Chapter 3
University City, where Mexico's National University is housed, is located about 15 miles from the center of Mexico City, and is one of the country's top tourist attractions. One reason for this is the architecture-stark, ultramodern, put together from a variety of materials to give it a mosaic appearance. Another reason is the murals-huge, sprawling themes that splash across the buildings like thunderstorms, their passionate colors reflected even more intensely in the hot Mexican sun.
Ben and Angela-he in an electric blue tropical suit, she stuffed into a red minidress that left little of her legs unshown-were wandering around the campus, their guide being one Juan Lopez, a 21-year-old senior at the University majoring in political science and revolution ... political science being his official major, revolution his real goal. , Juan was pobre, a poor boy on scholarship. His temperament was particularly Latin ... clever mind, quick tempers, but plenty of youthful-sometimes startling naive-charm when he wished to turn it on. His clothing was as mod as possible, and he was wearing bell-bottoms and a velour shirt with a high collar. In short, he looked just like a Mexican Beatle-quite like John Lennon, soft brown eyes and un-lined face, mouth set in a sort of permanent pout, movements slow and fluid, black Mexican hair that rivaled a Mexican evening in its essential dark shading, and of course worn with bangs, Beatle style. His favorite record: the Beatles' Revolution. His favorite musical instrument: guitar, not the acoustic of traditional Mexican temperament, but the amplified instrument that the Beatles and other rock groups naturally used. Second only to his revolutionary activities-"Down with this disreputable fascistic unrepresentative government!"-were his sexual ones, for he specialized in converting gringas, especially foreign tourists, to his way of loving as well as politicking, and his loving ways included no small element of good old traditional machismo. All of which, being a part-time guide, he kept concealed until the moment to strike a blow for freedom, sexual and govern mental, was at hand, or so he felt that it was.
He pointed out one mural in particular, his thin forefinger, which he had bitten to the quick in a fit of nervousness (hypersensitivity and hypertension coexisted quite naturally in his psyche, like non-identical twins) the previous evening, gesticulating like a gun. He said with an odd mixture of whine and winsomeness, "That is a mural of Juan O'Gorman, our great artist and patriot." The massive mural he was referring to was a rainbow dream, covering all four sides and ten stories of the library building, which depicted the entire history of Mexican culture. It was, to say the least, most impressive.
They stared for a few minutes, then Ben said, "That's a funny name for a Mexican, O'Gorman." Pause. "Is he Mexican?"
Juan replied, his voice edgy, "Of course, Senor Brinkman. He was the son of an immigrant from Ireland, just like many of your countrymen came from other countries to America."
"Sort of an Irish revolutionary?" asked Angela.
"Yes, exactly," Juan replied, and gave Angela one of his special smiles, the kind that showed the tip of his tongue as it protruded from a place on his lower gums where one of his front teeth was missing (knocked out by a policeman during the 1968 Olympic Games riots).
Juan was standing between them, a few inches in front, and Ben did not notice that Angela suddenly touched his hand with hers. Juan noticed, and touched back, thinking, The Senora's skin is as smooth as a chihuahua puppy, and so warm and feeling for a North Americana lady ... perhaps she is trying to tell me something ... maybe I will return the favor and show her something ... something she will like very much ... something very revolutionary....
Angela thought, Ben still isn't paying enough attention tome ... I'm going to have to shake him up a little more, I can see that ... and maybe Juan may prove willing to help me out ... he seems like such a sensitive, aware young man ... he might be very good in bed ... perhaps it might be fun to see what he can do ... just to worry Ben, of course.
And Ben thought, This is a nice tour so far ... I'll have to give Angela some romance tonight, maybe take her to hear some mariachis ... then give her some attention in bed ... I really think this vacation is doing wonders for us in the romance department ... but right now....
Aloud, he said, "Let's go inside the library. I want to see what books they have on accounting."
Angela's mouth opened in surprise; she cried, "On what?" Then, she stomped her right foot, crying, "Can't you ever get business out of your mind? We're here on vacation! Oh, I don't know what's the matter with you, Ben. All of Mexico to be enjoyed, and you want to look at an accounting book."
"I'll just be a minute, dear."
Juan had remained silent so far, but now, with Mexican politeness, he interjected with, "Senor Brinkman, if you will permit me to offer a suggestion."
"Why ... all right."
"If you wish to look at a few books in the library, why not do so, and in the meantime I will show Senora Brinkman a few more murals? Then we can meet you in the music building a little later, and then we can go to lunch."
Ben checked his watch. It was almost 1:30, and he knew that all meals were late affairs in Mexico. He gave his approval-after clearing it with his wife, who joyfully agreed-and suggested a 2:30 rendezvous in the main lobby of the library. Then, Ben walked toward the library, his shoulders straight and his posture erect, thinking to himself, Well, that was nice of Juan to handle the situation like that ... certainly saved an argument with Angela ... I know I should devote a little more time to her ... I'll start tonight with dinner and music and dancing ... but now to those accounting books....
As they watched Ben disappear, Juan moved his hand behind him, palm upturned, pointing at Angela, a quick deft movement that could be used to scratch his back if she did not make a countermove or....
Angela moved.
She moved both her body and her hand until she was standing just inches away from Juan. Then, she placed her palm in his, and squeezed it gently.
He turned around; their eyes met, his burning brown with residual machismo, hers blazing blue with exuberant passion. With her free hand, she brushed her hair back from her forehead-her bangs were so long they almost covered her eyes-and winked at him, closing first one eye and then the other.
Juan thought, Yes, I think Senora Brinkman will do just fine ... my friends, mi amigos, will be pleased to meet her ... very pleased.
Still holding her hand, he said, "Senora, if I may make another suggestion...."
Her eyes smiled, yes....
"Some friends of mine have a band here at school, a band that plays for dances and concerts. They are studying at the music school, and they usually rehearse most days at this time. If you would like to hear them...."
She would.
Still holding hands, he led her past the library building and a few hundred yards distant, over gently sloping hills covered with fresh green grass, as the Mexican sun warmed them with its caressing beams. Past the cafeteria, where the smell of aromatic Mexican cooking-garlic, spices, refried beans, charcoal broiled steak, even Mexican pizza-permeated their nostrils like a savory breeze. Through the music building, out a back door into an outdoor patio, a cobblestone and mosaic-tile courtyard where, on a wooden stand in one corner of the walled patio-conveniently walled so that activities in the courtyard could not be observed from either outside the walls or inside the building; an overhead helicopter was the only way-several young Mexican men were clustered around the usual instruments, not for Mexican mariachi music but for making loud, amplified rock that could, if all the amplifiers were used, easily out blast a dozen Beatles in sheer volume alone.
On the bass drum was painted, in psychedelic lettering, the name of the band: THE MADMEN, in English; LOS LOCOS, in Spanish. The musicians were dressed from casual to sloppy; bellbottoms, chino shirts, love beads, some scattered Mexican jewelry, and a couple of dashikis. When they saw Juan and Angela, they shouted several cheers in Spanish, then looked Angela up and down and sideways in their typically Mexican fashion-and let out such a chorus of wolf whistles that Angela did not hear the "Click!" of the bolt that Juan drew on the door behind them, thus effectively locking them all inside the courtyard-and locking all others out.
"Buenos dias, amigos!" Juan called cheerfully to the assembled musicians.
"Buenos dias, Juan. Buenos dia, senorita o senora," the musicians replied. One picked up his trumpet and played a few runs of a mariachi melody, with appropriate flourishes ... a romantic, typically Mexican melodic line that made Angela's blood run warm and brought a touch of blushing color to her cheeks.
"May I introduce a lovely lady from America?" Juan said, pointing to Angela, who, feeling in her warm I-love-Mexico (and especially Mexican men) mood, curtsied, her minidress sliding up her thighs so that much, much flesh was exposed. A couple of Mexican wolf whistles-and a few comments about Angela's country, such as "America sucks!" and "Uncle Sam eats shit!" which, fortunately for Angela, were spoken in Spanish-answered her generous gesture.
Juan gave her a lengthy introduction in Spanish, then switched into some Spanish slang that he knew she would not understand. What he said was, "We are going to fuck the living shit out of this American female, for the revolution ... and for fun!" His comments were returned by much shouting and stamping of feet, by wide Mexican sombreros being tossed from one to another, and by a couple of chords on electric bass that boomed out with enough vibrations to shake the walls.
There were a few small wooden tables and chairs in the courtyard. Juan motioned Angela to sit down in one of them, chivalrously wiping off her chair before she settled herself.
"Senora, would you like to try some authentic Mexican tequila? In our country, we usually drink it straight from the bottle."
She smiled, hesitatingly. "Well ... I don't know...."
"It is our way of breaking the ice, as you Americans might say. Like your Indians passing around their peace pipe for all to smoke. It will not hurt you, Senora, that I guarantee. I think you will like it very much."
He casually nudged her knee beneath the table. She nudged him back, just slightly, but strongly enough for him to figure out her meaning. She was thinking, Juan Lopez is a most magnetic and good looking Senor ... he might be fun to spend some time with ... he certainly knows the lay of the land ... let's just see....
She nodded her head. "All right ... Juan ... I'll try some tequila. From the bottle. Provided that you join me, of course."
"Of course." He called for the liquor, then said, "While we are waiting, just sitting and relaxing, would you like to hear some music from my friends here?"
When she nodded approval, her honey hair seeming to float over her shoulders like a yellow colored cloud, he signaled the band to play. At the same time he rubbed kneecaps with her, ever so quickly, and he was pleased to note that she responded in kind. He also noticed that her bright blue eyes were growing warmer; they seemed to be shimmering with heat, like the reflections of the midday sun on a quiet lake.
Ah, Senora, he thought ... if you only knew what we have in store for you today ... you might run away screaming for the policia this very moment ... and then again, you might not ... well, we shall see ... and we shall screw, too ... screw you, gringa.
The band went into a soft Mexican lullaby, mostly bass and guitars, the guitars muted and sensuous in sound, the drummer laying out. The music wafted into Angela's pores like air into her lungs ... it was insinuatingly Mexican, and gave her flashes of hot electric charges throughout her body. She realized then, if she had not before, that it was quite possible to simply get drunk on music alone ... as she had often done with, say, sex. She softly tapped out the time on the table with her fingers; she was beginning to like Mexico very, very much.
The tequila arrived, with a couple of glasses made of Mexican pottery. Juan poured for them, filling both containers. He raised his cup, she did the same. He said, "To Mexico!" and she agreed.
He gulped his tequila down in one long chugalugging motion, his head snapped back and his hair blowing in the slight breeze like laundry hung on a line. She took a long sip of hers.
The fiery liquid burned her throat almost raw. She spit out the remainder in her mouth, the remainder that she had not swallowed, and began to cough. Juan quickly came to her aid, and slapped her on the back, repeatedly, almost in time to the music, which was still being played. He slapped her a little harder than necessary, thinking, this is one way to test her machismo quotient, her American MQ ... and, as she felt the harsh pressure of his hand on her back, she found that she did like its masculine strength and no-nonsense aggressiveness. Nothing at all like Ben, she thought ... he'd always ask permission just to hold my hand ... then she thought of the Beatles tune, "I Want to Hold Your Hand," which for some reason the Mexican music reminded her of ... and she touched Juan's hand with hers, feeling his smooth Mexican skin and its warming clasp ... as his other hand continued to pound at her back until her coughing finally ceased.
"I am sorry, Senora Brinkman, that I did not properly warn you about the tequila. It is not wine, and just because I drink it all down in one gulp does not mean that a foreigner unused to our liquors can do so too. Please accept my apologies. And now, if you would like to try another taste...." He picked up her cup, poured it half full, and handed it to her.
She placed the cup to her lips, sipped a few drops ... feeling the liquor burn her throat again ... but nevertheless, thinking that anything he could do she could do and better, began to chug the fiery liquor, slowly arching her back and tilting her head back, as if in slow motion, letting the cup empty into her guzzling throat. It was like drinking hot water; but, she drank it, breathing hard like a dog that has run several blocks after its master, and turned to face Juan as she put the cup down. Her nostrils were flaring, her eyes were blinking and had a wild, untamed look, as she said, "That was very nice, Juan. I like tequila ... I like Mexico ... and I like you...." She winked seductively. "I feel ... like dancing ... let's dance...."
Juan's returning smile was all her heart desired as he signaled the band to change tunes. This time the drummer joined them, and the jolting strains of the highly rhythmic "Hey, Jude" came blasting out at top volume from their amplifiers. Angela shuddered as the full force of the sound waves hit her small, unprotected body. Then, letting the hard, driving beat of the wildly flailing drummer dig into her, she began to dance.
But ... not before she had filled her cup with more tequila, and gulped at least half of it down. She held the cup while she danced, and that Juan could not help but observe, as he thought. Oh Senora, we are going to have one wild fucking time this afternoon ... fuck you, Angela Brinkman ... I and my friends will fuck you so much that you will come back screaming for seconds and thirds ... oh, baby doll, have we got plans for you.
Juan kicked off his shoes and removed his velour shirt, dropping the shirt on the table, revealing his rippling brown muscles and a heart-shaped tattoo on his left arm muscle that said, in Spanish, J like to fuck. Angela watched him half-strip, and kicked off her own shoes, dancing barefoot on the cobblestones, but feeling no pain whatsoever, as her bare feet skipped over the cobblestones like a ballerina with the Royal Ballet. She flung her arms and swiveled her hips Presley-style, her pelvis going into manic gyrations, her blonde hair streaming out in all directions from her head, her entire body twisting and turning almost spastically ... The combination of tequila, loud music, Mexican sun, and Juan was broiling her brains and beating her body. She was out of it, into a world of sheer sound and sensation ... and the best sensations, she in some way realized, were yet-and soon-to come. As was she....
Juan was dancing at a slower tempo, his body moving like a matador, sizing up the situation, leading the bull that Angela represented in his symbolic logic to her confrontation with machismo power. As he undulated over the cobblestones, he removed his bell-bottoms in a sort of sophisticated strip, never missing a beat or a movement as, within seconds, his pants were off. In another minute, he had done the same with his shorts, discarding them with a casual flick of his wrist ... and now, his semi-erect cock juggling like a policeman's club and his balls bouncing, he was dancing naked and unashamed. Unashamed ... and proud, as he thought of an American cigarette commercial that was running on Mexican TV. He thought, If you've got it, flaunt it ... baby, I've got it ... and you, Senora, are going to get it ... right in your juicy vagina.
Some of the musicians were clapping and shouting, stomping their feet in time to the music ... even dancing slightly on the bandstand themselves, at least shaking their asses in rhythmic provocation. Angela could see, could hear and feel all this, but her comprehension was considerably slowed down by the tequila flowing through her system. What she saw seemed like slide projections flashed against a screen ... click, one slide dropping into place, one scene ... click, another slide, another scene....
Juan waltzed slowly over to her, and, still dancing, touched the zipper on her dress with one hand while holding the dress with the other. She felt him unzip her, felt the cool breeze suddenly waft through the unzipped dress ... then she was bodily lifted right out of her dress, and again deposited on the cobblestones to continue her dance, not missing one step, as Juan draped the red dress-but first waving it at her with a few matador impressions in a humorous vein, which brought a few knowledgeable smiles and some raucous laughter from the musicians-over a chair. And then he resumed his dancing.
And Angela began to finish the strip job herself.
Her hands, moving like the messages of a hula dancer, snaked behind her back and unsnapped her black bra. She waved it in front of Juan like a trophy, then flung it to the ground in front of him, like a gauntlet. She reached for her panties, her black panties, black as Juan's hair, and deftly removed them from her thighs, sliding them down her legs while keeping time with her feet, standing in the same spot yet moving at the same time. In short, she simply stepped out of her panties, and when they were dropped on the cobblestones, she shoved her breasts, her firm projectiles of motherhood unrealized, almost in his face, while moving her pelvis so that her vagina with its downy-soft blonde bush was thrust but a few inches by his ever-stiffening cock. A thrust, an invitation so she felt, as he interpreted.
The musicians roared their approval in Spanish, with such shouts as "Beautiful fucking cunt!" and "Juan sock it to her, baby!" and "Let's all get laid!"
Angela was feeling her vagina becoming wet, feeling her juices beginning to flow ... and, unconsciously, realized that she wanted to fuck. To fuck Juan. Actually, with this feeling running rampant within her ... any reasonably attractive man would do ... even her husband Ben, now looking through those dusty old accounting books in the library, would do ... if he would do it ... or could.
Juan danced closer ... his face a smile of triumph, his eyes mocking and knowing, saying to her that he was going to fuck the living shit out of her. Her eyes responded in kind, daring him to try ... and wishing him success.
He touched her shoulder ... and she felt a jolt of electricity flow through her body, her nerve ends tingling with released excitement. He ran his hands down her back, stopping at the cheeks of her ass, squeezing her buttocks hard enough to leave fingerprints. Still dancing ... the two of them ... together.
She reached down and grabbed his cock, placing the tip between her thumb and forefinger, gripping it like a club. It was completely erect now, and a good seven, if not eight, inches long, swinging Mexican meat. When she touched the hole in its tip, he felt shivers of anticipated pleasure dart through him, and thought ... Ah, Senora, I will show you how the Mexicans fuck so beautifully .'. . I will let you know that we do things the machismo way in my country ... I will fuck you so rough and tough that you will scream in your sleep, scream soundlessly, for more.
She drew his cock to her vagina. His cock tip touched her vagina lips, and the electricity flowed from one to the other, in perfect coordination and complete comprehension. She wanted him, he wanted her ... and the musicians, suddenly stopping the music for the few seconds it took them to shout out a heartfelt "Ole!" sensed this communication also.
Again, back to the music, the drummer especially louder than ever, dropping bombs and slamming down a harsh backbeat on his snare and tom-toms ... the bassist throbbing with power and passion ... the guitarists getting into wah-wah, fuzztone, and reverb with the pounding, malevolent sock-in-the-chops of the Rolling Stones.
Juan's cock penetrated Angela's vagina ... just an inch, but he could feel her vagina lips opening, being peeled back to receive the member that signified his manhood. She could feel the elongated tip of his cock pressing inside her, slowly making its laborious way up the long tunnel that was her vagina, touching her every membrane and her wetness with his dry, driving, hardedge cock. She could feel her liquid begin to flow, that wonderful wetness that she desired so much ... feel it flowing like a river as his cock stabbed and jabbed into her, as the rocking raucous music encircled her and pounded its hard-driving beat into her every membrane as Juan pounded his hard-driving cock also.
Juan could feel his sperm rising, his cock becoming stiffer and stiffer as it touched the very mouth of her womb. He, too, felt the music pounding into his senses, electrifying his psyche as she was, turning his nerve ends into sensitive receivers of the sexual impulse. He could feel her orgasm beginning, as her body trembled and vibrated as if she were being electrocuted, while her vagina lips closed upon his cock like a vise.
He slammed his mouth against hers, shoving his tongue deep inside that orifice, reaming the roof of her mouth as her tongue clashed with his. Her orgasm was coming hot and fast, and he could feel that his cock was drenched with her come ... her fingernails were digging deeply into the skin on his back ... her lips were locked onto his, ever so tightly.
She came so violently that she almost knocked his cock right out of her vagina. He responded by firing his rounds in short, spastic spurts, like emptying the firing chamber of a revolver shot by shot. His sperm sprayed the inside of her vagina, and he could feel her receive the jolt as she clutched him even harder than before. She was perceiving-not so much thinking as perceiving, receiving his manhood into her womanhood-that he was much better than Ben, much stronger and longer, and that she liked, she liked that so much that she intended to stay in Mexico for as long as she could and really get to know and understand that lovely, sad, romantic country through Juan, through Juan who was fucking all the sexual spirit of Mexican machismo through her.
Meanwhile he was perceiving that this gringa was a goddamn good fuck, a fine fuck, a fantastically fine fuck right here in this courtyard in front of the band still playing, still blasting away, and in front of anyone else who might be watching-if anyone else was watching, which was doubtful. He might offer his services to her as a guide, so to speak, in the after-hours as well as during daylight. Ah, he thought, think what sights I can show the Senora while her estupido husband is tending to his business, his silly accounting and ledgers. I can really introduce her to the real Mexico, where a man is a man and not someone who quivers and shivers every time a woman hikes her skirts. I shall fuck her and fuck her until she is ready to exchange her citizenship for my country ... my fucked-up country with its rotten repressive government ... maybe I can even use her to further our holy revolution and overthrow that government of PRI Party pigs ... maybe I can even get her to make me some money by helping me smuggle marijuana, that lovely weed, out of the country and into America for some very large amounts of dinero that will enable my comrades to continue the struggle ... viva la revolucion ... viva la cunta Angela!
The band stopped playing.
They stopped, because they had become so engrossed in the sexual tango spread out before them that they could no longer concentrate on their music. Besides, most of them were getting erections, and they wished to do something about that enjoyable fact. So they stood on the bandstand, instruments put away, watching Juan and Angela continue the dance of love, oblivious to their hot burning eyes and soundless music as they fucked and fucked until both were ready to collapse.
Finally, Juan pulled his cock free from Angela, and, now observing his friends and the way they were watching the coupled couple, grinned as he thought of what they wanted and motioned them to come forward. They moved toward Angela, stripping themselves as they walked, dropping articles of clothing on the cobblestones as they came, until by the time they were there they too were naked. Angela was still spinning, top-like, by herself, her blonde hair swinging in the breeze, so sexually engrossed that she did not notice the musicians take her by the hands and lead her to the bandstand where, behind the drums and between the guitars, they took her at their pleasure while Juan stood still in the courtyard, watching and smiling as he dressed.
Their pleasure involved a multi-sexual attack upon every orifice of Angela's body. As she lay behind the drums, on her side, she felt a long and limber cock enter her vagina from the front and, at the same time, another equally strong male member push roughly through her rear entrance. The rear jab hurt, and she jumped, which only pushed her vagina forward and, in effect, her vagina swallowed the cock of the man in front, which made the man in back drive that much harder until his quivering cock was jammed deeply in her asshole. She tried to scream, but that was impossible-not with another cock jammed into her mouth so deeply it was touching her throat and roughly pushing her tongue against the floor of her mouth. Had she been able to scream, she would not have heard herself, for two other cocks were engaged in entering her by the ears. Another two cocks were even fucking her under the arms, two more were involved in making it with her toes, and yet two more were being clutched fiercely in each of her hands. She was being fucked in several different places simultaneously, as Mexican cock after Mexican cock rammed into every opening that was available, and her glowing eyes, unseeing with the sexual light shining from them like lighthouse beacons guiding ships at sea, burned with insatiable desire and arousement as she barely perceived that she was being group-fucked as she had never been group-fucked before ... and she liked it, loved it, wanted more and more and more of it!
She came and came like an erupting volcano that has an inexhaustible surplus of lava buried deep within its crater. The Mexicans came and came as if they had never fucked an American gringa before ... which, in a few cases, was true. They came all over her until her body was wet and sticky with sperm, and the smell of male seed was like a stench of tropical plants that had started rotting. Her body convulsed and twisted under the multileveled attack of the musicians, until she became nothing more than an unthinking fucking machine, her body giving and receiving pleasure and nothing more, her brain numbed by this sudden and totally satisfying exposure to the sexual syndrome of Mexico.
When the musicians were finished with her, they removed their cocks from her orifices, bringing hot water, soap, and towels with which to wash her off. They dressed her, and brought her some hot Mexican coffee to drink. The steaming brown liquid burned her throat, and brought her benumbed brain back to reality. The musicians had also dressed, and it was Juan himself who combed her hair as she reapplied her makeup, until the scene was exactly as it had been when the two of them had entered the courtyard.
So it was that Juan and Angela were calmly sitting in the courtyard, drinking coffee, when Ben Brinkman returned. The musicians had left a few minutes before, and there was no trace of evidence to inform Ben what had taken place in his absence.
As he spotted them sitting together, chastely separated by an acceptable distance, he said, delivering his lines like a straight man, "Well, did you have a good time together?"