in my mind come and go with each drag of her nails. She tickles my back with her hair just so I can further appreciate her scratches and wriggles my kneecap in small, sensual circles. Our toes, snuggled together, add up to ten.
“Let’s make a baby.”
The best fruit and orgasms ripen slowly.
But you were made in a reenactment of the best instant.