by Thrill

At forty-eight I found myself living the life I’d wished for as a twenty-something. I was a recognized artist, finally making a good living at my hobby. My kids were grown and on their own, and I was single. And not a gray hair on my head thanks to Clairol Industrial Strength Red number 208.

I was on my way home from lunch with my good friend at an outdoor café on the banks of the San Antonio Riverwalk. She owned a gallery. The narrow sidewalk edging the river, or as many would call it, a canal, was always so crowded these days. I remember when you could actually run down the sidewalk at a pretty good clip when I’d worked as a waitress at one of these restaurants. Why I could chase a customer trying to skip out on a check and not fall into the shallow green water a mere three inches from where my feet hit the pebbled sidewalk. But that was a long time ago. I’d changed a lot more than the Riverwalk.

Oops…!!

“’Scuse me!” the words were automatic when I almost knocked a young man into the water. He looked at me. I stood still for about five seconds staring at his dark eyes. I don’t think they really saw me at all. His gaze swept a dark cloud briefly over the bright and sunny autumn afternoon.

I quickly stepped back and around him hurrying on my way. I’d been living in an apartment overlooking the Riverwalk for a couple of years now. In fact I remembered the first time I’d seen the apartment where I now lived. That was about 25 years before when the old triangular building was undergoing its renovation into apartments. It had been built during the thirties I thought. It had been an office building until people began to move back downtown in the seventies.

I smiled, remembering my first visit to that building.

It had been during Fiesta, the annual week of parades and parties that took over the city each spring. The young bartender I’d had my eye on had come to his senses that night and carried me around (literally) from bar to bar in a night of revelry in which we’d been joined by fellow “river rats”—the young people who worked in the restaurants along the Riverwalk. We’d ended up at a tiny party at a tiny apartment in the Casino Building.

When we decided to take an unauthorized tour of the unfinished units on the top floor, well, let’s just say, I presumed that was the first night of love for the apartment that, ironically, would some day be mine.

I was inside now. I leaned on the frame of one of the tall windows that provided the view into the tops of the big beautiful cypress trees growing below. This view would never have hinted that we were in South Texas—home of prickly pear and mesquite trees.

The phone rang.

“Hello,” I said. My mood had lightened once again and I was using my “charming” voice.

“Linda, how would you like to donate one of your pieces to the South Texas Arts Coalition?” It was Adelaide, from lunch. She handled most of the sales of my things. The Coalition was one of those bodies of bureaucrats that actually did good.

“Sure. You choose. One of the ones you’ve got there,” I said.

“How big of a tax deduction to you want?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know, let’s try to be pretty generous. When’s the sale?”

“Tonight.”

“Hey, what am I, a last minute replacement?” I felt slighted. Gee, why hadn’t they called me weeks ago? “Don’t tell me my stuff isn’t trendy any more,” I continued. “Time to start in a new style and new series, I guess.”

She laughed, and said, “Oh, you know how spacey those artist-types can be.”

“Hah! Hah, pal! Okay, where’s the show this year?”

“The Artista Mia gallery just down the river from you. Upstairs over the Kangaroo Court.” It was the only restaurant left downtown that I’d worked at in my younger years and it was practically next door to me.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you there around eight this evening. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I hung up.

I was in no mood to decide what to wear, so I opted for something classic. The hot summer air had cooled a little in the past few weeks so I decided to wear jeans and a white starched shirt. Can’t go wrong in that. Of course, I had to load down with a lot of extra rhinestones to counteract the simple outfit, and sandals would be perfect in this weather. I didn’t even need to comb my hair. It was so short all it usually needed was a fluffing with my hands, and the perfect placement of a few rhinestone barrettes. Lots of dark eye makeup couldn’t turn my blue eyes into something exotic, but I ‘d still not given up on trying to be more than “cute.” I braided a bit of the hair I’d left long around the edges of my ‘do and was happy to see I’d made more room for more rhinestones.

Glancing back out the window I saw that young man I’d run into on the way in. He was across the river from me, so even though he was staring intently at the water I could easily study his face and posture.

He had short dark hair, you could see the curls had been tamed with scissors and comb. His dark expressive brows drew together frowning over big deep brown eyes. His hands hanging loosely at his sides looked as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Or didn’t know how to make them do what he wanted them to do.

His posture just looked plain sad. This was not the kind of person I usually spied during my spurts of voyeurism. I watched him for a few more minutes, and walked away to get ready for the evening hoping he would find what he was looking for.

Okay, so I was running up the stairs to the gallery. I just knew my piece would bring a very high price and I’d be a hero this evening. Feeling full of myself, I flew through the door and looked for Adelaide. She was a small woman, around my age and always behaved as though she had just finished about five cups of coffee. And she always made me laugh.

“There you are,” she called from behind a group of Bermuda shorted tourist-types who by the way they were attacking the buffet, seemed to think this was a restaurant. “We’re not getting any action on your piece, hon. I hope you can handle it.” Her eyebrows were high and her mouth gathered into a small bright red circle.

“NO, I can’t handle it!” I said and grimaced. I immediately visualized of all the other donors accepting thanks for their generous contributions while I snuck out the back with my sculpture hidden under a trench coat.

Adelaide laughed and patted me on the shoulder. “Oh, for heavens sake, Linda, take a pill.” This was her stock answer to anyone who got too worried over things she felt were minor.

“But Adelaide!” I cried. “You know I can’t handle rejection!”

“Oh, yes you can. Now go and get yourself a glass of wine.” With that she was gone, lost in the throng of art supporters, tourists, local inteligencia, and youngsters in platform shoes and black clothes.

But there was that young man again. This time he was staring at a portrait of a young woman. He stood erect, hands clasped behind him, head slightly tilted, pants tight. And he had a very nice little behind if I did say so myself.

I positioned myself in front of the painting beside the one he was looking at. Turning my head in his direction, I saw his eyes full of tears. Not one had dropped yet, but they were there, ready to spill.

He saw me looking at him and smiled. A tight unconvincing smile, but a smile nonetheless. His eyes moved away and the back of his hand made a swipe across his face wiping away the unshed tears.

“That bad, huh?” I said.

He laughed a short snort and looked back at me shaking his head. “Are you the artist?” he asked.

My turn for a snort. “No, I think it is pretty sad, too. I just thought you agreed with me.” I said, and turned my eyes back to the painting in front of the beautiful young man.

“But you are an artist,” he said. “You look like an artist.” His voice was deep and warm and heavily accented.

“Oh, what gave me away? My big earrings or my Birkenstocks? Or the orange hair?

“All of it.”

His smile had grown into sincerity, now. Such a pretty face he had.

“You’ll like my stuff, it’s funny.” I told him as I grabbed the light blue chambray of the shirt covering his shoulder and pulled. He walked with me over to the piece I’d donated. It was a construction of old computer parts and papier mache sculpture. It was all body parts and machine parts. I didn’t remember whether I was thinking about sex or sleeping when I’d done it. A bright light shone from the middle of the sculpture illuminating anyone standing close. All my pieces lately were lamps as well as sculptures.

“Yeah, I like this one,” he said.

“Good,” I said. “So, are you a tourist? Or an immigrant?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I just arrived this morning.”

“From where?”

“Spain.”

“That’s interesting, but you’re pretty far from home not to know whether you’re touring or moving,” I said with a little laugh.

“Well, I think I’m moving, but I’m not sure where.”

“Well, here is a good place for you. You’re already bilingual”

He laughed, but I could still see a tear or two hanging on in his eyes.

“Cynthia,” I called. “Hey, Cynthia, come over here and meet…” I raised my eyebrows at him.

“Juan,” he said.

“Juan,” I said.

My youngish friend who was an artist and gorgeous and, well, liked to welcome tourists, walked over to us. She was wearing a short, tight red dress and very high heels.

“Hey, Linda. Hello, Juan. Come and see my etchings.” She curled her finger in his direction and I had to laugh.

“Slow down, girl,” I said. “And Juan, you go and look at her etchings. They’re over on that wall.” I waved the two young people away from me and still smiling turned to the crowd and dove in. It was time to mingle.

But I was acutely aware of exactly where that young man was at every moment. There was something about him that was so appealing. So magnetic. Maybe it was his thighs. They were absolutely magnificent in those tight faded jeans. He was getting the whole mingling course of instruction from Cynthia, I could tell. I guessed where he’d spend the night tonight!

And every time I looked in his direction, he was looking at me, eyes wide. He was clearly out of his league with the gregarious Cynthia. But with a face like that, he’d survive, and he’d learn. I began to think that perhaps I needed a new protegee. Maybe a young man this time. This fantasy kept me entertained for the next couple of hours of exaggerated greetings and fake kisses. Until the evening began to wind down.

Well, my piece did not sell, and I was despondent! I was unreasonably humiliated! Me. Linda. I demanded great prices for my stuff. I was a supporter of the arts. And mine was the one piece that did not sell. Now I’d have to donate money. My reputation would be ruined, I was sure of it.

It was close to midnight and only a handful of the hardcore wine and cheese crowd was left. And they were beginning to stumble. It was time to go home.

“Adios, Adelaide,” I called.

I opened the glass door and a burst of cool night air that smelled of old beer and fresh north wind greeted me. I headed down the stairs to go past the restaurants between the gallery and my building. I’d rather walk on the river level than go around the front on the street. It was more like living in my own garden that way.

There was Juan. He was leaning on the small Spanish colonial style cement bridge that spanned the river. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, and one foot crossed the other and he looked like he’d been standing there for more than a few minutes. He lifted his head as I approached and smiled his tight but cute smile at me. I smiled back, but was surprised to see him.

“Juan, what are you doing here? Where’s Cynthia?”

“Oh, Cynthia left with some of her friends. I was waiting for you,” he said. “I never told you why that painting made me sad.”

Now, I thought this was just charming. He won my heart right then and there. I reached out and stroked his upper arm then gently grasp his elbow.

“Come on, let’s take a little walk,” I said. The crush of people usually filling the sidewalk had thinned out. It was a pleasant time to walk along the river. The shadows from cannas in the gardens and the lights reflecting off the calm water soothed me.

“It’s my sister. The picture reminded me of my sister.”

“Why does that make you sad?”

His face was down although his eyes were not focused on the sidewalk in front of him. His head moved back and forth as though clearing something from his mind. We walked a little further away from the many restaurants on the banks of the river, moving toward the darker river walk. The restaurants were farther apart and there was more tropical growth, fewer other people around us.

“Is your sister in Spain?” I asked.

“I think so,” he said.

“You miss her.”

He lifted his chin in a timid gesture of affirmation.

He looked so alone. His beautiful shoulders that should have been held up with pride were rounded and low. We walked on for another ten minutes or so in silence.

“What are you doing here in Texas, Juan?” I finally asked.

He lifted his face and gave me a sharp look. “I don’t know.” His eyes still holding mine, he took a strong breath and let it out slowly. His eyes looked to the side. We had stopped walking. He turned to face me. I could see his shoulders lift a little; is mouth open and then close. His face relaxed. I think he had come to some sort of decision.

“I think I am looking for my life,” he said. “I don’t know why I could not find it at home. I always felt so far from everyone. Like I lived in a deep tunnel. Only my sister could come close. She was everything to me.”

“Was?”

“I had to leave her.”

“Juan, I think you’re being a little hard on yourself, don’t’ you? We all feel the distance between ourselves and others sometimes.”

“No, all the other children played outside.”

“So what. You had your sister.” This guy seemed to have led a rather melodramatic life.

He looked away. Looked at the water. I could see his head nodding.

I reached up and placed my palm flat between his shoulder blades. I couldn’t help it. I had the feeling that this young man had much to offer—that he had not always been sad. But he was stopping himself. He was still young enough to feel that his life was far removed from other’s experiences. I had found that we all really want the same things. How we go about meeting our needs is vastly different, but so what.

“Now, Juan, I would be glad to listen to your life story. I wouldn’t mind if you told me all the reasons you are unworthy of whatever it is you feel unworthy of. I’m ready to tell you that no matter what you think, your experiences are very like those of people all over the world.” I grinned at him when he slowly turned his face back toward mine. “I want to remind you that you that you are young, beautiful, full of life, and in one of the country’s friendliest cities.”

He was turned completely toward me by now and had folded his arms across his chest. A smile struggled to take over his face. The smile won.

“You make fun of me,” he said.

“Of course not! I suspect the wounds that have made your visit here so sad have not healed yet. That will take time. But all the bad things you think you have done are nothing compared to the stories I could tell you, my dear. I like you, even though I just met you and you have not yet made me laugh. Come on, let’s get ourselves a margarita, and you can tell me a joke.”

I slipped my hand through the crook of his left arm. The warm firm muscles of his upper arm relaxed and he even let out a little chuckle through closed lips as he allowed me to steer him back toward the lights of the nearest restaurant.

We sat at a table next to the water. We each had a margarita—well a couple of margaritas—and I was impressed with Juan’s wit and the crazy way he translated Spanish jokes into English. He’d been a student in Madrid, then a welder in a small town in southern Spain, then had begun traveling. Taking odd jobs to finance his wanderings he had spent a year on the road before landing on San Antonio’s Riverwalk beneath my window.

I couldn’t really get much more out of him about his sister. But he clearly thought about her a lot. I speculated on the true story, but decided to let it be his mystery. And he was quite a mystery himself. He did not offer information. I fought for the bits I learned. When I asked him if he would return home to Spain soon, he said nothing. I saw a shadow of fear cross his bright eyes before he began to translate another joke that made no sense in English. But my delight in his shy charm brought easy laughter to my throat anyway.

He had no place to stay. What could I do but offer my sofa.

It was closing time. The sound of our chairs scraping the walkway was louder now that the constant noise had diminished. The bands were finished playing and the waiters were counting their tips. We walked close to each other, our shoulders touching. He was not much taller than me and the touch of his shirt on my arm sent little electric pulses all the way to my knees.

The lower level door to my building was bolted for the night. I pointed the way to some concrete stairs between two buildings. It would lead us up to the street and to the door for which I had my key at ready. He put his arm around my waist as we mounted the dark stairs in the narrow passageway.

About half way up, I almost stumbled forgetting the short landing, apparently put there to break up the long flight. I felt his arm tighten. I turned my head toward him. He was looking at me and he’d stopped walking. The pressure of his hand on the back of my waist moved slowly upward. His smile reappeared, then disappeared as his face came so close to mine I could feel his eyelashes on my forehead. The sweetness of his breath filled my mouth and my nose and my heart started to flutter. I was not entirely sure I could handle this much excitement at my age. Maybe I wasn’t as young as I thought. Or maybe I was!

Looking into those eyes, at once so full of light and so brown and deep, I felt lightheaded.

“May I kiss you?” he asked.

“Uh… ,” was all I could get out before I felt the first soft touch of his lower lip on mine. My slack-jawed expression was, luckily for us both, not seen by either of us as his lips covered mine, pressing harder, urgent as his tongue reached out seeking what was open and waiting. My mouth moved against his, my tongue remembered, like riding a bicycle, what to do, how to get what it wanted. I tasted the salt left in the corners of his mouth. I tasted the pungent tequila on his tongue.

He was pressing me against the wall of my apartment building. I found my hands had moved on their own to grasp his denim covered derriere. The firm swell of his buttocks fit perfectly into the curve of the palms of my hands as I pulled him to me. His free hand was now on my face. Holding my head still as our mouths connected and merged. I felt him pulling me closer, fingers pushed up through my hair and to the back of my head crushing my mouth into his. Tongues reaching deeper moving more frantically.

I lifted my hand to his face. Caresses held back for years came back to my fingertips. I touched his eyes, his brows, ran my hand across his soft short hair grabbing it and holding on tight. My knees were getting weak. The way his hips pressed hard to mine, I could tell it was time to get to my apartment. And get there fast.

I pulled my head back gasping for air and began to laugh. His eyes were lit up like they hadn’t been all evening. He dipped his face toward mine touching me gently with a sweet kiss.

“Quick, let’s go upstairs,” I said.

“You are a genius,” he said.

“I know,” I said. I grabbed his left hand in my right and he held onto his backpack. We ran the rest of the way to the street. A few cars passed by. We ran to the door.

Plunging the key into the keyhole, I rattled the lock. The two seconds it took before it would turn were too many. Juan pinned me against the glass door leading to the lobby to steal another kiss. I gave it willingly, backing away into the opening door.

The elevator door was closed. Someone must have left it upstairs. It was only three flights. I pulled him into the stairwell and we flew up the steps laughing by now at our hurry. We were at the top floor. I reached to open the door to the hallway.

“Wait!” Juan cried. He reached up and with both hands held my face to his, he kissed my forehead, my nose, my chin and then my lips. Our mouths opened, the kiss deepening into a five-bell-ringer. “I haven’t laughed like this since I was a child,” he said his lips still touching mine.

“Oh, Juan, that’s terrible,” I was appalled at such a confession. “Come on, let’s go laugh in my apartment.” I pulled him through the door after blindly pushing the key in the lock while my face was otherwise occupied in another delightfully wet kiss.

“Welcome to my home,” I said.

He stood in front of me, hands on my hips. He had dropped his backpack beside the now closed door. Piercing eyes searched my face. I wanted to know what they were looking for. We were no longer laughing.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “I just wanted to thank you.”

“Well, I couldn’t let you sleep out on the street, could I?”

“No, I want to thank you for making me laugh. You have taken me out of myself. My sister always tells me that I am too serious. She tells me I do not know myself. That I will not look at my own thoughts. In your eyes, I see someone who keeps nothing away from herself. You could be easily hurt, but you are not afraid. I do not want to be afraid anymore.”

“Oh, Juan! My dear boy, I think you are going to grow up to be a very wise man.”

I laughed at the timing of his insights. He laughed and said, “Boy? What do you mean, boy? I am a man.” He slipped his hands further around my waist and pulled my face to his for another deep kiss. I put my arms around him and hugged him to me hard.

Then I stepped back and began to unbutton his shirt. “Prove it!” I said. His beautiful hands were not idle. My blouse was already half off.

Spreading my fingers across his chest, I could feel his heartbeat under the muscular surface with its thick scattering of black hair. I slid my hand down over the ridges of his abdomen and reached for the button on his jeans.

As I leaned in, he slipped my starched white shirt off my shoulders and unfastened my bra in a single movement. His lips found mine and we giggled as we opened our mouths swallowing each other in our eagerness.

We’d gotten each other’s jeans undone and copied each other’s attempt to remove them slowly, together, still kissing. Nearing the floor, one of us lost his balance. We wound up a heap of arms, legs, bare breasts and a very firm, very manly erection.

Extricating our limbs from the surrounding denim took only a moment. We faced each other, both on our knees. Both naked in an unspoken offer. I still wore every rhinestone I’d donned earlier in the evening. His finger reaching to touch the shining stones, Juan’s lips broadened gently in a sweet smile. He brushed the back of his fingers across my cheek and down my neck. He cupped my breast with his right hand squeezing, drawing his thumb back and forth across the nipple until it was hard. He dipped his head down pulling as much of my small breast into his mouth as would fit. Each tug from his mouth drew me nearer to him.

My hands grasped his hips. I slid my hand between us. Fingers down, I wrapped my thumb and fingers around the hot taut skin of his penis, massaging the base with my fingertips. With a groan, he lifted his head and his mouth crashed down upon mine. His tongue plunged and plundered; the warm spicy taste of his mouth inflamed me.

His arms around me, my arms around him, we fell to the floor. Juan lifted his head and looked at me as I lay beneath him. Such a serious young man, I thought, stroking his face, feeling the slight stubble of tomorrow’s beard. Brushing my fingers across his lips, I felt the dampness left by my own kisses, I wondered what kept this mouth from smiling as often as it should. His eyes looked so lonely. I wondered what would make him feel whole. I was sure it would take more than a night with me to fill his heart, to make him feel safe.

I reached my face to his and kissed his eyes, one at a time. I kissed his cheeks, his nose and his lips. His hand moved to my breast again. Kneading and teasing and circling a shudder radiated from his fingers and out through my body. His hand was on my stomach his caress firm but gentle. Moving lower, his hand dipped between my legs and he drove his fingers deep into my waiting wetness. My hips rose to meet his touch. I was dazed by excruciating pleasure. My breathing quickened and a low moan escaped my lips. His fingers stroked and teased and plunged and danced. My head spun. I no longer saw his face. I was lost in sensation.

His knee nudged mine. My legs opened. One hand still on his beautiful face, I trailed my fingertips down his back to his firm round bottom. I caressed the smooth skin and I pulled him in toward me. The throbbing warmth of his hardness replaced his fingers, penetrated my hot wet center. I gasped. His musky smell filled my lungs, filling me with him. He pulled back and plunged again, and again. I wrapped my arms tightly around his midsection. My whole body rocked with the rhythm we created.

Supporting himself on muscular arms, hands on the carpet on either side of my head, Juan’s eyes never left mine. Not once did he look away, not once did I see him blink. It was as though he wanted to dive into my mind as well in his want to obliterate the need he seemed to feel. Our rhythm quickened. My blood boiled. I felt a heat begin at my center and spread it’s languid fire out my limbs to my fingers disappearing back into the body of the beautiful creature with whom I was joined. I shivered, and moaned. I felt Juan tense, his eyelids shuddered briefly and the spasms of his orgasm left him limp and wet. My arms were around his neck. I pulled him to me. I cradled his head in the crook of my neck. I stroked the soft brush of his dark hair and held him in my arms protecting him from his own demons.

I closed my eyes and drifted, my fingers lightly touching his ear, his chin, his lips. I think he fell asleep. His breaths came slow and even. I slowly, quietly, gently extricated myself from our embrace. He still slept. His face was so relaxed. His lips were parted, not smiling, but with the look of a contented child. I grabbed the small blanket from the sofa and kneeling beside him I tucked him in.

Later, long after Juan has gone, I stand looking out of the tall windows in the Riverwalk apartment I dreamed of for so many years. My life goes on. It didn’t matter, after all, that no one wanted my painting that night. My life is good. It is full. Juan’s life is just beginning. I hope he returned home. I hope he found some warmth and security in his life. I never learned his full story. I watch the place where I first saw him. Sometimes I imagine he is there looking up at me.

The night with Juan had built a memory for me that I would revisit. I hoped it had helped him to build something, too.

Before he had left the next morning, he had thanked me again. I made no clever remark that time. I told him the pleasure was mine—and I meant it. I kissed him and asked where he would go next. His shrug and impenetrable eyes told me his journey would not be over for some time. Maybe it would bring him this way again.

If you wish to use the images you find here in your own home page, please make sure to provide your visitors with our link: http://miguapo.com/