Revolutionary Kiss with Che

by Chris

The crowd was getting louder and louder as the cavalry soldiers approached. I wondered how these poor people thought they would defend themselves with nothing but a few sticks, rocks, and molatov cocktails. What was I doing here? I asked the editor at the paper for which I worked for some more adventurous stories, but Buenos Aires in the middle of a revolution? My lousy grasp of Spanish should have counted me out for this assignment from the very beginning. But, still, now that I was here, the excitement, the anger and rage of these rebels couldn’t help but get my blood stirring. Especially one young man…
I had noticed him the very first day I got off the plane. I was in a taxi headed to the hotel, when I saw a group of demonstrators outside the Casa Rosada. As we passed, I noticed this man, his dark eyes flashing, as he shouted something I couldn’t hear, and threw a stone towards the approaching military guard. That was the first time I thought what am I doing here? But I couldn’t forget that man’s face, his eyes, and the passion with which he screamed.

What a story this would be, if I could meet this man, and interview him. What stories would he tell about this war the peasants were fighting with the military? As soon as I got to my room, I started plotting how I would find him for the interview of a lifetime. As I fell asleep that night I couldn’t get his dark eyes out of my mind.

I wandered around the town for a few days, trying to find any places where clashes were occurring, always with my eyes open for that face I forget.
After a couple of days, I began to panic. I only had a few more days here, and I still hadn’t gotten my story. Then, I turned a corner and there he was, one of the leaders of a group facing off against the mounted police, and I was between them. I stayed in my little alley, but as the angry mob passed, I was swept up with them. I found myself running along in front of men, mounted on horses, swinging clubs. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground, knees bleeding, and a good size cut on my head. I tried to get to my feet, when, suddenly a pair of strong arms went around my waist, pulling me up, and I found myself looking into the face of the man I had been seeking all over town. He said something I didn’t understand, but I just put my head on his shoulder as he carried me to safety.
I guess I faited. I woke up, with an icepack on my head looking into the gentle concerned eyes of my rescuer. He said something to me, but again, what little Spanish I knew escaped me. He then said, in slow, heavily accented English, “Do you speak Spanish?”
“Barely,” I replied. He asked me, “What’s your name and where are you from?” I told him my name was Christine, and that I was a newspaper reporter from the US, and was sent here to cover some of the riots and unrest.
He frowned, started to say something, but then just asked me how my head was. I think I told him it hurt a bit, but that wasn’t what was on my mind. What were all those questions I meant to ask him?
I stuttered, “ I saw you the first day I came into town, and I wanted to interview you for my story. Would you be willing to answer some questions?”
He said, smiling, “Slow down, my English is only a little better than your Spanish.”
I apologized, then asked him to tell me about his fight and why he was so unhappy with the Perons and all they had done for Argentina.
His eyes flared, and for a moment, I felt a twinge of fear. But then his face softened somewhat, and he said sarcastically,“Let me show you what the Perons have done for Argentina.” He helped me up, but I couldn’t think clearly for the electrical shock that went through me when he touched my arm. Unfortunately, I soon forgot that, as he led me out onto the streets, and into some of the slums of the city.

I began to see through his eyes, as we wandered down countless streets, and he tried to explain how desperate the situation was for most of the peasants. I thought I understood some of the rage he felt after a few hours of this horrible tour. I had almost forgotten the passion that his presence raised in me every time I had thought of him earlier in the week, seeing the squalor these people lived in.

The thrill of him came screeching back in on blink of an eye. We turned a corner, into an alley.
It was almost dark, and I said, numbly, “I guess I should be getting back. I think I have more than enough for my story, but, wait, I don’t even know your name.”
He laughed, gently, and said, “I wondered if you would ever ask. It’s Ché.”
He grasped my arm, and turned me to face him. He said, “You see, don’t you, the fight we have to make against their tyranny?” I nodded, but after he touched me, the pulse running through my temples was so loud I barely heard him. He reached his hand and brushed a strand of my blond hair off my face.

“You know, you look a little like her,” he said. He ran his fingers through my hair and pulled the pin holding it up. I shivered as I realized who was talking about. He grasped a handful of my hair at the back of my neck and pulled my head back. Was he going to hurt me? Then he pulled me towards him, as he bent over me, and took my lip between his teeth. He gently bit me, then pulled on my lip with his for a moment before opening his full lips to mine. His tongue gently, then hungrily, reached into my mouth, as I leaned against him. His arms wrapped around me so tightly, I thought I couldn’t breathe, but I realized it was only that I had forgotten to.
His tongue continued to probe my mouth, then he gently ran it across my face to my ear. He took my ear lobe in his teeth, and his breathing sent shocks through me like I had never felt before. His fingers slowly followed the line of my neck, then slowly unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse. His hand slipped into my bra and caressed my breast.
He whispered something in Spanish into my ear. I said, remembering only one word of Spanish, “Que?” He laughed, grasped me by the hand and said, “Come with me, and I will teach you all the Spanish you need to know”…

by Chris
New Words to "Don't Cry for Me Argentina"

"Don't Cry for Me My Friend Chicas"

It won't be easy, you'll think it strange
When I try to explain why I sing
After kissing him and knowing all that we’ve done
You won't believe me
All you will see is a girl you once knew
Although she still looks just the same
She still feels his lips on her mouth

I had to let it happen, I had to kiss
the lips of the man, who all desire
Knowing nothing could ever be as it was
So I chose Ché’s lips
To be the ones I most dreamed about
But did they impress me, of course
I only expected them to!

Don't cry for me my friend chicas
The truth is I never left you
Although I’ve kissed him
and can’t forget him
Just keep on dreaming,
He’ll kiss you too.

And when it happened, I felt the flame
that only can come from his lips
And we know in the world they were all I desired
They weren’t illusions
They were the solution they promised to be
The answer was there all the time

I love him and know you do, too!

Don't cry for me my friend chicas......

Don't cry for me my friend chicas
The truth is I never left you
Although I’ve kissed him
and can’t forget him
Just keep on dreaming,
He’ll kiss you too.

Have I said too much? There's nothing more I can think of to say to you
But all you have to do is look at me to know that every word is true