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DAY TWO
You Can Ride a Bull but Can You Ride Me?
T he day after my arrival was Wednesday; a bullfight was in town. I was hesitant to go because I hated the sight of blood but it was the equivalent of being on Fear Factor for me. Watching a bull get massacred was going to be right up there with licking maggots off a windshield in hopes of winning fifty thousand dollars.
I took a cab from The Moon Palace to Plaza de Toros in downtown Cancún, a small bullring, the kind where the poor bull does not stand a chance. He is half dead before he is even brought out. I was more amazed by the entertainment before the actual fight began. Dancers were dressed in vibrant colors and dancing around on the dirt like it was a celebration, instead of a murder in the making. Women came out giggling and smiling on horses and young men in ruffled shirts and tight black pants did tricks with ropes.
They picked some people from the audience to go down and participate. This drunken man—who had screamed at the top of his lungs when the announcer asked if anyone was from Canada—grabbed my wrist and pulled me down the bleachers with him.
“Come on, sweetness!” he said. “You look like you can ride a mean bull!”
“I’m not riding shit!” I exclaimed, trying to yank away from him. Then I got hyped when people starting applauding and prodding me to be the only woman down there. I’m a competitive person who thought the women needed to be represented.
“I can do this,” I whispered to myself as they handed me some pads to put on. “I can get over my fears.”
Silly me, but I thought we were going out there to run from bulls or ride some bulls or even be in the ring with some bulls. But they sent a scrawny-ass goat out there instead. We had to run around the ring chasing it and trying to pull it down to the ground. The alcoholic from Canada got knocked up in the sky when the goat ran into his slow ass. I almost died laughing.
They gave us all T-shirts and then sent us back to our seats. On the way, I spotted what could only be described as “the finest thing in Cancún.” He was tall, at least six-three, and had a bald head. That’s all I needed to see. I had a predilection for two clean heads on a man, one to lick and one to rub while he licked on me.
He was dressed in the same tight black pants all the other men were wearing but his fit him like a glove. I could see the massive bulge in between his legs and hoped it wasn’t a jock cup. Those damn things can be so deceiving. Back in high school and college, I used to think the boys on the football team were seriously holding, only to discover a bunch of pencil dicks in the aftermath.
I tried to get his attention backstage before they forced me back upstairs. He eyed me and winked. That was enough to make my panties wet. When I got back to my seat, I whipped out my camcorder. I had no intention of taping the bullfight. But him, I had to immortalize on film to show my friends back home. Seeing him, alone, would make them regret not taking me up on my offer to take Korey’s place on the trip.
The bullfight was awful. The matador was skinny but “my dick” was one of the men who helped him contain the bull and I almost lost it when the matador had to stick the bull twice in the heart before he died. He actually cried and whined like a baby. It was a tearjerker. In fact, I started crying and left the plaza wiping my eyes.
A little boy started pointing at me and laughed. He yanked on his mother’s skirt. “Look, Mom, she’s crying.”
&
nbsp; It’s a shame that kids are so desensitized by video games and movies that they are immune to violence by the time they are ten. The woman looked at me apologetically and was about to say something when a younger child, a little girl of about four, came up to her, pouting.
“Mom, that man over there won’t take my play money. He wants real money.”
Watching her hold up three fake ones from a board game lightened my mood and I found myself giggling along with the mother. The older boy shook his head and seemed ashamed of his younger sibling when he should have been ashamed of himself.
I was suddenly starving and there was nothing of interest within walking distance of the bullring. A lot of Cancún was still being reconstructed after a recent hurricane. Many of the hotels along the water were still closed; pending refurbishment. I went upstairs to the bar adjacent to the plaza and ordered some wings and fries. I was washing it all down with a Corona with lime when “my dick” came in, wearing regular street clothes. Even in the jeans and faded T-shirt, his body was banging. He spotted me and winked again. One of the waitresses, clad in barely nothing, sashayed up to him and started flirting by rubbing his arms and telling him in Spanish what a great job he had done. Being a Virgo, I have a jealousy streak; even when the man is not mine. If I am even thinking about fucking a man, no other woman better look in his direction.
I sat there, trying to size up the situation and determine if they were “friends with benefits.” I drew the conclusion that she was way more interested in him than vice versa. He kept glancing in my direction. I was sitting in a dim corner and there were no more than ten other patrons in the entire place, since the show was done for the day. I had on this pair of shorts that were so tight that they were causing my white lace thong to ride up in my pussy.
I thought back to the bold night of lovemaking I had shared with Carmelo the night before. I had made it clear to him not to come knocking on my door for the remainder of my stay. He was hinting around about going at it again but I was determined not to let that happen. Yet, there I was, as horny as a damn bull; even though I had witnessed one being slain less than an hour earlier.
Could I possibly be bolder than I was last night? I asked myself. Why the fuck not? I answered.
I took the lime out of the Corona and squeezed it on my breasts. I was wearing a halter top, showing much cleavage. I sucked the remaining juice from the lime, maintaining eye contact with “my dick.” The waitress had taken the hint and the few other men in the place were staring at me as well, but I had my sights on only one.
I lifted my left foot and placed it on an empty share, spreading my legs for all the world to see. I ran the lime up my thigh and let it disappear between my legs, rubbing it on my clit through the lace fabric. Then I started rubbing it more vigorously and squeezing my breasts with my free hand. You could have heard a pin drop in the place if there had not been music playing. Even the waitresses were engulfed in my performance. I almost got scared but then I remembered that none of these people knew me. Two tears in a bucket; mother fuck it!
I spent the next ten to twelve minutes masturbating myself into an orgasm. I stood up halfway through the show and sat on the table, spreading my legs even further. I fingered myself, moaned, threw my head back and got lost in myself; imagining “my dick” was helping me out. I am not sure when life began to imitate art but his hands were suddenly upon me; his fingers taking the place of mine. I gazed up into his eyes as he looked down on me; removing his fingers barely long enough to lick them before putting them back.
Was this really happening?
A man yelled out, “Ustedes no pueden hacer eso aquí!” You can’t do that here!
“My dick” replied, “Usted no tiene que miranos. Cierre y vayase.” You don’t have to watch. Lock up and leave.
Everyone cleared out of there like bats. Whoever the man was that I was about to fuck, someone either owed him something or respected the hell out of him. I suspected it was a little bit of both. Seeing him up close, he was definitely older than me; at least forty. Fine by me.
“Dámelo, Papi.” Bring it on, Daddy.
