Saturday Night Madness Part 1

She was walking barefoot on the sand looking like she didn’t have a care in the world. The red and white and blue bikini fit her tanned body well. As she looked over the water, she did an arm curl and poured the last of the Medalla Light down her throat.

She cursed the fact there were no trash cans around. Back in the old days, you could toss it in the sea and wonder where in the world it would land. Miami? Venezuela? Brazil? Maybe New York.

That reminded her to call her daughter and give her shit for not getting her boyfriend to propose yet. What the fuck was he waiting for? She wasn’t getting any younger and there is no time to waste when you’re getting close to your 30s.

That had not been a problem for her. She had, dutifully, married by 25, popped out a kid by 30, and gotten divorced by 40. The best part was that she had a better body at her age than her daughter in her late 20s. Must be the island life.

Or the hours at the gym she put in plus eating fresh fruit and vegetables every day.

Either way, she was in a good place. Whenever the itch struck her, she would call one of two men, one younger and one older, to take care of her needs. They did not know the other existed.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied a tall man sitting on a beach chair. He looked classy and was sipping what looked like a mojito or a caipirinha or a margarita. Something inside her compelled her to find out which.

She changed course and walked in his direction using her finest runway walk and making sure she was jiggling in all the right places. As she got nearer to him, she saw his white linen shirt was open at the chest and that he had kind eyes. She looked straight into them.

“Hola”

He, of course, had seen her. How could he not? Even Ray Charles could see her. He took a long sip of his drink as she walked up to him and wondered what she wanted.

Life had made him wary of women that approached him. He preferred to approach women but he also tended to make bad choices with mixed results. Así es la vida. He stood up.

“Buenas tardes. ¿Cómo está?”

He was a gentleman. It was always proper to be polite before moving on to figuring out how that bikini unraveled.

“Chevere. ¿Y tu?”

That was quick. Was she Colombian? Fuck. If she was Colombian, he was in trouble.

“Muy bien, gracias. ¿Me quieres dar tu botella? Puedo tirarla por ti.”

She mentally put a checkmark on her list. So far so good.

“¡Que amable! Gracias. Pero ahora no tengo nada de beber…”

He looked at the drink in his hand. He had only brought one glass and the thermos.

“Te puedo ofrecer una deliciosa caipirinha hecha en casa pero nada más tengo un vaso.”

She took the glass out of his hand, raised it to her lips, and drank.

“¡Riquísima!¿Eres profesional?”

“Abogado de profesión, cantinero de placer.”

She checked off two more boxes. He would do very nicely. She looked deep into his soul and raised her glass again, never losing eye contact.

“Salud”

He took a deep pull from the thermos while wondering how many different kinds of fucked he was about to be.

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