Lessons in Pure Life Read online

  It acts the same way as a lawnmower cord, the one you hear your summer neighbor yanking before the machine roars to life.

  We’re closer to the same height since I’m standing on the bed. His arms lock loosely around my waist, and in my slippery silk I slink around and lean against him so we’re facing the same direction. Slide those satiny shorts against his fly. Hear him exhale, a surprised laugh that is more astonished than amused. So much room to arch my back against him and lean my head against his shoulder.

  I’m not sure how, but he’s moved us smoothly, gently onto our knees. My body beams with blood light, my circulation system pumping in ecstasy. His touch melts into me like we’re both made of wax and are shimmering wet liquid, bright with fire.

  His hands reach around to the front of me easily, going north and south. Every bell is dinging; angels blow into golden trumpets from above, and it’s all too much to think about.

  I have to let go; I can’t hang on. The current is going to take me and there’s nothing I want more.

  Open slide my knees to encourage him in before I burst. Time dissolves like snow in your hand. He trickles his touch down into the waistband of my shorts. A simultaneous sensation drifts tautly up my ribs and under the half-moon of my bra, touching everything he can.

  When a voice cries out, it’s a woman pleasured, and of course it’s me, crying a human cry.

  Diego stops, leans his hips forward and pulls mine back so we’re mashed together. Hot pressure behind his calm, slow exterior. Against every force pushes an equal and opposite force.

  “Your body—” he breathes.

  I feel hot and shiny inside.

  The broad warmth of his hand eases under the peachy elastic, feeling for the warmest, wettest spot. I gasp when he finds it, touching me so soft and steady. God I love his skin, weathered smooth and thick.

  I watch his hands like a teenager watches porn, not caring if he sees my lust. His other hand fills with my breasts. His breath is quick, shallow, but his focus is exact, connecting circuits between the nerves in my nipples and clitoris that make both areas explode with yellow-pink sensation.

  “Diego,” sighs that disembodied woman again.

  “You’re so sexy, you’re a fucking goddess.”

  He pulls his fingers from me and I turn around to face him. His eyes are glazed and bloodshot, his pants tented. I gesture with a nod at his shirt, then lean back on my hips, watching the girl porn. That guy thing where the arms cross and the shirt is yanked up and over the head, messing up their hair so they have to run their fingers through it, he nails. Brown stomach like his mango-wood countertops; wide chest that cuts sharply into the obliques.

  “Let’s take off your pants.” I cock my head, playful and bossy.

  The truth is he’s the sexiest goddamn man I’ve ever seen, ever kissed, ever touched. He looks so good in just jeans that I almost don’t want to take them off. I reach to cup the swollen spot making trouble below the top button of his pants. It’s warmer than I expect, and he sighs. The sound of his voice escapes in the breath, groaning as I caress it like I imagine it wants to be touched. Slow, erotic. I pop the button open with my thumb.

  The metal of the zipper is warm from his body heat, and as it releases with my pull I’m surprised to see the sunset-pink tip of his penis poking out. It’s looking up over its boxer-brief fence like a nosy neighbor.

  “Look at you!” I say out loud, meaning to think it.

  Diego laughs, not expecting it. “He’s very, very happy to see you.”

  “Finally, right?”

  “It’s been way too long.”

  He flexes his hips forward, and I pull his clothes downward in one swift motion. Free of its holdings, his dick is fully revealed and I can’t help but rejoice. It’s thick, tall but not absurd, curving gently toward him. Dreamcock.

  Diego watches himself grab it loosely and then looks up at me, dusted in lust. I take it from him. Watching his face, his eyes on mine, I feel my way to the middle of the shaft and grip tightly. A squeeze rolls upward, making his jaw relax so his mouth opens wider.

  I’m all over him like a slow-jam, watching his face as I touch him to understand what he likes. When I brush my fingers up to the thick, rounded tip, he moans, his breathing shuddering as he watches. Swirling and stroking him like I can love all of him with just one hand, he can’t keep quiet. It tosses me over the edge, and I shimmy out of my shorts.

  Diego kneels naked before me in the half-light, undeniably erect. His marathon thighs and wide shoulders, the sharp lines of muscle. It’s all for me, tonight. Mine at last.

  Emotion threatens to enter, to pipe tears down my face and get me feeling all sappy and realize-y. Hold back, damn it. Wait until after the party.

  The slow part of the evening seems to have ended, and Diego’s shifted into being my lover. He scoffs at how easily my clothes come off. Everything is jersey, stretchy, soft and slippery. Dissolving in his palms.

  Naked. Bare without the cloth we hide behind. Shameless. Together we fall gently onto the mattress. His sheets are clean and cool on my most sacred parts. One kiss flows unending into the next as we tangle together, teasing each other between exchanges of pure, physical pleasure. I don’t have to ask about protection because he’s prepared. Subtle and smooth without the typical impatient pause, which almost never happens. It should always be that easy between two consenting people, and it’s so rare that I’m flooded with appreciation.

  I pull back for a minute and hold his head in my heads. “I want you to know, I was your friend first. I got to like the man you are, and I think that’s the first time I’ve really been in the right position to do that. This is kind of, something… you know?”

  He kisses me softly. I still haven’t gotten used to it, the lips that push against mine saying everything his human nature holds him back from putting into words.

  “I know. Of course I know, gringa. This is something,” he says, pulling me on top of him, making me giggle. “It’s a supernova.”

  What starts with careful touching and sweet kissing goes on speed, glowing red as we find our pace. It feels so good to slide along the length of him, like all of my skin is super-charged, dripping with rainbow light.

  Diego touching me like I’m his goddess. His mouth warm, inside mine and outside it in a euphoric trade-off that goes on and on and on. Arms that don’t have to flex to be strong. Around me like armor. Like I’m Joan of Arc, and he’s the metal plates fending off the ignorant world.

  When he guides his cock inside me, all my attention plummets to the fullness I’ve been aching for.

  “Oh my god,” I laugh, covering my face with a shaking hand, propping myself up on his chest with the heel of my other hand. I’m having a moment here. If I stay still, it’s jaw-dropping satiation, but when I move so much as an inch, the feeling is so overwhelming my breath draws deeper, my nature switches on. He pulls me close and kisses me passionately, sealing us together, interlocked. I float on top of him. He’s easily my biggest catch, so to speak, and I’m scared it’s going to hurt too much, but it has the opposite effect. It’s like all of my brain is focused on the space he throbs inside, pushing every button at once.

  I sit upright so I can live out the cowgirl fantasy, to relieve the pressure that’s been building since the day I saw him surfing. For once, my raised expectations aren’t high enough to justify the ripples of ecstasy radiating out of me. I love that he’s expressive, tipping his head back, panting, dragging his eyes all over my body like I’m made of colors he’s never seen before.

  He can’t catch his breath, and I can’t stop. Rather than slam into the wall with my momentum, the mattress shuffles out into the room with his larger propulsion. We’re fucking like enthusiastic castaways on a life raft. The truth is I hope he never stops because I’m beginning to lose control of my muscles, or really any sense of my physicality other than the bright jewel shining from my center. I’m a pulsar, a slick ripe mango, a comet streaking across the sky. Die
go’s desperate now, I know he’s giving me his fullest self so I can take it all the way. By the time I’m sure there’s no turning back, a small part of me manages to tell him he can release, because it’s better together.

  Blood sears reddish streaks along his cheekbones as he sits up, supporting my back so I can stay upright. It only adds to the friction of our slippery bodies coming together. He’s devouring me from the inside out, and as the rhythm picks up, we begin to share the same euphoria.

  “Más, así… así! Tu me haces muy caliente, ninfa salvaje. Estoy loco por ti. Cógeme fuerte. Si. Si! Fuck, me encanta. Si!”

  I don’t know what he’s saying and I don’t care; he’s muttering it into my ear in choppy breaths, taking me farther into an orgasm than I’ve ever been. He comes with a loud shudder, ever the wild thing howling at the moon. The nerves of my limbs pick up the signal coming through, and they each ring their tiny bells of pleasure.

  When we relax again, he’s got peaceful ocean eyes, sated and a little bloodshot like he’s just finished a soccer game. I feel like a neon sign cracked open, electrodes spilled out, happy to be empty of the agitated flurry of color. Blood rushes in my ears, muffling my hearing.

  I roll off him and onto my back, sighing as I relax into the bed as it’s meant to be used. My lower back aches and I’m dying of thirst, but it doesn’t matter. My spirit is in the moonlight drenching us, and it’s made a new friend tonight.

  Diego takes my hand gently under the sheets and laces his fingers loosely through mine, starry eyes gazing straight up at nothing in particular. We don’t need to say a thing, because more than enough has been said and done. In the afterglow of the best sex of my young life, I enjoy the smooth whooshing of the ocean outside and the way it matches our calm breathing. Soothing, lulling. I close my eyes just for a second, seeing a black-and-white visual of the waves I hear, repeating forever.

  22

  Dub reggae wakes me up gently through tinny phone speakers. I’m flat on my back in chocolate sheets, supremely comfortable. First thing I see: sun blasting the oranges and yellows out of the framed print on the angled wall that tips toward us. It’s an old three-tone poster of a boxer punching the lights out of his opponent. “Giraldo Cordoba Cardin Cuba ’72,” it says. The lemon glow vanishes as clouds hide the light like curtains shutting. The atmosphere is suddenly edgy, moodier. Mist and earth and leaves waft in through the window, clean my lungs. Air free of field fire ash or engine exhaust is cool and briny from its journey across the ocean. I’ll never know the depth or vastness of the big blue mystery, but particles of it are all around me. Of all the things so far, this makes my eyeballs prick with tears. Life, man.

  Diego groans like a bear rousing from the long dream of winter. I know exactly where I am and who I’m with, but that doesn’t mean I’m any less amazed than if I’d woken up on Neptune. Shushing waves beat the shore, and you can just tell it’s one of those amazing beach days, with a blanket of clouds in the morning that breaks up around noon when the day heats up. There’ll be hours of hot, baking sun before the evening rolls in like an oil lamp gradually burning out.

  Diego swipes his phone alarm off and rolls over. We abandon our sleep sprawls and find each other, wrapping up together with puffy morning eyes. Quiet, new roots have formed between us in the night, our union tied tighter after rest and dreaming side by side.

  We murmur pillow talk, trace our fingers on each other’s bodies, learn how to spend those early moments together. It’s so easy to be with him like this, and yet still unusual and unpredictable. Another learning curve faces me and it’s called Diego Valverde. It’ll be my pleasure.

  I feel hot and sticky, like I haven’t just got a long night on me, but an old version of myself I’m keeping around for no good reason. Springtime is blossoming inside me, new life pushing out into existence.

  “I don’t want to go back to reality.”

  “You don’t need to go anywhere,” Diego growls, holding me tight, kissing me softly.

  “I don’t want to. But I’d love a proper shower, and all my stuff is at home. All I brought was clothes and a toothbrush.”

  “You don’t need clothes here.” He smiles wryly. “I have shampoo. Stay.”

  “There’s a shower here?”

  When I found the washroom last night, it was just a powder room with a creamy standing sink, a beach towel hanging over a simple chrome rack, and one of those sleek eco-flush toilets. No tub, no stall. I assumed he was all rugged and bathed in the ocean with fellow sea hunks, like Poseidon and Aquaman.

  “Yeah, you gotta try it. I just got it going. It’s an experience you can’t forget.”

  “Really? Where is it?”

  He points across the room to a bamboo sliding door that looks like a closet. I sit up, feeling alive and sexy, glowing from the inside. My nails and hair feel strong and glossy. Sure, my head is beginning to throb lightly, but it’s a happy throb. Standing up, I grab the glass of water I’d placed on the floor next to me much earlier this morning. Drink it down bare naked, standing with my ass to him as a tiny trickle of water drips down my chin and onto my chest. Don’t care anymore. I fill my body with all the water in the glass like I’m an empty crystal pitcher.

  “Culo perfecto,” he mutters happily. I feel so whole on the inside I’d forgotten about the outside.

  “This whole place is perfecto. And last night…” Over my shoulder I give him a velvet grin.

  “Last night will go down in history,” he affirms, looking me up and down.

  “You’re telling me,” I say, walking across the room.

  The bamboo door slides open smoothly when I tug on it, revealing a retina-stinging, mind-blowing wall of pure, rocking nature. The ocean and sky blast at me in a rough, salty caress.

  I gape back at Diego, no words coming out.

  He laughs. “You know, I’ve lived here my whole life and you’re almost as devoted I am. Look at you; you’re in worship.”

  “I am. I can’t believe you live right in front of the ocean. It’s… more than one human could ever understand. Maybe more than our whole race ever could.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees, yawning.

  “Anyway, see ya,” I call, stepping outside.

  “See ya. There’s towels in the cabinet,” he calls, picking up his phone and propping a pillow behind his head.

  His music starts up again as I slide the door closed, spacey dub reggae. It goes with the otherworldly scenery I’ve stepped into.

  His balcony is basically a minimalist spa, with a shower overhead and uneven stone tiles in varying shades of gray covering the floor. A half wall provides a little privacy, but not much. A chrome storage cabinet sits against the wall, with shampoo bottles on top. Inside the cabinet, two thick, striped beach towels are jelly-rolled on a metal rack, so I grab one.

  Turning the faucet, I stand and let the warm spray wash over me. Feels so good and also weird being naked outside, even though no one’s around to see me. Private beach property, huh? Nice catch, Lia.

  I wipe my eyes and return to the view. There are two parallel horizons. The thick top layer is indigo cloud smoldering over an electric orange stripe of mid-morning sun. The colors look supernatural because they contrast with each other so perfectly, complementary colors I learned in first-year Art History. Deep, dark purple nearest the tangerine dream sky. The higher I look, the grayer the clouds are. Pale smoke you could slice in half.

  A few inches of the heavy storm-cloud strip blur with rain, a live-action watercolor. I wonder how far out that can be, where the drops are actually falling on the open water. Slate waves look small and choppy – more like a lake than a globe-covering beast. Madness to believe it isn’t alive. From space the oceans are all that define us. Amid a thousand years of emptiness, the earth hangs, a mouthwash-blue Christmas ball dangling from the tree of life, and here I am, naked.

  Diego was right – there’s something to showering outdoors. Where I come from, you wouldn’t want to shower in the natur
al environment – too much winter. It helps to have a Costa Rican villa.

  Shampoo foam lathers thickly in my scalp, my fingers working in slow, swirling motions to clean deeply. I’ve read that the thin layer of connective tissue there can hold lots of tension. Soapy, bath-time smells of lavender and bubble gum find their way into my lungs.

  I reach back, nudging the tap a little cooler and raising my arms to release the heat and grime of sweat and sex smeared on me. If you held a black light to my hips, translucent layers of Diego would give me away. Much as I loved it, giving myself a spa treatment to clean and reinvigorate is the sweetest follow-up.

  My empty stomach cramps, reminding me that I’ve been burning oil, forgetting to refuel. Diego and I haven’t eaten a square meal in twenty-four hours.

  I look down at my body, the clarity of filtered water running down like hot paraffin before it hardens into waxy armor. My skin an even, warm brown the color of a latte. Northern Tica style. I can’t tell where my foreignness ends and newness begins.

  There’s nothing between me and the Pacific. We’re both naked. She has more confidence, though; not a lick of shame in her waves – being an ocean is her purest beauty. Purest life. Me, the human female, always had so much trouble being naked.

  Well, no. Physically speaking, I’ll get naked.

  But being myself – not performing, not dressing up, not hiding – isn’t something I do as frequently as I could. Being just as I am, like this moment spilling out onto me. I have to do this more often. How is it that I haven’t tried being myself more? It’s sad.

  A clenching in my chest heaves, and there’s that prickling at the back of my eyeballs. Let ’em go. Tears roll out and down my cheeks like rainy-day windows. They wash away into nothing, but they may as well be iron, the weight they release as they fall.