Chapter 9
Two days later, Dean pulled into San Miguel. It was afternoon, and the sun bore down hotly on the cobblestone streets. He made his way to the town square, a tree-shaded lot with park benches and a bandstand, and parked across from it, in front of a great cathedral. Looking around the square, he saw a number of small restaurants among the shops. He chose one and stepped inside for a beer.
As he sat down at one of the small, wooden tables, he was surprised to see that, with the exception of the Mexicans who ran the place, the other patrons were all Americans.
A few tables away sat two young men and a girl, all of whom looked as if they might be artists. They were engaged in an animated discussion. When the waitress came, Dean ordered a plate of enchiladas and a bottle of Carta Blanca beer, then lit a cigarette and settled back to watch them quietly. One of the men was tall and slender, with dark hair that began high on his forehead. The other was shorter, a classically handsome type with a full head of coal-black hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match. Both were dressed casually but neatly in the traditional workshirts and dungarees of bohemian artists. The girl with them was dressed similarly, but even in such unassuming garments, she was strikingly pretty. Her small, expressive face was framed by tresses of chestnut hair, which fell gleaming to her waist. The tight fit of her clothing emphasized the delicious curves of the body beneath it. Dean sighed appreciatively, wondering which of the men she was with.
Then the waitress brought his food and drink, and he wolfed down the enchiladas, remembering to go easy on the green sauce, which the waitress had kindly thought to inform him was very hot. When his plate was empty, he lit another cigarette and sipped at the cool beer, glancing occasionally at the girl across from him and wondering where he might find lodgings. It wasn't long before the three young people seemed to notice him, and the short, bearded man came over to sit beside him.
"Hey, man," inquired his visitor, "you're new here, aren't you?" He had a deep, friendly voice, and Dean felt immediately at ease with his direct manner. "Yeah," he replied, "I thought I'd get out of the California scene and see what it's like to live in seclusion south of the border."
"Well," said the bearded one, "I don't know how much seclusion you'll find here, but I think you'll dig it. My name's Tom-Tom Shropshire and that's Martin and J.B. over there." He stuck out his hand, and Dean shook it firmly. He did some quick figuring and decided he could trust these people with his real name.
"I'm Dean Ryder," he answered.
"Dean Ryder?" his new friend repeated incredulously. "Sounds like a name for a movie-star cowboy! You're not putting me on, are you?"
Dean laughed aloud at this response, realizing that almost any alias would probably sound more authentic than his actual name. "No, Tom," he said, "I'm not putting you on. That's just what my mother called me, okay?"
Tom seemed reassured that a joke was not being played on him. "Sure, man, sure," he grinned, "but I still think it's pretty far out!" He then proceeded to remove Dean to the table where he was sitting with his friends.
"This," he said, putting a hand on the taller man's shoulder, "is Martin. Martin is a playwright. And this," he continued, moving his hand to the girl's shoulder, "is J.B., the prettiest, most talented actress in San Miguel. She's really just plain old Janis Brown, but she digs to be called J.B., so that's what we do." Then he introduced Dean to the other two, and they all nodded to each other in greeting.
They conversed for awhile, and Dean found himself very much at ease with his new acquaintances. They seemed calm, honest and outgoing, as if life in the Mexican hill town had enabled them to come to terms with themselves. As the afternoon waned, Dean remembered that he had to find a place to stay, and he asked Tom for advice.
"Listen, man," said Tom, who had revealed that he was a painter, "why don't you come stay at my place with me and J.B.? That way, you could have plenty of time to look for your own pad. How about it?"
Dean was delighted with the offer, and he accepted the painter's invitation eagerly. "Well, I'm glad that's settled," said Tom. "Listen, Dean, Martin and I wanted to go over to the school this afternoon to work on a stage set, so I was thinking maybe J.B. would take you home and show you around a little. How about it, J.B.? "
"Sure," replied the girl, with a sidelong glance at Dean, "let's go." Tom and Martin left the restaurant and drove off in a white Chevy station wagon while Dean and J.B. walked toward the Porsche.
The painter's abode was a large, second-floor apartment on a narrow side street a few blocks from the square. J.B. ushered Dean up a narrow, winding stone staircase into a living room whose walls were covered with huge, darkly painted canvases. The furnishings were simple, almost Spartan. A mattress and board, resting on concrete blocks, served as a bedlike couch. Multicolored pillows scattered about the floor, along with several crude, wooden stools, served as additional seating. On the mantle were two matching candelabra of black iron, in which were installed thick, handmade candles. "You'll probably be staying on the couch," she told him, "so why don't you just leave your bag in here?" He dropped his satchel beside the couch and followed her out of the room. She gave him a brief tour of the apartment, and he followed her around, more engrossed with the sway of her Levi'd buttocks than with the charm of the charcoal stove or the location of the bathroom. They ended up on a balcony at the rear of the house. The sun had already begun to set, and from behind a nearby mountain, it cast a red glow on the streets and houses of San Miguel. It made everything look bloodstained. Taking in the sight, beautiful as it was, reminded Dean of his recent dream, and he felt his pulse skip a beat in momentary fright. But when J.B. turned toward him, his fear vanished, replaced by sudden desire as his eyes took in the lush curves of her body, the softness of her hair and the triangle of smooth, white skin where her blue shirt was open at the collar. "Welcome to San t
Miguel, Dean," she said softly, and he knew that she wanted the same thing that he did.
He bent to kiss her upturned lips. Her mouth opened softly for him, and he probed it gently with his tongue as he felt her hands begin to wander freely over his body. He broke away from her, holding her anxious body lightly by the hips. "C'mon, let's go inside," he said.
In the living room, she lit candles and incense while Dean kicked off his boots and cleared off the couch. As a plume of fragrant smoke rose to the ceiling, she turned to him in the candlelight and began to undress. He swallowed hard as she unbuttoned the shirt and slid it slowly off her shoulders. Her firm, high-set breasts quivered as she tugged at her belt and stepped out of her Levi's. Dean pulled off his own clothes, dropping them in a heap beside the bed, and walked toward her. She gazed longingly at his cock, and, with a little gasp, dropped quickly to her knees before him. He put his hands on her smooth shoulders, and watched his cock sliding in and out of the lovely mouth until his whole body was pulsing with desire. Then he gently disengaged his member from between her lips and pushed her backwards onto the floor, lowering himself over her pale body. He bent and nibbled hungrily at her breasts while she took his cock in her fingers and directed it impatiently to her already moist cunt. He slipped it in to its full extent, and began moving slowly back and forth. Her legs twined themselves around his back as he drove his big staff in and out of her sucking hole; then they came together with sudden intensity from the excitement of this first encounter.
They rested against each other for a few moments, his cock still buried inside her. Then Dean rolled onto his back, carrying J.B. with him. Immediately, she began to move up and down on his still hard cock while he fondled her breasts and thrust up hard with his hips to meet her. This time they drew it out until they were both sweating with the exertion. Finally, Dean clamped his hands around her buttocks and held her still while he quickened his thrusts to a blinding tempo. When she began to come, he held himself back for a long while, until she was trembling and moaning in ecstasy as she rode him. Then he pumped his hot fluid deeply inside her, and they collapsed together on the floor, exhausted. After a while, she got up and built a fire in the fireplace.
They sat together on the couch, smoking cigarettes in the glow of the fire. The perfume of the incense that had burned still hung in the air, giving the room an exotic but comforting atmosphere. "It's sure nice to smoke American cigarettes for a change," J.B. told him, taking a deep, luxurious drag. "It's been months since I was in the States."
"Do you and Tom always travel together I mean like when you leave San Miguel?" Dean asked her. She smiled, as if amused by his naiveté. "No, man," she replied. When I travel, I travel alone. Let's get one thing straight, okay?" Dean nodded, and she continued. "I'm not Tom's old lady, or anybody else's. I'm a free agent. That's why I can be here with you without any hang-ups about it. Tom's probably hip to what's going on with you and me, and he can dig it. That's the nice thing about our relationship we don't own each other. We're both free." Dean frowned. "Then why are you living together if you're so free?"
"Because," she replied, "we dig each other more than anyone else. But that doesn't mean we have to cut ourselves off from everything else. When you're married and you really get into that monogamy bag, you get to be like Siamese twins, joined at the genitals. Do you think that Siamese twins have much to talk about with each other after a few years?"
Dean puffed thoughtfully at his cigarette. "I guess not," he said. "I've never gotten too deeply involved with a chick because I thought that was the only way you could do it you know, the Siamese twin thing."
J.B. stubbed out her cigarette and put her arms around him. "Well, it's not," she said. "Anyway, you must be pretty tired. Why don't you just turn in now? There'll be plenty of time to talk tomorrow, and lots to see, if you'd dig getting the grand tour. How about it?" She pressed her breasts warmly against him, and Dean felt a flickering of desire, but was overwhelmed by the desire to simply get to sleep. "Fine," he said. They rose from the couch, and he turned back the light Mexican blanket that covered it and slid underneath, stretching himself out comfortably. J.B. blew out the candles, leaving the fire to die out of its own accord. Then she came to his bedside, bending over to kiss him softly on the mouth. "See you tomorrow," she whispered. In a few moments, Dean fell into a sound, dreamless slumber.