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“My wife needs…Oh, yes.” Oscar grasped the situation. “So she asked for me, did she?” he said to the flight attendant. His legs were stiff. “I ought to send you.”
“What?” the flight attendant asked.
“Nothing.”
At the bathroom door he knocked, lightly. He heard Melissa’s muffled reply. Oscar called her and she opened the door an inch. “Get in here,” she said. Her pants were off. Oscar glanced as the flight attendants, who were in plain sight preparing serving carts. In an instant he pushed his way in.
“What the hell is this?” Oscar asked. Was she nuts? She stood on the seat.
“Lock the door,” she commanded. There was no room, Oscar could barely move.
“I won’t. Melissa, put your pants on.”
“C’mon,” she said, breathing fast. “Let’s join the mile-high club.” Her pussy was in his face.
“You’re going too far. We’re in Mexico now!”
“Come on. It’ll be over in a second.”
“You’re crazy,” he said. But he wasn’t going to leave, not with a bottomless girl for all to see, and he couldn’t turn around, not in that cramped space, not with her pussy in his face. With difficulty he reached behind and locked the door.
She was hot. Her intoxicating odor filled his nostrils. She rubbed it in his face, her hands were in his hair and she rubbed her pussy up and down in his face, the gray-blond patch soft and coarse as she rubbed and rubbed. His cheeks, his nose were wet. “Do me!” she gasped. “Do me!” Oscar’s head bumped the door. She had him trapped, she was rubbing her pussy in his face in a tiny bathroom at 30,000 feet with three flight attendants two feet away and there was nothing he could do. Well, he thought, he could do something. He could finish her. And fast.
He put his tongue between her legs. Melissa gasped. Too loud, he thought. Too loud! He licked and licked, carefully, skillfully. She fought, rubbing. “C’mon,” she said. “C’mon.” His hand ran down her legs to the top of the toilet. There it was. Okay, then. Sticking his tongue deep into her he heard her moan, and bringing it up, bringing his tongue up, he licked and licked relentlessly, grinding away on her swollen clit. Melissa grunted, gasped, and as she came, ass shaking, the ear-splitting flush of the jetliner’s toilet drowned out her loudest cries.
They washed as best they could. “That was a pretty good trick,” she said to Oscar. “Flushing the toilet like that.”
“I think fast,” he said, combing his hair, his moustache. He smelled like her. They both smelled like her.
“You act fast, too.” She kissed him. “Sure you don’t want me to do you?”
He said no. God no.
“’Cause I’m fast, too,” she added.
He knew. And wondered if the trip down the aisle to their seats wouldn’t make them as obvious as he imagined it would.
As the jet approached Mazatlán, Melissa slept on Oscar’s arm. The picture of innocence. He knew he was taking a chance with her. He might have snuck her into Mexico and not told anyone. Then there would be no mess, no questions and no inquiries. Melissa could be as shameless as she pleased. Instead he told his father and brother she was coming, bragged, even. “My girlfriend,” he called her, proudly, even though she wouldn’t let him say it to her or their friends. Or to anyone.
“I don’t want that,” she had said.
“Then what are we?”
“Friends,” she told him, rubbing her forehead. “Just friends.”
She woke in her seat beside him. Kissing him, she looked out the window with sleepy, lovely eyes. She looked every bit the professional, handsome American woman he had fallen for. Good manners, intelligent, poised. She would impress his brother, Jorge, whom she would meet first. He would try her out on him. Then Papá. Papá would love her. There was nothing to fear.
“Seat belt time,” he said. The plane tilted low over the city. As he buckled his seat belt he leaned close. “Excited?” he asked.
She held her compact and lipstick close to her face. “Oscar,” she asked, “have you ever seen a tanned pussy?”
They rented a car. It was the clear blue day and the brown mountains of Sinaloa Province and the chaos and color and dirt of Mazatlán gleaming by the sea that brought him the real feeling of being home. Despite Papá he was Mexican. To the old man America was the Land of Oz, where all wishes were granted. He wouldn’t mess with the old man’s fantasy. He turned onto the Avenida del Mar, as Melissa insisted. Preparations for Carnaval were everywhere, including flowers and wreaths; beer signs; handmade, makeshift stages; and Mexican flags and bunting—green, red and white—on balconies and power poles and trucks and clotheslines. Men drank beer in the sun, at tables and in bodegas, in Mexican saloons, on benches and in the streets, workingmen getting a jump on the holiday. They stared brazenly at Melissa as she and Oscar bumped along in traffic.
“My God, what’s that?” she asked. A great stone building stood before them.
“That’s the Cathedral of Nuestra Señora,” Oscar said. The cathedral rose above them, all ledges and arches, a massive structure, embellished with a hundred saints, villains, devils engaged in a frozen battle for the hearts of man. Heavy stone steps held a score of women, resting peasants and children. Great doors opened to a cavernous interior. “Want to see it?” he asked.
“Is it open?” Melissa blinked, staring.
