It was into the gin-soaked afternoon that La Lokitita fell, wrapped around his finger as only a brown-skinned woman might — hoping for love. What she didn’t understand was that he was Anglo, in ways that only Anglo men are. There were too many things that he’d already said about her. Her hola kitty stupidity, her costcovian worldview. The naif way she tried Kerouac. He laughed at her, as he raised one pinky around his cheap martini glass, behind her back.
* * *
The palms were dry that day, rustling over the city. She had spent all day trying to find just the right soup. The soup that could slide down his throat in the way she wanted to try and kiss him. It was the best she could do — this soup, as if it were sopa de amor. The spoon in her hand, the ministrations, her miserable marriage. His white expanse of what seemed largesse — body on a bed, scarves, a sullen throat. None of these things mattered in her intense determination to prove her love. He’d told her all about his wife. It was sad. La Lokitita saw only the rumpled lift under the blankets. If only she could transform the impotence … Siete Mares.
Dix Buffo had made his life a game of manipulating women. Because he was impotent at the root. In her fluttering fury, Loki, as her friends called her — her fat bloated friends who drank too much wine and dreamed too many tragic dreams flew to her side when she cried at night — battering her hands against the wall and muttering in Spanish about Dix and how unfair it all seemed.
That Dix was a user and a shit never entered her mind.
Not that she was naive. Just in over her head. The piñata swayed from the tree — full of cheap candies. The smog and the scent of the city swept over her tragic garden.
Dix was a route she could take. She slid like a scorpion on a wager. Dix would be hers. No matter that her fat folds made him shiver. A Willendorf afloat in the big boxes was she. And now his wife was asking questions. Dix had learned to cover his tracks. No one respected him. Because he was a phony.
“Girasols, Teresita do you think?”
“He needs attention.”
La Lokitita thought that he wanted her huevos. Or her confetti. The simple fact of the matter was that the food trucks disgusted him.
Teresita rolled her eyes, as if to say ¿Por qué?
La Lokitita pushed her tits against the countertop. She shook her meaty ass in slow circles imagining he was going at her from behind.
But that wasn’t how Dix liked to do things. Besides, La Lokitita didn’t know he was trolling for threesomes. Dix was what was called a stuffed shirt. He liked to pretend to be bohemian, but frankly he wasn’t. And besides, once in high school he’d had that run in with a cholo.
* * *
“I told you to get Pancetta, Dix.”
“I needed that Pancetta Dix.”
“Where in the fuck is it?”
If it wasn’t the Pancetta it was something else. Dix had tried and tried. He’d learned every label. He’d had to. Because of the climbing he’d had to do. Because of the climbing she’d made him do. It was all he knew. Some nights he felt like hurling his gin bottle right at her, but she was supporting him, so he didn’t.
“I forgot it, Carita.”
“I needed it.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Can you just go now and get it?”
“Now. I want it from Vivendi’s.”
“I don’t want to drive across town.”
“Just do it.”
She hurled the car keys at him. They banged into his chest and fell to the floor. Dix stooped to pick them up.
“Get a pound.”
The door shut softly behind him. It was only going to be fifty blocks. It wasn’t worth the fight. Besides, they had to impress the couple they’d met at the fundraiser. As he left he could hear her phone.
“Oh, marvelous,” Bichette crooned. “Dix forgot the secret ingredient as usual.”
Her laughter was as brittle as glass.
“That little bitch in heat has been over here again.”
There was silence as the words dropped like so many glasses shattering on the floor.
“She has such a thing for Dix.”
“How can you stand it, Bichette?”
“I just put up with it.”
“Don’t,” said Katrine. “Just don’t.”
“He’s your husband.”
* * *
“She doesn’t love him, Teresita.”
“I know but…”
“I can’t stand it.”
“Men like him do nothing but cause trouble, Loki.”
Eight pan dulces later, La Lokitita felt a little better. Teresita always saved the largest ones for her.
“Let me see your nails, Niña”
“Do you think Dix will like these?”
“Oh, what have you done?”
“It’s the style.”
Loki extended her plastic talons with great pride. Each one had a tiny tattoo. She waggled her fingers in the air at Teresita.
“I got a new tattoo.”
“I’m not telling.”
“It says Dix and there is a rose, just like the ones in his garden.”
“I thought you gave that up.”
Loki smiled. “This one was for Dix.”
* * *
Vivendi’s had simply the best meat and cheese in town. What was I supposed to get again, Dix puzzled to himself. “Pancetta?” asked the clerk. He remembered Dix and Bichette from the many times the two of them had shopped there. Dix scratched his head. His balls ached.
“I’ll take two pounds and the loin of pork.”
“You must try this salami, your wife will love it.”
Dix hefted it like a cock. Suddenly, looking over at the two rail thin blondes with enhanced breasts clucking at the cheeses, he wanted it. He rolled the salami sample on his tongue savoring all the flavors of some quaint Italian village that was supposed to be the promised land from once-upon-a-time. He sidled closer to the blondes until he could make out the barest whiff of their hair. Taking a deep inhale, he smiled.
“What are you doing?”
“Your hair reminds me of a summer I spent once off the coast.”
Kiki looked at him quizzically, then back at her friend.
“Do you mind,” he asked, pulling a little lock of her toward him. “I feel the need to touch you.”
The blondes laughed ensemble giving off giddy little sparkles. Dix felt something slowly spring to attention in his chinos. He shifted from foot to foot.
“Drink?” he asked. “Tartuffino’s is just around the corner.”
He brushed the salami against her breast not knowing if she could even feel it. She didn’t react at all.
“Drinks!” they giggled. “Let’s.”
The bartender eyed Dix Buffo with a sly smile. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen Dix pull stunts. They were gorgeous too. They made the place look good.
“Ornaments,” he nodded, smiling at the three of them. “What can I get you?”
“Anything with bitters.”
The blondes wanted two Aurora Borealis cocktails. “Not a problem” quipped Dix. “Not a problem at all.”
He placed the salami on the bar and tapped his fingers. The blondes watched as he tossed his wallet next to it.
Kiki moved her thigh against his, under the bar. She began to trace the salami with her pert finger.
* * *
Bichette cradled the phone against her ear as she surveyed the house.
“These fucking things.”
She grasped the clump of flowers and tossed them.
“She’s started to bring flowers.”
“You dumped them didn’t you?”
“I just did.”
“Dix knows I only like Larchmont.”
“I wish Dix would get on the ball with the gardeners.”
“You have to keep after him, Bichette.”
“Clark is the same way.”
“He’s always flirting with Generia, right under my nose. I think he’d like to bang her.”
“It’s not easy, working all day Katrine.”
Bichette was multi-tasking. Musing about the dessert. It had to be perfect. It had to make everyone sigh. She flipped through the pages of the magazine while Katrine droned on about Generia and how she kept Clark in line.
“What do you think of Tartes aux Poires?”
“I can’t decide.”
“Maybe the Apple Galette.”
“Too much crust.”
“I know but Dix loves all that. He’s always so proud of me.”
Katrine laughed knowingly.
“I wonder what’s taking him so long.”
“He probably loves Vivendi’s”
“Oh, he does. Just as much as I do.”
* * *
The tattoo stung inside La Lokitita’s inner thigh. Tito, her husband would never see it anyway. She knew she could just cover it up with make up until Dix revealed it. She could hardly wait.
“Tito, cut it out.”
He had grabbed her ass while she was bending down to grab a fallen tortilla. The fajitas took up nearly the entire kitchen as it was. She pushed his hand aside.
“Go watch TV.”
“I’m not in the mood,” he said, pressing closer.
Suddenly she noticed that “their song” was mysteriously playing.
“Mamacita,” he crooned into her ear. “Mamacita,” as he nibbled one of her earlobes.
Tito let out a huge sigh. He grabbed a beer and threw himself onto the couch.
“You must not love me, Loki.”
“Aren’t I making dinner?”
“Isn’t this your favorite?”
Dix, she sighed looking at the piñata.
I just want to be with you…
* * *
After three rounds at Tartuffino’s everybody felt loose. Especially Dix. He’s been watching Kiki stroke the salami for about an hour, off and on. Once she had lifted it to her lips and playfully kissed it with her pouty little pink fish of a mouth. Her eyes were dewy orbs after just two Aurora Borealises. Dix could pounce anytime. It was the game that excited him. Bichette had no idea where he was, and he hadn’t brought his phone. This wasn’t the first time.
“Are you anything like this?” Kiki whispered.
“It’s so hard.”
The bartender leaned in to swipe the mahogany surface. “Well, Dix?”
Kiki had wrapped one of her long lean legs around his. Her hand slid onto his thigh, perilously close.
“What are you working on?”
“Donegal is having a fundraiser and we’re helping.”
Kiki felt just how hard it was, suddenly. Her hand rolled over and over him so lightly, just as she had traced the salami. His chinos were soft under her hand, and she felt his warmth right through the thin fabric.
Dix stood suddenly, pushing back the barstool.
“I’ve really got to be going,” he said, tossing sixty on the bar.
“Take care of them?”
“I will,” said the bartender.
“Get her number for me will you?”
* * *
The story is for my writers group. It’s going to get far too hot, once Dix gets his wish, and La Lokitita gets hers. xxoo! You can find many of my stories online at Erotica Readers (dot) com.
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