Love, in Spanish(9)By: Karina Halle
I feel as if I am nailing her to some place—perhapsthis world, this moment, and I want nothing more than tobe so deep that I leave some permanent reminder ofmyself. She is mine, all mine; she is mine now andforever, this beautiful, soft, wet woman of my dreamsand my heart, and I am going to fuck her until she’sscreaming my name.
It doesn’t take long. She lets out this low, gutturalmoan that builds to a crescendo, and as she throbsaround me, squeezing my cock with her lengthyshudders, I let go. I come hard, and for a long time myface is contorted, my nonsensical cries hissing out of mymouth in short bursts of painful euphoria.
When I am finally milked dry, I pull out andcollapse on the couch beside her, pulling her up againstmy chest. We are both breathing hard but I still kiss thetop of her neck and hold her close to me so our sweatmingles and mixes, and our limbs wrap around eachother. I am outside of her but we are still one.
The clock on the wall ticks away and we lie here fortwenty minutes, not saying anything, just breathing, justbeing. I don’t know why she sometimes turns me intosuch a Neanderthal, but when it ends in such away, Idon’t see either of us complaining about it.
Eventually she lifts her head and looks up at mewith hazel eyes that are both exhausted and bright. “So,”she says, nestling her hands into my chest, “now thatwe’ve got the fucking-your-brains-out out of the way,will you tell me about your day? Or are you holding thatinformation hostage for more sexual encounters?Because as eager as I am for anything that involves yourcock, my cooch is a bit sore from that pounding.”
“Cooch?” I ask, puzzled but smiling at the sound ofthe word on my lips.
She shrugs. “Coño.”
I shake my head slightly. “I am not sure I like thiscooch. It sounds like a cartoon character, a name far toosilly for something as serious as your pussy.”
She grins at me and her face lights up like asparkler. “I have a serious pussy?”
“Well, let’s just say I take your pussy veryseriously,” I say. I run my thumb over her lips and thensay, “Today went very well. Pedro, the owner, andAntonio, they want me to take over Diego’s position inJanuary. They want me to be the coach.”
Her eyes widen into shining pools. “Are youserious?”
“As serious as your pussy.”
“Mateo,” she exclaims, pushing herself up. “Theywant you to be coach? What about that other guy, theEnglish dude?”
“Warren? They aren’t too sure about him. Theywant a Spaniard and a former teammate to have the job.Diego is leaving to coach Argentina in the new year so Iam to be his replacement. I will have all this time tolearn and see if I can do the job.”
“Of course you can do the job,” Vera says, thoughthe only time she’s seen me play was in Las Palabras,where I failed miserably thanks to my knee, and a fewold Atlético games that someone uploaded ontoYouTube. “You can do anything.”
I cock my head, considering that. “I don’t know,” Isay unsurely. “I am a bit rusty. I have never coached. Idon’t know how to lead.”
She is staring at me like I could never let her down.I’m not sure if I like it. “Oh, Mateo. You have no idea,do you?”
“You don’t know how to lead,” she repeats,mocking it. “In Las Palabras, you were always theleader. Everyone gravitated toward you because theyrecognized that. Do you not remember your ownpresentation about creating your own destiny? That’swhat you do, Mateo. You create. You lead. Everyoneelse follows.”
“I follow you,” I tell her, kissing the tip of her nose.
“You follow my coño,” she says.
I place my hands on either side of her face and holdher as I stare deep into her eyes. “I follow every part ofyou, everywhere. You go before me, Vera. You alwayswill.”
As she sometimes does when I’m being especiallyhonest, she looks away shyly. It’s cute, like she can’tbelieve that I could feel the way that I do about her. Butsometimes, most times, I just want her to believe it, toown it.
“Anyway,” she says, quickly skirting over what Isaid, “you do have what it takes, Mateo. I think thiscould be the best thing that could happen to you. You’llbe a part of what you love again, in it as much as youcan be. But it’s not about what I think.”
“It is about what you think.”
“It’s about what you think,” she says. “So what didyou tell them?”
I lay my head back against the couch cushions andstare at the ceiling. “They are giving me until Friday tothink about it.”
“Good,” she says. “By then you’ll know what youwant, if not sooner.”