SPANISH FLY

by Holly Rennick

AUTHOR'S NOTES

Before we travel to this story's Latin American setting, let's look at some Latin.  You never took it?  No problem; I'm a teacher.  (If all you want is a dirty story, "Vale, idiota", farewell, fool.)  Well, OK, I'm not exactly a Latin teacher.

Remember that mysterious substance you heard whispered about soon after you began anticipating the joys of sex?  "This boy takes his date parking and she doesn't want to, so he slips her some Spanish fly without her knowing.  He leaves the car for a minute and comes back to find that in a frenzy she's impaled herself on the gearshift!"  Neat stuff, you agreed over the cafeteria table.

But before you buy some, get the real info.

"Spanish fly" isn't a fly at all.  It's the dried, crushed body of the meloid green Cantharis vesicatoria blister beetle.  (Our first Latin, but just for biologists.)  The active ingredient is the terpene cantharidin, which can blister human skin.  Spanish fly was used in the 1800's to treat pleurisy.  Applied to the chest, 12 by 6 inch blisters were thought to draw liquid from the lungs.  In more recent times (and more legitimately) cantharidin was used to dissolve external warts.

Severe gastrointestinal pain and nephritis can accompany ingestion.  There were cases of manslaughter or malicious poisoning by Spanish fly in Victorian England.  In Regina v. Hennah, 1877, the victim didn't die and the defendant was acquitted for lack of proven intent.

But back to sex.  Ingested cantharidin excreted by the kidney irritates the urinary tract and causes blood to rush to the crotch area.  But the resulting itching does not whip us into sexual frenzy, guys.  There's a difference between having the hots and getting a rash.  In men, the increased blood flow to the penis can result in priapism, a sustained, painful erection not associated with sexual desire.  Maybe the folklore's backwards.  Horny women should be giving Spanish fly to uninterested men.

The fact of the matter is that cantharidin does not work as a human aphrodisiac, according to a 1989 FDA report.

But what if you're an insect?  (Some guys are.)  "Cantharidin really does seem to function as an aphrodisiac," for pyrochroid (i.e., "fire-colored", thank you, Latin) beetles, says Cornell biochemist Jerrold Meinwald.  But entomologists who once suspected that cantharidin mimics the female sex pheromone were wrong.  The male Neopyrochroa flabellata beetle feasts compulsively on meloid carcasses and may even milk cantharidin from the blister beetle.  Why?  Because his sweetheart says so!  Before submitting to his advances, the female Neopyrochroa checks her mate's head gland for cantharidin and transfers the irritant to her eggs, protecting them from predation by Coleomegilla maculata larvae.

In structural Latin:  Cantharidin having been obtained from Cantharis vesicatoria, Neopyrochroa flabellata defended against Coleomegilla maculata.  (If you've studied Latin for real, you catch the ablative absolute, e.g., "Supplies having been received from Geneva, Caesar defended against the Gauls.")

Perhaps Romans observing the beetle mating drew some inferences.  Probably not, though, as Centurions weren't much into science.

You human guys will score quicker with booze.  Spanish fly is also a cocktail, an ounce of tequila, an ounce of Cuarenta y Tres, garnished with cinnamon.  Alcohol, the seduction drug of all cultures!  A few related Latin words:

   "Vino" -- You got that one.

   "Imbibere" -- Imbibe, not a new word if you read.

   "Crapula" -- Well, I didn't say you'd get them all.  Drunkenness.

   "Amor" -- Passionate love, same as Spanish.  See, you do know some Latin.  More later, if you're interested.

Still want to try ground up bug body?  The Web advertises Spanish fly, "A stimulative extract guaranteed to put spice in your love life.  Want her to do everything you desire from a fiery, wanton and willing woman?  Try these."  Would you trust your credit card number to such bad writing?

Or how about the 1996 Penthouse advertisement, "Spanish Fly -- improved with ginseng.  Now you can enjoy sex with anyone you desire, wherever you wish.  2, 3, 4 times a night regardless of your age.  Our inert formula SPANISH FLY will turn-her-on -- gets her motor going -- makes her eager to say YES to your secret desires -- puts her sexually in your power on the double.  Works on young and older women alike.  Use secretly or with partner's knowledge.  Works fast!  Lasts for hours!  Strong but perfectly safe!  Use some yourself!"

Crapola, crapula; pick your language.  "Ginseng" is Mandarin for "man root", due to its shape.

Cantharis vesicatoria, la mosca española, Spanish fly.  Latin, Spanish and English.   But we say, "Libido" the exact same in ancient Rome, modern Costa Rica and central Nebraska.  Interestingly in Spanish, as it ends in "o", it's feminine.

OK.  Now to my story.  (I wouldn't have made you read so much up front if my plot were just about this girl on the gearshift.)

EDUCACIÓN GLOBAL

Teaching Social Studies didn't exactly coincide with my Language Arts licensure but I'd been close.  Summer school "Multiculturalism for Community-Based Educational Foundations" provided reputedly-different pedagogical insight than what I'd been fed in "Multiculturalism for Communication-Based Educational Foundations".  I just resubmitted my old homework with find-and-replace editing, "Communication" to "Community.  Professors just scan for certain words.

Actually, I found Social Studies rather fun.  The teacher need only stay a few chapters ahead in the text and the content's more subjective.  You can travel many places.  In English, I'd never give high marks to a woefully-spelled essay, even if the writer were of a socially protected stylistic heritage.  In Social Studies, however, it's easier to abandon "two" vs. "too" to the Language Arts faculty and concentrate on whatever keeps a student engaged.  If we do it right, there's always something.

The EduTour advertisement in NEA Today featured Costa Rica.  So Close in Distance!  So Rich in Culture!  "EduTour Travel Professionals arrange all transportation.  EduTour National Professional Associates accompany local learning modules."  All we National Education Association Professionals need do is recruit and shepherd the clients.  The fact that I speak passable Spanish seemed like a plus, though the publicity assured that the Tour Leader needs no particular tongue.

The ad included enticing "leadership incentives", ranging from transport/accommodation for recruiting eight students to an "organizational reimbursement", a kickback for a bigger party.

Compton Springs Middle School has the affluence for which EduTour (which also manages such AARP tours as "English Royalty" and "Parisian Night Life") aims.  A teacher and bevy of wide-eyed Anglo youth would traipse through Spanish Colonial history, a rain forest, a working coffee plantation and do "marine biology exploration", i.e., EduTour provides snorkels.  The students get Spanish conversation lessons, help out in an orphanage, expand their global citizenship, etc. and etc.  The teacher gets a free ride and minimum wage.  EduTour makes a bundle.

I knew that the route would be choreographed to relieve us of hard currency.  But the kids would at least see a world not Compton Springs.  They'd hear native Spanish and could practice their uno-dos-tres.  EduTour assured that safe water and sanitary restrooms would always be at hand.  We wouldn't want diarrhea.

EduTour's eye-catching posters (beach scenes for school notice boards) and safety assurances for parents got me into recruitment before I'd even decided if I'd go through with it.

Eighteen students plus one teacher (me) were signed up for a 14-day Costa Rican adventure before I could take the posters down.

I'd happily avoid the mantle of "travel expert", though I'd done a junior semester in the UK.  I'd be able to negotiate my charges through the challenges of bargaining for castanets and finding restrooms, but I'd leave the rest to my National Professional Associate, a professor of indigenous botany or something, I'd predict.

COSTA RICA

Arriving in San Jose (Costa Rica, please.  I wouldn't lead a tour to California), I was surprised to find my associate to be Stateside-educated, of my own age, even.  Maybe an inch shorter, a little bit darker and a super amount pettier.  Juanita Flores, BA in Music, Florida Atlantic University, hadn't assumed that her North American degree would open opera house doors, but at least with EduTour she out-earned the going rate for undiscovered vocalists in Central America.  Actually, there was no rate.

We'd be Juanita's fourth group, she told me as we waited for our luggage.  Tons of luggage.  Preparing for her first group took 26 hours a day because she tried to be North American.  She presumed, for example, that we might wonder how many species of monkeys there were.  By group three, she'd realized that we weren't concerned with rainfall depths, preferring a walk through the flora, hearing how a monkey stole her lunch when she was little.  She'd sized me up pretty well.  "Absolutely no rainfall depths," I agreed, "and, by the way, you have really lovely eyes."

Juanita seemed pleased to be assigned to an American who knew enough Spanish to ask where's the bathroom.  She loved my flash cards and would occasionally slip one in with what she'd call a "local term".  "Holly, I tell you, there are more flautas than bullfighters.  Do I write 'prostitute' or 'whore' on the other side?"  I taught her "hooker".

Group dynamics need to be ascertained.

   Who needs a door-bang to get to breakfast?  Bethany and Marie.

   Who brought too much makeup?  Nicole.

   How long for lunch?  35 minutes.

Once you figure out those sorts of things, things march right along.

By day three, American educator and National Professional Associate realized that we could eliminate corporate EduTour, cut the price and come out ahead.  Students are students, my expertise.  Costa Rica is Costa Rica, hers.  Just an idea, of course, not for now.

Juanita earned her keep logistically, of course, but where she really came through was in her (how can I put this?) personnel management.  North American education certification is pretty North American.

EduTour, in Juanita's mind, didn't know half of what touring responsibility entailed.

"Grilla's what we call marijuana down here."  Me alone, I'd have had trouble without an associate assuming the role of guardian.  Kids she deemed indiscrete found nothing for sale.  Nada.  The sellers assuming that Juanita wanted a cut -- fair enough in their trade -- were sorely wrong.  She wanted smooth sailing under her watch.  Vendors knew that she could point her finger and Costa Rican police are firm when high-priced EduTourism is jeopardized by low-life hawkers.  Probably firmer than North Americans care to know.

Take Randall, for instance, tall for fourteen and already into grass.  Juanita let Randall find just a little. If he smoked it quietly, not at the wrong times, it worked out.  Like I'd have known what to do, other than to make a scene?  I suppose that Juanita just told Randall the rules and he agreed to abide.

For accommodations we paired up, Juanita and myself always together.  Randall's roommate was Jeff, the kid least in need of Juanita-type vigilance.  Jeff's blond mop was always at the head of the walkers.  Jeff wasn't looking for drugs.  He'd taken two years of Spanish and would ask directions.  He'd look at his watch.  Boys his age can recognize the digits, but few remember their group's schedule.

Having those two paired, we liked, Jeff's peer-drag on Randall's potential for predilection.  If Jeff bummed a toke a time or two, nobody (me, anyway) knew.  We weren't baby sitters, for goodness sakes!  Juanita would hear if anything got out of hand.

Thank God for people like Juanita!

So what did she think about me, this North American teacher?  Latin American girls just ask.

"Holly," Juanita ventured after our group's personalities were assessed and our modus operandi worked out.  "Do you think about some of our boys?"

"All the time," a no-brainer.  Good kids, but EduTouring was more work than seeing them behind desks, 50 minutes a shot.

"No, I mean about being almost men."

"Like testosterone?"  You could see it at the dinner table.  Boasting.  Mumbling.  Staring at girls' backs, trying to see their straps.

"Yes, like that.  Down here they are more grown up at this age."

"That's all we need, right?" understanding.  "Them sneaking into our girls' rooms."  On that count, I wasn't too worried.  Our girls weren't dumb enough to get sent home, anyway.  We'd told them EduTour policy.

"I was asking more of what you thought."

"I'm not Mother Hen, I guess."

Juanita looked my way, smiling.  "One of them felt me, taking luggage off the bus.  Every time he passed a suitcase, he rubbed his hand."

"You let him?"

Juanita grinned.  "To see."

"Who?"

"One guess.  He knows I let him smoke."

It was Randall.

AFRODISÍACO

"You guess what Randall bought yesterday?"  Juanita and I were waiting for our bus the next morning.  Part of Juanita's routine, I'd discovered, was visiting with the venders.

"I'm not sure I want to, señorita.  But it better not be stronger than weed!"

"He wanted Spanish fly, a humorous word for it.  We say, 'afrodisíaco'.  Anyway, he bought some."

"Spanish fly?  For real?  Shit!  He thinks he's going to put it the girls' herbal tea or something?"  I didn't know the pharmacology, but everybody's heard the story about the girl left in the car.

"I don't think."

"What then."

"Maybe my tea," Juanita smiled.  I could see her teeth.  The bus honked.

After dinner (the lateness to which we were now accustomed), we strolled as a group to the central plaza, our tour elective for cooler evenings.  You could buy coffee if you had caffeine immunity.  Juanita did.  I didn't.  You could practice your Spanish.  Boys could look macho.  Girls could act coy.

Walking to the plaza, Juanita kept giggling at Randall's juvenile trumpeting.  "You saw Radiohead!  My God, really?" she gasped in admiration at a feat of over-priced ticket purchase.  When she caught my look, she flicked me a grin.

At the plaza, I sat with a couple of the others to watch the parade.  Costa Ricans dress well.  Most seemed to have mobile phones, but I wondered if half their animated conversations weren't to someone else also parading.

Randall ambled over to look in a shop window, Adidas sportswear, and behind him sauntered Juanita, now chatting about soccer shirts.  When the two moved a little further, I saw Juanita lurch on a cobblestone and grab Randall's elbow.  When I next saw the pair, heading into the ice cream shop, she was still attached.  There are many ways to be attached, of course.  This was the one dead center on your bosom.

It was exactly 10:00 when Juanita waltzed in the door.

"So what was all that about?" my group-leader question.

She rolled her eyes heavenward.  "Having a little fun.  He put a surprise into my Coke.  Probably toast crumbs they sold him, but it doesn't matter.  He thought it was real."

"No way!" knowing exactly what he'd tried.

"So that's what I let him think," Juanita boasted.  "I pretended a little silly and when nobody was looking, I kissed him!"  She looked at me in triumph.  "He about fell down!"

"You're totally crazy, girl!  I can say that much in Spanish.  ¡Eres loca, chica!  Kissing a student!"

"So, Holly, do you want to know what else?"

"Do I?"

"He kissed me back and touched my breast a little."

"At the plaza?"

"More on the walk home.  It's darker."

"You can't, Juanita.  EduTour will can you."

"So who tells?"  Juanita pretended to be serious, scanning the room as if we were bugged.  "He's mangito and maybe quinto.  Sexy and virgin, new flashcards.  Y soy mas puta que las gallinas.  Cluck, cluck," she beamed.

Hornier than a chicken?  "Well you can't!" I ruled.  "He's what, fourteen?"

"Fourteen's too young to joderme?  So crude!  The best ways to say are with modismos.  Ir a desgastar el petate.  Wear out the sheet.  Ir a desvencigar el muelle.  Break the bedsprings."  She was giggling.

"It's against the law, even here, I'll bet," I interrupted.

"Ir a percudir el cochon.  Stain the mattress.  Ir a rechinar la cama.  Squeak the bed," clapping her hands in anticipation.  "How can it be against the law?  He's giving me the fly!"

There was no sense arguing.  I was in charge.  Tomorrow she'd have a clear head, though not for a minute could I believe her buzz was drug induced.  If you want sex, go sit in the plaza after 10:00, sister, I thought.

But in the morning she was at breakfast before I was back from the shower.  She'd parked herself across from Randall, looking out the window so he could look down her neckline.  Her breasts, me being her roommate, I knew to be lovely.  High, firm, round.  Life's not fair.  If I promised not to open the door if someone knocked, she'd sleep topless.  I figured that pretending not to look would make it awkward, so I'd not look away.  Juanita didn't seem to mind, and sometimes would stretch.

Maybe she'd have a firmer grip on her sex life by dinnertime.

But she didn't.  I watched predator (who'd undoubtedly had his elixir secreted in a pocket) and prey head for the plaza.  Of course, prey was predator also.

I thought they'd gone to the plaza, but she'd found somewhere more private.  Maybe the shuttered shop where they sold woven blankets, for all I knew.  She'd have known the owner.

When Juanita came in (again at 10:00, not messing with our group's curfew), her step was lighter.  Her teeth whiter.  Her breasts bigger.  Some people call it a glow.

"Holly, you aren't mad, are you.  I made him very happy."

"You had sex, right?"  She'd not lie, at least.

"Do you know what they mean, 'sobarle el bicho'?  I used my hand first.  He liked it, so I took his flower."

His flower!  I guess it's the same.

"Oh, Lord!"  I wasn't disgusted with the biological part, especially, though I knew she'd outflanked me.  My associate had done it with my student and I'd let it happen.

Juanita took my wrist.  "Don't be preoccupied, Holly.  I'm a very good at keeping everybody safe, you and Randall especially."

She gave me a kiss.  Not a tortillera thing (not in my flashcards, but I knew "lesbian"), not the machinegun double tap done formally, just a kiss like a friend might give.  A friend you trusted.

"Promise?" I asked.  I couldn't make time go backwards.

"Prometida."

Juanita pulled an opened box out of her purse.  "Sombreros de Panama, if you ever want to borrow.  Bien seguro."  VIVE, the condom brand, came in colors, I saw.  Juanita giggled.  "It was too dark for him to see, but I think it was pink."

Spanish fly and a pink rubber!  EduTour's "Parisian Night Life" is adventure for Midwestern middle-agers bussed to sham cabarets and served wine in opened bottles.  Not this kind of adventure.

Juanita was still basking.  I could tell her it was stupid, but I couldn't tell her it was bad for her.  Randall either.  We're not babysitters.

SER LATINA

"You know, Holly, you're not an apretada, you're just American," Juanita volunteered a day later.  We'd been sitting on a plaza bench, discussing tomorrow's agenda, when a group of teenagers approached.  I was used to being observed, conversed with.  But this group wasn't just Costa Rican.  In the midst, animatedly engaged in half-Spanish, half-English, were Randall and Jeff.  Each a bit sheepishly bore a red rose in his teeth.

Newfound comrades egging the two toward us, our two bowed and presented their flowers, Randall to Juanita and Jeff to me.

"En sus órdenes," the pair was prodded to declare.

Juanita rose to the occasion.  "¡Rosas!  ¡Qué caballeros!" she ruled.  "Y hasta las diez," looking at her watch.

The youth vivad approval and the lot of them dashed off, probably to show their American friends where to buy dirty postcards, whatever boys buy.  10:00 curfew, though.

Juanita and I had effectively struck a managerial bargain.  With her as first mate, the captain's job was to wear a captain's hat, or in my case, an LL Bean broad brim.  Juanita was having sex; I didn't need to know much more.  In turn, she was keeping the EduTour ship watertight and on course.  Those boys with Randall and Jeff heard more than, "What gentlemen!"  They heard that someone was watching.

"Apretada?  Fill me in."  Juanita continued to take delight in my language interest, wordlists being different from facility.

"A woman who's tight, how you say it.  You're not actually, even if you have not much sexual experience."

"Hey, I'm experienced."  I'd actually done it a number of times.  I liked it, getting ready, the rush, the afterwards.  "A number" is a way of saying you could count them pretty easily, however.

"No, not that you're a virgin.  That you miss some fun."

I stared.

"Like going with young men.  In the States I know you can't enjoy, but Latinas need to have more fun sometimes."

"You think I'm horny?"  Shoot, I was just normal.  I'd just never masturbated with her in the room.  An American wouldn't.  As I recall, we called it, "Going south of the border" when we were kids.

"Why not?  You know 'correr', no?  Correrse is to feel yourself running.  With a man."

I broke my stare.  "But it's not so easy, for me anyway.  You have to get dating and everything."

Juanita touched my elbow.  "You have to like him.  But maybe the dating is just a little different.  You know each other.  He says you're pretty.  You meet him somewhere."

"If I were Central American, maybe.  I just know our bus driver."  Helpful, diligent, nice smile, but what would we talk about afterwards?

"Sure you do."

"Who?"

Juanita flashed her grin.  "The one who knows about me and Randall.  The one who bought you a flower."

It gave me something to think about.  I've always thought about sex.  But Jeff?  Far too good a kid.  I was far too old.  Juanita and Randall made sense because she was so pretty and he played so near the boundaries.  Me and Jeff?  Going to bed?

I didn't push resolving it.  Some things you just can't think through.  Jeff was plenty cute, destined for good things.  If he had a crush on me, though, it would be more of grade-school loyalty, not high-school sexuality.  It's the between-years that are tougher.

He'd be the kind of kid you'd want, though.  Grownup enough to decide.  Probably pretty loyal.   Not the kind who'd tell his friends to purchase their awe.  Yes, I admitted to myself, he's the kind with whom you might pull off a liaison.  But what do you call sex with a minor, other than statutory rape under North American law?

Not pushing it didn't mean I ignored my student.  If Jeff asked if I wanted a second coffee at breakfast, sure.  He knew how much sugar.  If we were walking together, we were just walking.  If he noticed my bra straps, anybody else could have seen them, too.

No, I didn't push it.  It was Juanita who kept it going.  "If you were having fun with Jeff, I could go to their room and Jeff could come to ours, maybe."  So practical!

Not pushing didn't mean not interacting.  When the four of us were ascending the tower stairs of the Colonial fort, a fall could have been fatal.  Juanita thought nothing of grabbing Randall's arm.  So should I have been foolish and proceeded unaided?  It wasn't that much of my front that wedded itself to him.  Descending, it was automatic.  Maybe just a little more of my front, as it was scary looking downward.  It was just the four of us, nobody looking.

Away from the boys, she said, "Nice!" as if I'd planned it.

No, I didn't push it.  And I wasn't fretting, unlike Juanita... "Maybe he's not going to ask to go walking.  He should, though.  Addressing my unspoken dubiousness, she answered, "Maybe there's something that helps.  Maybe like fly."

"Are you nuts?  Spanish fly?"

Intuitive seduction maybe comes easier to Latinas.  "Every time Randall wants to get me a Coke, you know?  I always let him bring it.  He keeps his little powder ready where I can't see.  Then I get a little silly and we go someplace."

"With your VIVE's, I hope."

She grinned affirmative.

Then it hit me.  Deduction, not intuition.  "You mean he gives some to me?"

"Jeff, not Randall.  All you have to do is pretend to feel sexy.  Like you are," unassumingly touching my knee.  "Who knows?" she reflected, absently sliding her fingers inward, then opening the drawer of my bedside table and leaving a few items from her purse for insurance.

My knee was still where she'd pulled it.

DROGADA

That evening, Randall and Jeff herded us to the ice cream shop.

"Cokes?" from Randall.  "We're totally dehydrated, you marched us miles to see the orchids."

"One-half kilometer," corrected stone-faced Juanita.  "They are very rare.  You don't have them in America."

When the two returned, drinks proffered on the deliberately turned tray, I knew.  Juanita knew that I knew, resolutely declaring, "Bottoms up!"  I guess she'd learned "bottoms up" for booze and figured it applied to soft drinks.

She was leader in the ice cream shop, anyway.  I followed suit.  The boys looked at each other in hard-to-conceal glee.

They say that Coca Cola dissolves coins.  Whatever secret they'd added was masked in the fizz.  I'd have been sure there was nothing, but for the boys' monitoring.  Certainly I felt no rush to copulate.

I'd have said it missed Juanita too, except ten minutes later, in the midst of a story about a music recital, she interrupted herself with a pair of sighs, and not two minutes later turned so her knee, or maybe ever her foot (I couldn't see) was against Randall.  I caught his wink to Jeff.  They both missed her wink to me.

She'd probably just bided the expected ten minutes and then gone to work.  The girl's good.

So what was I to do?  I could have done nothing, of course.  Ms. Rennick has immunity to Spanish fly, they'd figure.  Juanita and Randall would slip away and Jeff would walk me chastely home, what any decent schoolboy would for a teacher in a foreign country.  Sure, that was my way out.

The four of us chatted a bit more, Juanita casually inspecting the back of Randall's hand for scratches, and then, per my prediction, the two excused themselves.  They wanted to see the river at night.  Jeff and I, now lacking the sociability of a foursome, decided to head back to our pención.

"So many orchids.  Did you ever imagine there were so many?"

It was the cobblestones.  They were uneven, a few of them, anyway.  We'd hiked a long way that day already.  When I slipped, Jeff's arm was nearby.  Nobody would see, not that knew us, anyway.  I left it there.  I'd had to on the fort stairs, so it wasn't really new.

I don't know what was funny, maybe just us being like that, nobody knowing us here, but I giggled.

I felt his elbow stiffen and I snuggled a little against it.  I didn't exactly look his way, but I could tell he was wondering.  Maybe he thought so, but it wasn't Spanish fly that made me snuggle closer.

"Hey, Jeff?"

"What, Ms. Rennick?"  I sensed the insecurity, sexual, mental, being a kid in an adult world.

"I've never seen the river at night, not up close anyway.  Boats with lights."  I tried to sound relaxed.

"Wanna go?"  Somehow his voice sounded deeper.

"Sure."  It would just be one time.

Strolling at least a little like boyfriend-girlfriend, we'd pass from streetlight to dimness and back to streetlight.  The globes looked Spanish, not American, though I don't know why there'd be a difference.  

In the unlit reaches of our passage, I'd let his elbow slip over me.  Juanita said that it started when she let Randall brush her.

In the illuminated intersections, Jeff would slide away enough to show my nipples shadowed on my blouse. Shoot, some teachers back home say it's their right, as long as they're covered up.  They do it for maybe 150 kids, half of them boys.  I was doing it just for one.

We found bench near where Juanita and Randall were now making out.  They surely saw us.  I tried to act nonchalant, sitting with a student, both of us aware of his cohort's tongue probably in my cohort's mouth, just a few benches away.  Everybody seemed to act like this was a place for lovers and a few years' age difference isn't apparent in the dusk.  From the intertwine of their torsos, they were doing OK.  Juanita's far shoulder was pulled far enough from him to allow exploration, it that's what Randall was demanding.

Maybe I'd have just sat there, mesmerized by the river lights, but for Jeff figuring that my intoxication would be rolling in.  Anybody could see what it had done to Juanita.   What could I do when he put his arm around me but just giggle and lean his direction.

"Can I kiss you, Ms. Rennick?  I'd really like to."  He was so polite for not wasting much time.  Maybe Randall said to work fast.

"We shouldn't," I countered, looking toward the other bench, Randall's arm now around Juanita's chest while she was doing something to her hair.  "But maybe just one, I guess, if your really want to."

He wasted not a moment.  The little kiss that I'd granted at first, then something squishier which I didn't object.  

"Umm!" I agreed, more through my nose than my lips, engaged as they were.

I guess he thought he was being clever by turning me a bit sideways so that his arm pressed the side of my breast.  Maybe he'd been watching his buddy.

When I turned to better kiss, acting pleased (well, maybe I was) at the invasion of his kiss, Jeff's mounted my bust with my fingertips.  I was pretty sure that our friends couldn't see, and anyway, I've always liked being felt up.  I could tell he was trying to find a nipple through the fabric, and let out a little giggle when he bulls-eyed.

As best I could see over Jeff's shoulder, Juanita and Randall were touching lower, but nobody else could see them.  Like Juanita, I wasn't dumb.  I'd not let Jeff undo any buttons.  But my blouse, that Central American handicraft with lots of embroidery, was loose at the bottom.  If we'd face the river, I'd let him reach up.

This he did, tracing the lace at my bra's top, then trying to reach in.  It worked, after a fashion, but hardly smoothly.  I shouldn't acquiesce, I knew, I the group leader, not just an associate, an American, not a Costa Rican.  But I was supposed to be under the influence of Spanish fly.  That's why it felt to inevitable, I decided.  They were just my breasts, no big deal for a few-minute fool-around by the river.

"Undo me first," I whispered, leaning forward so he'd know where.  At least he should do it unfettered.  Nobody would be in the lobby if I didn't get re-hooked.

The hooks took him two hands, but he did it.  Juanita couldn't see my back, she explained over breakfast, but she knew he'd used two hands from watching his elbows. 

It took only the briefest pass to push my cups upward.  

"That's more comfortable," I encouraged.

Maybe he'd never felt nipples before and he was trying to catch up.  If I weren't supposedly drug-sexed and I knew he could handle some friendly chastisement, I'd have said to slow down.  Just because you got them big doesn't mean they're not tender.  Jeff had to bounce, squeeze, even pull.  It's not that it really hurt, but some things are better left at the summit.

On the other hand, had he further attacked when I was yet weighing things, he'd have made it to my legs.  Juanita and Randall notwithstanding, that's probably less kosher (Yiddish word now part of us) even on a Costa Rican park bench, me not needing Spanish fly to find it compelling.  At least Juanita would know how to extract us from the authorities.  "Officer, these are Americans who spend dollars and are only learning of Latin romance.  I'll escort them to a proper 5-Star."

When I again glanced toward the other bench, they'd departed.  There was another couple, handholding for starts.

"Jeff," I was breathing heavily, "maybe that's enough."  My skirt was high enough that he'd just have needed no more of a thumb to reach me.  "We do need to respect the local culture and everything."  I pictured myself being masturbated, that new couple watching.

I'd have expected him to dissuade me, to keep me lip locked long enough to get his hand inside my knee.  Maybe he sensed that it might have worked, that I'd have moved my thighs a hint apart.  Maybe that worried him, a lady crazed by Spanish fly.  Maybe it didn't worry him at all, but he didn't want to do it on a park bench.  In any case, rather than again sealing my mouth, he relaxed his grip on my bosom, "Maybe so.  That was such a great kiss!"

The kiss?  A little gust from the river would have blown my legs apart, other couple there or not!

DECISIÓN

Walking back, I didn't have to pretend.  Bra still up, I let him move up and over for the whole stroll.

Once where it was unlit, I backed against a wall and let him press me while we kissed.  There's equity in standing body to body, but your adrenalin's high, knowing that with a few thrusts, he could rape you.  Jeff never would, but these thoughts occur when you're against a wall.  I'd have struggled, but might have hesitated to call out.  And even if he'd forced me, he'd still have helped me home. 

The dueña wasn't in the foyer when we entered the pención.  She'd have seen all the nipple I could muster and I wouldn't have cared.

"Our secret, right?" winking, but panting inwardly, as Jeff left me at my door.  It was still locked with the key, not the inside chain.  Wherever Juanita and Randall were was probably private.  She'd know who rents what and Randall wouldn't get the gringo rate.

My wink was what courtship's sometimes about, not telling everything.  This wasn't courtship, of course, but it was as proximate as a teacher and student would likely come.  My heart was pounding, but don't think it was mush.  It was risky, what we'd done, and risk-taking exercises your ventricles.

"Our secret," he confirmed, pecking me almost-formally and, red-faced, turning down the hall.  I watched him put his key in his lock.

I watched him look at his hand, the key apparently not working as expected.  He rattled the door and I could see it give.  Just a chain's worth.

"Randall?"  I could hear that much of his whisper.  Communication through the door's partial crack missed me in detail, but I could sense, if not hear, Jeff's increasing consternation.  Then the door pushed firmly closed and Jeff was staring at the panel.  Randall didn't want Jeff inside.

Seeing me still watching startled him.  "They're in there, Ms. Rennick," Jeff admitted for the hall to hear.

My first reaction was a finger to my lips.  Teachers control multitudes with minimal gestures.  "Who?" I mouthed dumbly, not recognizing the connection to my door being still locked from the hall side.  But then maybe I had too much else on my mind.  Too much Spanish fly?  Hardly.  It was simpler -- a kid damn near getting me topless.  My bra was still up, even, but my nipples were gone.

"Both of them," I lip-read.  Hearing it snapped the pieces together.

Shit!  In the place where we're staying, even!  At least they're out of sight.  Well, Juanita wasn't totally dumb.  Just partially.  But what about the walls?  Are they cement?  Particleboard?  Like it was an architectural issue?  Shit!

I guess I was quite managerial myself, more concerned about extrication than about wrongness.

But what about Jeff? a thought almost in-loco-parental (educational Latin for playing Mom).  What's he supposed to do?  Sleep in the hall?

I beckoned.  Lip reading wouldn't work.  "Can you sleep on somebody else's floor?  Just for tonight?"

"And say that Randall is with somebody, even if I don't say who?"  A problem.

I wondered, "Maybe I can get them to get you another room?"

"Maybe.  You'll go waking up the owner?"

Dealing with the dueña is more Juanita's job.

"Maybe you could wait in here," I decided, still holding my key.

"But that's your room," his logical reluctance.

"And she's in your room," not needing to say who.

By this time I'd forgotten that I'd been bogus Spanish flied, it that's a verb.  I'd almost forgotten, for the moment, anyway, that we'd been royally making out not a half-hour earlier.  That my hooks were still loose.  That had we not backed off, I'd maybe be sans panties.  Who knows?

But as it was, our predicament was just his being locked out.  Waiting in my room kept people from knowing.

"You're sure, Ms. Rennick?"

"Just till they finish talking," as if they'd locked themselves in for conversation.

The room had two beds, two chairs, two tables, two bedside lamps, one wardrobe and one ceiling fan.  The hall bathroom afforded me a chance to repair my attire.  I wasn't about to show him my underwear.

Jeff sat on a chair, thinking of what?  Sex, I suppose.  A start at sex with me, maybe.  Randall finishing it off with Juanita, probably.  Boys think about sex a lot.  Girls too, but maybe not so aggressively.

Motionless on the ceiling, a brownish-green gecko paid us no attention.  She'd get her mosquito.

I sat too, rehearsing how to tell Juanita that this isn't OK.  But I knew that what I'd say would come out of the moment of saying it, not some scripted pronouncement.

But maybe I sensed something less cerebral than lecturing when I closed the transom above the doorway.  The clouded glass transluced the hallway light.  We wouldn't want a student running up to the bathroom to hear Jeff's voice.  I hooked the chain.  We'd told the kids not to be targets for prowlers.  It's what we'd all do, this time of night

Of course I thought of the park bench.  Stupid letting it happen, but it ended OK.  The Jeff in my room wasn't the sex-depraved adolescent who'd drugged me defenseless and assaulted me.  He'd done no such thing, I knew, but it was easier to frame from a victim's eyes.  Juanita and Randall had set him up, was all.  I could blame them instead, but why bother?  I'd let it happen and I was in charge.

So was it even that bad?  I wasn't sure.  He'd felt me up; we'd done some kissing.  People kiss more down here, right?  He didn't rub anything off me, the thought almost amusing.  I'd stayed in charge, most of the time, anyway.  Had he put his hand on my leg, I'd have intercepted before he got all the way up.  Probably.  When I was against the wall, did I feel his erection?

Geesh!  My nipples were out again.  Jeff wasn't staring, or anything rude, but he was looking.  Should I do the arm fold?  I might as well put up the "Ha!  Caught you staring" flag.  Turn my chair toward the window?  It's the middle of the night, even if I'd open the blinds.  Damn!

Well, they're just nipples he already knows about.  I'll be one of those teachers who doesn't mind.

Pretending not to notice him noticing just made them harder.

Ten minutes made it obvious that our cohorts' conversation (or however we were supposed to think of it) was to be a prolonged communication.  (Actually I predicted it almost exactly.  5:30 AM.)

"Jeff, I'm heading to bed.  You can lie on Juanita's if you want."

"OK."

I pulled the sheet over my skirt and flicked off my light.  He hit his switch in turn.

"Pretty strange," I offered in the semi-darkness.

"Pretty strange," he agreed.

I doubted I'd actually sleep and had the feeling that he might not either.  It was indeed pretty strange.

So it wasn't totally unexpected when, some minutes later, "Ms. Rennick?" a whisper.  If I'd drifted off, I never would have heard.

"Yeah?"

"Ms. Rennick," I could tell he was facing me.  "Ms. Rennick, what we did wasn't your fault...  I made you."

What was he going to say?

He paused, probably weighing how much to reveal.  "You know, got you going."  Not much revelation, but that was OK.  These kids probably think that teachers were born writing lesson plans.  One of us reads some book to know what Health Ed's about.

Do I tell him I knew?  Do I tell him his powder was some rip-off, a big zero?  No, he doesn't need to get confused.

"I just wanted you to know, so you didn't feel bad," he self-summarized.

I measured my excuse, "We're sort of far from home.  We were careful.  Out secret, remember?  Don't worry about it."  It would be so cruel for me to now proclaim remorse.

"OK."

I was the next to break the silence.  "Jeff?  You're very sweet."  When he didn't answer, I continued, not knowing where I was going.  "It's special when you don't have to worry about the other person."  It was special.

"Ms. Rennick," he weighed, "I didn't want to do anything wrong."

"I know that."  That much was also true.  "So if I wanted to kiss again, you would, right?"

I'd caught him off-guard.  "In here?"

"Exactly right here," thumping beside me.

I hardly heard him move, and there he was, lips on mine.  Maybe he thought the Spanish fly was still at work and forgotten his minute-old apology.  I let him hold a symbolic distance as I coaxed his tongue.

Maybe life's not fair, but Juanita doesn't get everything!

"Jeff, I put my bra back on, but maybe..."  I raised my back for him to reach.

In familiar territory, he pushed my bra upward, but shortly realized the ridiculousness my blouse.  When he tugged it to my shoulders, my raised arms said to push it onward, bra also.

There I was, topless in a room with a ceiling fan, a gecko and a fourteen-year-old.  In bed with him.

I pushed his ear to my ribs.  He must have found me somewhat a pillowy pleasure, listening to my heartbeat, but after a long moment he was lapping my areola and then lipping my acorn.  I led his free hand to my other, erect as its sister.

"How did you know I meant kissing me there," pretended ignorance as I rubbed Jeff's hair with my free hand.

CONSUMACIÓN

Lest you rush to label me a pedophile, let me point out that to the moment of getting topless, I had no scheme.  I just needed a good make-out, what any girl needs now and then.  Had Jeff's door not been chained, I'd have been basking in my tale of park-bench coquettishness, enjoying Juanita's accolades.  I'd be wondering if she'd sleep soundly enough for me to bring the recollection to fruition.  Somehow I guessed that Juanita would have made a point of quickly feigning sleep, her head turned my way.  But she'd never tell.

I'd not planned on having Jeff in here.

If you're out to blame someone, just look down the hall.  Juanita on her back, inciting her lover to mount, then laughing to make him gallop.  His engorgement hers to savor.  Spanish I'd never know.

My knee slid between Jeff's.

Just look down the hall!  And I'm not supposed to enjoy anything because I'm not Spanish?

Jeff was still rubbing his enthralled face into my chest as my thigh wedged higher.  On arrival, all I could first tell was that the lump felt solid.  I'd thought as much against the wall, but it we'd not really moved.  If he didn't want me to know, it was too late.  Save getting out of bed, he'd no recourse.

My skirt had ridden up enough for fan-thunked air to sweep my panties.

"Jeff, take off your shirt.  It's nice."  What's worse than being in bed with a guy wearing a shirt?

Shedding his "Viva Costa Rica" souvenir provided him momentary escape from my thigh, but the thought of Juanita wanton with Randall drove me to re-engage his promising erection.  Now face-to-face, I read hesitation, but never retreat.  I'd soon know all about such promise.

Had Jeff been ready mentally (as opposed to physically, which he surely was), we'd have made love then and there.  I'd missed monitoring some of my own signs, but I knew I was wet, wet like Juanita.  The epitome of crassness would be fucking with your skirt pulled up, but I can understand the serendipity.

Jeff's virginal vulnerability provided reprieve.  It took concerted wiggling before his knees locked my leg to him.  I'd like to believe that my butt was a great thrill, but his cupping seemed directed to help me better thigh his bulge.  Fair enough.  Every push that he liked corresponded to one that worked for me.

I was yet registering that we had tour-group members on either side.  (Naked with a student in Latin America, there was still some United States teacher here.)  "Super quiet!" I whispered.  He sucked my shushing finger.

I'm sure we weren't a bit silent, but there were traffic sounds, dogs barking, cafe music to blend into.  And come to think of it, there were probably wear-out-the-sheet, break-the-bed, stain-the-mattress, squeak-the-springs sounds everywhere.  A Costa Rican summer night.

I wasn't sure if he'd first realized how high my skirt was until his hand moved up unimpeded and then down onto the flesh of my cheek.

"Just a minute," I whispered, pulling away sufficiently to find the side zipper and dispense with my skirt.  I'm guessing he'd not planned to knead my rump.  It just happened.

I put my cheek on his chest.  Guys that age have no body hair up there.  One of his arms I'd immobilized, but the other was free to protect him from an older woman.  But his hand lay still as mine trailed down his abdomen and onto his jeans.

Rather than manually claiming what my leg had conquered, I paused at his belt, retracting the extra from the loop and pulling outwards until the buckle disengaged.  His heart bounced in my ear.  I twisted open the button, found the zipper tab and slipped it down.  His opened fly revealed lifted white cotton.

"Mosca", the insect, and "bragueta", where a guy opens to pee, are both "fly" in English.  I didn't wonder at the time, but maybe there's a joke or something here.  This American lady goes into what she takes to be a Mexican restaurant.  "Waiter!  Make my soup without bragueta."  (You're supposed to anticipate a fly-in-my-soup joke, but also know that "hacer la sopa", to make soup, means oral sex on a woman.)  The Mexican: "Si, señora, mi bragueta esta closed, only my tongue."  (Sorry for the aside.  I don't teach Spanish either.)

"Raise your behind," I suggested.

That he did, probably concerned (I think in retrospect) about being bared in a single swoop.  But as I must admit, never having before disrobed a male with such command, I was winging it.  (Actually, if we're admitting things, I'd never disrobed a male at all; the guy always took care of it.)  I pushed his jeans off, leaving him what modesty Haines affords.

I was glad for my own panties.  A fourteen-year-old shouldn't be ogling what's within our labia.  Pubic curls poked where he could see, but I cared less about external detail.

I lay back beside him, the bed small.  Rolling together, we touched toes to forehead.  His Haines found my right place.

"Ms. Rennick?"

"Mmmum," working his poke into my cotton.

"I've never done this."  He thinks I'm assuming otherwise, I wondered?

"But you want to, right?" the American in me.  We allow choice.  Actually, neither Jeff nor I had even said an intercourse-specific word.  .  I'm sure Juanita would entice Randall's haste with all sorts of explicit verbs.

"I guess."  The guy was quivering with arousal, and that's all he could say?  Boys!

"We'll go slow."  Juanita would be going slowly because she really knew how.  I'd be going slowly because I didn't.

"I hope," he swallowed.  I guess we both were totally American.

"You'll do great!" to keep the ball rolling.  Actually, I guessed, I soon would be rolling his balls.  I lay my hand on his hip, knuckles inward, and its back slip to rest against his hard-on.  Again I lacked specific plan. Had he lain subjectively, I might have masturbated him.  Things can take time when teenagers are involved.  Teachers know this.  Once I'd masturbated him, he'd be more prepared to go further.

And then in other instances, things take hardly any time at all.  What my panties hid proved to be too tempting.  My fingers had hardly crept inside and snuggled around his cylinder before the side of his hand found my escaped pubic hair.

He was empowered.

Pulling my waistband out, he slipped through the tangle.  Hesitation was forgotten when I threw my leg outward.  A finger fairly flew into my already-moistened labia.

"Yes," I said to disparage any residual doubt.  And again we were kissing.

If he'd known absolutely nothing, he'd not have missed.  But every boy his age would know where to proceed.  Not to the clitoris, (that comes with finesse), but to the mothering vagina.  He pushed inward unceremoniously, but not rudely.

Being finger fucked can quickly get old.  Remembering his nipple-fascination earlier that evening, I'd probably want to move him along in a bit.  No hurry, though.  Would Juanita like the finger, or would she just want the cock?  Both, I'd think.

The hair in his underpants was thinner than that of a man, but soft in compensation.  His penis wasn't large, but sufficient.  (It's not as if I know everything, but I do know a little.  It's known to be bogus that bigger means better.)

We ceased fondling long enough shed our undies.  In the diffused incandescence, his hair was as blond as that on his head.  Uncovered, his cock looked more man-sized, darker than his legs.

Assuming the inferior knees-spread position, I left him nowhere but on top.  It's not the best way, but it's what he would have heard most about.

"Wait, we need something," the tour leader speaking.  "It's in my drawer."  I moved him sufficiently to retrieve what Juanita had left, as conscientious as if I were counting the group's suitcases for the second time.

The room was dim enough that he'd not see it was pink.  My deftness surprised me.  They say that half the time you start them the wrong way.

"Now where were we?" pulling him to coitus position as if our interruption had never been.

Getting him in me went pretty smoothly, me guiding just at the start.  (Why do guys think it's unmanly, or whatever, for their own hand to guide?  We think they don't touch themselves?)  There really wasn't need to do more than let it slide.  What must that feel like for a guy?

We gave up on the kissing part when he started stroking, slowly, then picking up speed.  Jeff couldn't have tumbled, my heels wrapped around his calves, my hands locking his shoulders, but he held me tight just the same.

Juanita was impaled on Randall's bed the same way I was on mine -- sweaty, knees apart, to hell with squeaking springs.  Our hips rose together, Juanita's and mine.

The fan was at hurricane setting, but he was still slipping over me in perspiration.  I could always see the fan, yellow in the transom light, black in the shadow.  It sounds terribly unromantic, but round and round is part of lovemaking too.  I suppose it sounds unromantic, thinking about another woman, but it made sense at the time.

Verbal communication was unnecessary, other than to whisper when it was happening.  (I'm sure he came much earlier, but didn't cease, thank you.)  I'd have faked an orgasm, it being his first time, but didn't need to.

My eyes were scrunched, but I still saw the fan, something fan-like, anyway, going round and round.

CHICAS

I'd been dreaming about Juanita when Jeff shook my shoulder.  She'd been teaching me words or maybe we were snorkeling with yellow and black angelfish.  Dreams fade fast when your boy lover has urgency in his jostle.

Someone was tapping at our door.  Maybe my dream was premonition, but I knew the knock to be Juanita.  Jeff lay stiffly, maybe trying to disappear, while I pulled on my panties.  Oh, so hopelessly American!  He'd just fucked me.  She'd seen me change dozens of times.  And I still thought I needed to be symbolically dressed!

"That you?"

"Yeah.  I'm going to the bathroom now," she whispered through the crack.  She was right, leaving Jeff the opportunity to slip away unseen.  He knew she knew, of course, but didn't have to parade in front of her.  Jeff needed no instruction, pulling on just his pants and departing with hardly a goodbye.

When Juanita returned, I was back in bed.  So close to dawn, it wasn't worth finding my pajamas.  Sheet against bosom made it feel like maybe Jeff was still here.

Juanita was wet from the shower, cloaked in just outer garments.  I should have thought to pass her a towel and her nightgown when we'd whispered.  She shed her wrap, found a towel and dried.

"Nice!" she declared as she did her breasts.  Nice what Randall had done to them?  Nice because they were indeed nice.  Nice that I was watching?  She roughly toweled her fuzzy triangle.  I'd seen her nude before, of course, but not touching town there after lovemaking.

"Buenas noches," she offered, close enough that I could smell the soap that lingered.  I could hear the smile.  She rummaged her suitcase for clean panties.

"Buenas noches, amiga.  Amigita, I mean."  We were better friends than when the evening started.  I was glad I'd not delivered my "You're-the-associate" speech.  Shoot, I was just glad to have been screwed.  It being his first, I hoped he felt the same, but I must admit, I was thinking of how it felt.

"It was good, no?"

"Thanks," telling her it was more than just having sex.  It was about me being a little bit Spanish.

Panties yet to be selected, she came to me and bent to give my cheek a kiss.  Had I raised my wrist three inches, I'd have touched her breast.  Maybe that why she held herself above me, to see when I would.

"Ummh," I confirmed.  "Ummh" means "ummh" in all languages.

"Buena," a second kiss, sweeter, nearer the corner of my mouth.

I raised my hand.  Maybe life isn't fair, but who cares?  She probably wishes she looked Scandinavian.  So perfect was her breast!

"¿Puedo?" she asked, not waiting for affirmation before slipping onto the mattress and under the sheet.

I let her kiss me again, this time on the mouth, before turning away so she could cradle me C-style, the front of her thighs against the rear of mine.  I knew if I turned toward her, she'd know I wanted more kisses.

"Ummh," I confirmed.  I wasn't sure why she'd come to my bed.  We'd both just had boys and we weren't lesbians or anything.

Perhaps she read my mind.  "The boy made you not apretada, no?"  I giggled at the "not tight" literalness.  "Now we make you loved."

While she kissed the back of my neck, I pulled her arm around my chest.  It was so natural how she took control.

"Mi hermanita," touching the lower slope of my breast in ways unknown to Jeff.  Her Latin hand, so relaxing yet so exhilarating, knew the little sister in me.  My shoulder blades played against perfect nipples.  She was embracing me in her own excitement, too.

My panties she never removed, though of course she could have.  It wasn't as much her being within my wetness as is was her palm pressing against my mons that finally made me come.

Her knee drawn up to better spread me afforded half my butt for her to press into, but other than that, I was offering little in return.  Yet I wasn't surprised to feel Juanita climax with me, the power of a romantic mind.

We missed breakfast, our boyfriends surely assuming the credit.  That's OK, as we were up the hall showering while they breakfasted on fried rice and black beans.  Part of Juanita's success was our teaching our kids new cuisine.  Part of her success was also in the shower.  The liquid soap they have there is so slippery.

Our gecko was still patrolling the ceiling while we dressed.  They have night vision, Juanita told us when we saw one at lunch.  "When I was a girl, we'd feed them flies."

I had inspirations.  Let's move our beds together, to start with.

"No, Holly.  The dueña knows about the four of us, but not the two of us.  She's old-fashioned."

So let's forget about Jeff and Randall.  Fun, sure, but maybe a little juvenile.

"You're not serious!  Not having boys?" looking at me quizzically.  "He'll get better, really good maybe."

Juanita was pretty right, actually.  Just stay careful.  When they give you the fly, you've got to be careful/

PLANAS FUTURAS

Next summer, Capton Springs Middle School Costa Rican EduTour Numero Dos!

We'll let the proper professionals handle the insurance and make the money.  Summers are for having fun.  Knowing a lot about Costa Rica and having my National Professional Associate reserved, second time around will be a snap.  I have my old recruitment posters, though EduTour will send new ones.  Maybe I should look up a few rainfall values, just in case, you think?

Christmas break, my associate flies up for a visit.  We need to choose our Colonial forts, we tell each other.  She's never seen snow.  After cross-countrying (she'll catch on) we'll relax by the TV.  El Mundo's on cable, but it's so stereotypical.  We'll try HBO.

Juanita will go to the kitchen to get us Cokes.  In serving, she'll make a big point of turning the tray so I have no choice.  Then I'll reach over, gulp half of hers, and pour half of mine into her glass.

"Salud, hermanita.  Bottoms up."  We'll laugh and laugh and turn off the TV.

"Edbay imetay," I'll declare.

"What's that?"  She's not perfect in English.

"Pig Latin."

Then we'll just talk Spanish since I'm thinking of going back to Language Arts teaching, but not English.  I know modismos using wear out, break, stain and squeak.

AND BACK TO THAT LATIN

Spanish lesson's done.  Class dismissed.  You guys can head off to Tijuana. "Buenas noches, señor.  You fuckee me, twenty dollars?  Very good sixty nine!"  She'll hang your trousers so your loose change falls out.  An honest one will, that is.  Otherwise you may end up hobbling barefoot back to the border crossing and INS will just waive you through.

But you girls are more interested in Latin, maybe?  You subconsciously connected Juanita's "romantic mind" with its cognate, "Roman".  Your husband spotted EduTour's "British Royalty" package because he's heard of the Tower of London, but you'd rather rent a tiny villa near Tuscany.  If you speak in sort-of Latin to the aproned shopkeeper, he'll follow some of the words and be so pleased that he'll kiss both your cheeks.  Then he'll suggest an affair and give you a discount on the cheese.  If you're unsure about the affair, you can meet him on the path and walk up to the meadow, practicing your Latin.  He'll have some wine and there will already be a blanket there.  You just have another week of vacation.  You deserve it.  An Italian cow will watch.

And consider this.  There was this British TV series, "Dr. Who".  He time-travels in this phone booth.  It was a pretty long series, I guess, because whenever the doctor actor moved to a better job or got fired, the director would hire a new thespian and have the TV character get molecularly warped to look exactly like the new portrayer.  Nifty!  The good doctor goes to all these places, but fortunately for the audience, wherever and whenever he reatomizes, the people have British accents and know British humor.  (I'm sort of an Anglophile, myself, but most Americans wouldn't get half of it.)

But what if you were Dr. Who and the folks you visited weren't so well spoken?  How would you understate your lines?  You're best bet would be in Latin.  Even if you weren't adventuring around in a toga, you'd have two millennia where you could pass yourself off as a priest or an academic.  You'd just need to pilfer the appropriate cap.  But what if you weren't comfortable behind a pulpit or lectern?  How could you support yourself till the phone booth retrieves you?  (I'm pretty concerned about job security, I'll admit.  That's why I'm in the NEA.)  You'd write erotic fiction, just like I do till the phone booth finds me.  You'd write in Latin, since that's what they'd know how to read.

And here's the best part!  You already can!  Almost, anyway.  Let me lay out a plot in Latin to see if you can follow.  I'll not much bothering with grammar, since I forgot it after the final.  I'm just providing a plotline is my excuse.  We writers are idea people; editors tend to be more particular.  "Ibex aquafalium" is "holly" botanically.  Here we go.

Epicus Sexus

Ibex Aquafalium, scriba

Professor masturbatorum practicant, seducere studentus desiderat.  Tacticae eroticae virgo deflorare praeperat, e.g., nocturnus in dormitorium, musica amatoria, poemaeque, libationaeque.  Minor deceptivat est.

Phallus rigidissimus requirere est.

Virgo lente devestirat.  Mammae conspectae sunt.  Femures ascenderant.  Pubes partirant summa cum nudus.  Volva manipulat.  Pretius clitoris circumprovocat.

O, O!  Orgasmo ergo cum!

Penis colosseus erectisque atque testiculi pendenti!  O Mars!  Revertatis ad positiona femina superior, libida vagina versus cylindrus masculinus.

I, II, III, IV. V:  Excitant, Lubricant, Penetrant, Fricant, Confluant.

O, O, O!  Copulatus repetant, rapidus protactusque.  Scrofa (i.e., intercursus carnalatis) ad climaxissimus!  O Venus!

Spermae ejaculant profundus inseminant.  Problem major est.  In absentia protectionae, impregnationes.  O Fuccant!

Finis.

Every word's Latin but the F one, and that one's actually used by modern wags who speak classical languages.  Anthony and Cleopatra F'ed with oiled slaves fanning them.  (Fans are pretty related to having sex, you'll note.)  Actually, Rome F'ed itself before the Goths swarmed down to terminate the Empire.

For "Orgasmo ergo cum", think of Descartes' "Cogito ergo sum", I think, therefore I am.  But leave my third word in English.  Sorry.

The Greeks wouldn't have said, "O Venus!" but rather, "O Aphrodite!" which gets us back to Spanish fly.

If you know Spanish, you followed the cognates all the better.  If you're Italian, you're thinking of the right kind of wine and maybe which opera.  First things first.

Latin is weak regarding foreplay, it seems, except in providing English our rather awkward "cunnilingus" and "fellatio".  (The words and activities are both awkward, actually -- linguistic theory of correspondence.)  To detail the delicacies of caressing, disrobing, breast homage and those awkward activities, Modern English turns more often to Old French, lovely vocabulary if we could pronounce it.  Which sounds more erotic, to "soixante-neuf" or to "LXIX"?

Caesar boasted, "Veni, Vidi, Vici."  I came.  I saw.  I conquered.  In my Latin plotline it's, "Vidi, Vici, Veni."  (You're fluent when you can joke in a foreign language, they say.)  For most American tourists (not the ones in our Costa Rican story, though), it's, "Veni, Vidi, Visa."  I Came.  I Saw.  I went shopping in the Tower of London Gift Shoppe.

If you want to expand my plotline and are Catholic, your parish priest studied the grammar in seminary.  If your padre suggests details, however, the diocese might want to know.

Everybody knows about Latin lovers, but who says Latin's a dead language?

HOLLY ON THE WEB

Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to the server.  My problem is that I've no systematic way to update the various servers.  As literary errors (or just poor word usages) are made known to me, I'll repair that which is salvageable on http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick/.  My website's not much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native language.

You can contact me via the site's message form, that HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR.

I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you didn't like it before, that much will remain the same.  But if you did like it, an update may read a bit more cleanly.

Holly
